Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder | Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And charm-when pleasures lose the power to please! rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, start Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart! Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field; Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay. Poor lost Alonzo! Fate's neglected child! Mild be the doom of Heaven-as thou wert mild! For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast, And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last. Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier! When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned, Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground? Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave-oh! leave the light of HOPE behind! What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel-visits, few and far between, Yes! let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee; Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea— Mirth, music, friendship, Love's propitious smile, Chase every care, and charm a little while, Why can no hymned charm of music heal No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom's wordy school, Congenial spirits part to meet again! What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu! Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell, And bade his country, and his child farewell! Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee? Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, And thrice returned to bless thee, and to part; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low The plaint that owned unutterable woe; Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, As bursts the morn on night's unfathomed gloom, Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time! "And weep not thus," he cried, “young El lenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more! Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, The immortal ties of nature shall expire; These shall resist the triumph of decay, When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away! Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, But that which warmed it once shall never die! That spark unburied in its mortal frame, With living light, eternal, and the same, Shall beam on Joy's interminable years, Unveiled by darkness—unassuaged by tears. "Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep; But when I gain the home without a friend, And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherished in my heart, Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part! Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, And hush the groan of life's last agony! "Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good Eternal HOPE! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began—but not to fade.— When all the sister-planets have decayed; When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile! GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that In Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd-swains had nought to do But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, And aye event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew; luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. an evil hour, the junction of European with Inthose sunny mountains half-way dian arms converted this terrestrial paradise down into a frightful waste. Mr. ISAAC WELD informs Would echo flagelet from some romantic us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796. PARTI. ON Susquehana's side, fair Wyoming! store. Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore! town. Then, where of Indian hills the daylight men; While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, The wild deer arched his neck from glades, and then, ⚫ Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore? Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor, Then down again it rained an ember-shower, In vain the desolated panther flies, But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend, In woes, that even the tribe of desarts was thy friend! He said—and strained unto his heart the boy : Far differently, the mute Oneyda took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy; A lonely mother of the christian land: As monumental bronze unchanged his look: Her lord the captain of the British band-A soul that pity touched, but never shook; Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. Trained, from his tree-rocked cradle to his Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand; Upon her child?shefsobbed, and swooned bier, The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive-fearing but the shame of fearOr shrieked unto the God to whom the A stoic of the woods -a man without a away, |