And sigh'd at each cannon that threaten'd the town,
And wept for his people, though not for his crown.
How oft I gazed, with anxious care,
On good King Charles's oaken chair;
And proudly laid my humble head
On good King Charles's royal bed;
And joy'd to see the nook reveal'd,
Where good King Charles had lain conceal'd
And tasted calm and safe repose
Surrounded by a thousand foes!
It soothes me now to think on days
When grief and I were strangers yet,
And feed, in thought, a frequent gaze
On scenes the heart can ne'er forget.
The friends who made those scenes so bright
Are torn for ever from my sight;
Their halls are falling to decay,
Or own an unknown master's sway:
But still upon my pensive soul,
The feelings of my younger day,
The hour of mirth, the party gay,
In blissful visions roll.
Oh! welcome, then, was December's blast,
As it drove on the snow-storm thick and fast,
And welcome the gloom of December's sky,
For they told of approaching revelry ;
And gave the signal old and sweet,
For dearest friends in one Hall to meet,
Where jest, and song, and gallant cheer,
Proclaim'd the Christmas of the year,
Oh! then was many a mirthful scene,
And many a smiling face;
And many a meeting glad was seen,
And many a warm embrace;
And oft around the blazing hearth
Flew happy sounds of joy and mirth;
And laughter loud and sprightly joke,
Shook fretted roof and wall of oak:
And gaily flow'd each prattling tongue,
And all were merry-old and young;
And souls were knit in union blest
And every bosom was at rest.
I may not view that Hall again,
I may not hear those sounds of gladness,
But their echoes linger in my brain—
A secret source of pleasing sadness.
Friends of my young and sinless
years,
The long long ocean's waves divide us,
But
memory still your names endears—
Still glows, whatever ills betide us.
Oh! oft on India's burning shore,
Ye will think on the home ye shall see no more,
And wish your heated limbs were laid
Beneath your own dear forest shade,
Where murmurs, in its cool retreat,
The well at which we used to meet,
When the setting sun of autumn stood
On the verge of the hill of Robin Hood,
And shed the mellow tints of even
O'er the dewy Earth and the silent Heaven.
Oh! when shall eve return again,
So sweet as those which bless'd us then?
But I must wake from this sweet dream,
Whose spells, perchance, too long have found me ;
For manhood's prospects dimly gleam,
And manhood's cares are gathering round me. I've made me new and cherish'd friends,
I've bound congenial bosoms to me;
But o'er the waves remembrance sends
A prayer for those who ne'er shall view me.
And oft I breathe a silent sigh
For hours and pleasures long gone by:
And each familiar face recall,
That smiled within that ancient Hall.
[We have received the following Poetry from an Author, whose talents are already known and respected by most of our readers. At the close of our career we feel much gratified in being allowed to add to the list of our contributors the name of CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSHEND.-ED.]
ACROSS my troubled path of life,
One moment glanced thine Angel-form,
Ev'n as the moonbeam 'mid the strife
Of severing clouds, and mingling storm.
I heard thee speak; the gentle tone
Did more than melody impart;
It fell not on my ear alone,
But-oh, too deeply!-reach'd my heart.
I saw thee smile; thy lovely face
Was lighted from a spark within,
And more than beauty I could trace;
'Twas soul, of Heav'n's own origin.
And now from Albion's lessening shore
The winds thy distant bark convey,
While I the orison still pour,
The joy be thine, where'er it stray.
Oh, might I deem that thou wouldst deign
To spend one transient thought on me,
"Twould lighten half my bosom's pain;
But no! it may not-cannot be!
Why shouldst thou muse on one, whose sighs Have never met thy gentle ear;
On whom thy timid downcast eyes
Have scarcely gazed, when he was near?
Whose heart but marr'd his anxious tongue, And, when he faltering strove to speak, Upon his lips the accents hung,
For, ah, he gazed upon thy cheek!
This this my anguish-to have seen
That face, I never more may see,
And thou shalt be as thou hast been,
As though thou ne'er hadst look'd on me.
While I-but hence with idle words,
Which mock what they can ne'er impart;
Their art with woe but ill accords,
But, oh, 't is written on my heart!
What pang-what torture more severe
Than that which marks my lonely lot?
To sigh for one, who cannot hear,
To live-to love-and be forgot!
So, having hurl'd a random dart,
The archer takes his onward way,
Regardless of the stricken hart,
That bleeds its lingering life away.
WHEN o'er my dark and wayward soul,
The clouds of nameless Sorrow roll;
When Hope no more her wreath will twine,
And Memory sits at Sorrow's shrine;
Nor aught to joy my soul can move,
I muse upon a Sister's Love.
When tired with study's
graver toil,
I pant for sweet Affection's smile,
And, sick with reckless hopes of fame,
Would half forego the panting aim :
I drop the book,-and thought will rove,
To greet a Sister's priceless Love.
When all the world seems cold and stern,
And bids the bosom vainly yearn;
When woman's heart is lightly changed,
And Friendship weeps o'er looks estranged;
I turn from all the pangs I prove,
To hail a Sister's changeless Love.
And oh! at shadowy close of even,
When quiet wings the soul to Heaven;
When the long toils of lingering day,
And all its cares, are swept away;
Then-while my thoughts are rapt above-
Then most I prize my Sister's Love.
THE touching pathos of thy low sweet voice
Fell on my heart, like dew on wither'd flowers,
And brought such memory of departed hours
As made me weep-yet in my tears rejoice.
For one I loved-now lost to me for ever-
Breathed even so the soul of melody,
And-since that voice has perish'd-never, never,
Till I heard thine, such sounds had greeted me.
Ev'n now thy tones, recall'd by night, and day,
Linger in Memory's echo-haunted cell,
Thrilling sweet agony :--nor know I well
Whether to chide them, or to bid them stay.
At times I scarce can bear the pain'd regret
Which they excite-then cry, O do not leave me yet!
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