TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. DEC. 31ST, 182-.

I.

FARE thee well, thou fitful dream!
Yet an hour, and all is o'er-
And, to-morrow's rising beam
Shall light thy path no more.
Fare thee well! yet ere we part-
Ere thine hours have ceased to be,
Take thy tribute from my heart,
My blessing home with thee.

II.

Yes, my blessing! By my tears,
By my heaving bosom's pain,
Thou hast brought what future years
Ne'er can bring again.

And though 'neath the glorious flowers,
Lurked the sting that pierced my breast,
Yet, oh! yet, thy vanished hours-
I will call them blest.

III.

Calm and peaceful were they never-
Theirs was many an anguish sore;
Theirs it was a tie to sever

That earth unites no more.

Yet through mists of gloom and tears,
Dwelt ONE Sunbeam on my breast-
Oh! beyond all other years,

I will call thee blest.

IV.

Words can never, never tell

Half the feelings bound to thee-
Half the thrilling dreams that dwell
With thy deathless memory..
Thine has been the power to raise
Burning spells to break my rest-
Yet, oh! yet, thy parted days—
I WILL call them blest.

They come by morn, they come by even,
Where'er the young heart's pulses bound;
Where love in love has found its heaven,
There is the spirit's magic ground.

III.

Where souls are mingling into one,

Life's flowers young foreheads garlanding;
Where truth's sweet lyre awakes its tone,
There is the spirit's magic ring.

IV.

The treasured wealth of blissful dreams,
The rich and glorious gift of youth-
Oh false are they who say its beams
Fade in the morning light of truth!

V.

Beyond Telesmé's* haunted shade,

And wizard stream, whose sluggish flow
Murmurs from out the darkness made

By leaves the day ne'er shines below;

*For a description of the enchanted mountain Telesmé, from which the word alisman is derived, vide Beauchamp.

THE WORLD OF DREAMS.

Far in the east, where oaks have frowned
For ages o'er untrodden wastes,

Where human step ne'er prints its ground,
Nor human lip its waters tastes;

VII.

A mountain rises, dark and lone,
And 'mid its rocks, so legends say,
Where nothing but the wild air's moan
Is heard through all the dreamy day;

VIII.

There springs a fount whose waves are nought
But drops of spell-encircled dew,

That gives the drinker's brow and thought
The glow of youth's unfading hue.

IX.

Go search thy heart, a spring is there
Whose hidden wave that spell will be-
Go seek it, if thou wouldst youth's fair
And holy lights should burn for thee.

X.

Drink deeply of the sparkling fount
Of passionate feeling, strong and true;
Gather its waters as they mount

Like moonlit drops of charmèd dew ;—

XI.

Cherish it-youth's fair world of dreams!
Cherish it even by love's excess;
And feed its warm and rosy beams
With trusting faith, devotedness.

XII.

Cherish the vision lest it part,
And bind it by affection's chain;
Ay! lean upon a kindred heart
Too trustingly-'tis not in vain.

151

152

THE MARTYRS OF ROYAL-LIEU.

XIII.

For it will shed o'er years to come
The rosy glow of life's first light,
And in its glad and guarded home,
Will keep the lyre of feeling bright.

XIV.

Then tell us not the dream will fade;
Youth's fairy world, with glowing sky-
Go drink the wave in the heart's deep shade;
And life's romance will never die.

THE MARTYRS OF ROYAL-LIEU.

The Abbess of Royal-Lieu fell a victim to the revolutionary madness. She and her numerous sisterhood were led to the scaffold on the same day. On their way from the prison to the guillotine, they all chanted the Veni Creator. Their arrival at the place of execution did not interrupt their strains; one head fell, and ceased to join its voice with the celestial chorus-but the song continued. The Abbess suffered last; and her single voice still raised the devout versicle. It ceased at once-and the silence of death encued.-Madame Campan's Memoirs.

I.

DARK clouds are hurrying through the sky,

'Tis autumn's fitful eve;

And the dying breeze is murmuring by,

With a sound that makes one grieve;

A stifling heat is in the air;

Like the sultry breath of a lion's lair;
And unseen fingers weave

A giant shade of shadows dun,
Around the broad red sinking sun!

II.

Bursting with wrath, yon angry cloud
Seems to pause in its mid career,
As the striving steps of the crushing crowd
To one gory spot draw near :-
What mean their yells of horrid glee ?
Those tossing heads, like a stormy sea,
Clenched hands and brows severe ?
Whence come that savage, tiger brood,
To glut their demon-lust for blood?

THE MARTYRS OF ROYAL-LIEU.

III.

What, sateless still! must still the stream
From noble hearts be poured,

Will Pity never shed its gleam

On that remorseless horde ?
Must still some guiltless victim bleed,
And "Freedom" sanctify a deed
To latest times abhorred ?

O, Liberty! our pride,-our shame,
What scenes are acted in thy name!*

IV.

But hark what thrilling sounds arise
From yon slow-moving throng;
Floating like incense to the skies
In one rich tide of song!
And see, where opening to their tread
Those threatening forms give back, and led
By faith serene, yet strong,

A patient band, with tireless breath,
Prolong that prelude note of death!

V.

Theirs is no hope forlorn,-they wend
Exulting on their way;

Reckless how soon their course must end,
Their life-blood ebb away.

They seem to share one thought, one breath
And marshalled thus by faith to death,

In beautiful array,

Those martyr-sisters glide along,

Breathing their parting prayers in song!

153

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"O, Liberty! what crimes are committed in thy name!" was the apostrophe of Madame Roland to the statue of Liberty, as she passed it on her way to the guillotine.