THE LAST MAN.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time:

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime.

The sun's eye had a sickly glare;
The earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man.
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some.
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread,
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb.

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis mercy bids thee go;
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, floods, and earth,
The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn not I thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recall'd to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of victory,And took the sting from death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall tasteGo, tell that night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave,For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow, While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below-

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Or Nelson and the north,

Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,

For a time.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between. [gun "Hearts of oak," our captains cried; when each From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:

Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Outspoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave,

"Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:-
So peace instead of death let us bring.
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
. To our king."

Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,

From her people wildly rose;

As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the daystar attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the
sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy seabeaten shore;
But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken, [more.
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no
Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me [me?
In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me;

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure! Tears like the rain drop, may fall without measure; But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw, Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields-sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de

votion

Erin mavournin!-Erin go bragh!

VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ.

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu!
Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to fancy's view
Like fields refresh'd with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble! fare thee well!

His was the spell o'er hearts
Which only acting lends,-
The youngest of the sister arts,
Where all their beauty blends:
For ill can poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,
Illusion's perfect triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,

And sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor,-
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possess'd

His transport's most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast

The graces gave their zone. High were the task-too high, Ye conscious bosoms here! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear;

But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of reason's half-extinguish'd glare

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair,

If 'twas reality he felt?

Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumph'd to have seen!

And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddon's auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown-
They were the children of her pride,

The columns of her throne,

And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man,

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste:-
Taste like the silent dial's power,
That when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour,
And tell its height in heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,
His mind survey'd the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth :-
And must we lose them now!
And shall the scene no more show forth
His sternly pleasing brow!

Alas, the moral brings a tear!—

"T is all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go!

Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review :— Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu!

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
"Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me
back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was

DESCRIPTION OF WYOMING.

Os Susquehana's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. 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! Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd swains had naught 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, Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew, And aye those sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flageolet from some romantic town. Then, where on Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakesAnd playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ; While, hearkening, fearing naught their revelry, The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard, but in transatlantic story sung, For here the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue : Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, Were but divided by the running brook; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet rung, On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook, The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.

Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelayBut who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers, over hills and far away? Green Albin! what though he no more survey Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochs rolling from the mountain bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar!

Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer,
That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief,
Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!
Yet found he here a home, and glad relief,
And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,
That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:
And England sent her men, of men the chief,
Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be,
To plant the tree of life,-to plant fair Freedom's
tree!

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp
Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom;
Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,
Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom,

Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb. One venerable man, beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, To sway the strife, that seldom might befall: And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

DIRGE OF OUTALISSI.

AND I could weep!-the Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun :-
But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow his head in wo!
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death) Shall light us to the foe;

And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!
But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:-

Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave

Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight;
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!
To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd?
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone;
And stones themselves, to ruin grown

Like me, are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp,-for there-
The silence dwells of my despair!"
But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,

Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst

From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!

THE FALL OF POLAND.

Он, sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn;

Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-
Oh, heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live!with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few but undismay'd; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,-the watch-word and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;Hope for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shriek'd-as Kosciusko fell!

HOHENLINDEN.

Ox Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

And redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

"Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

CAROLINE.

I'LL bid my hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be, And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle-tree. There, all his wild-wood scents to bring,

The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime!
Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain-heath and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.
Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,

Come to my blossom-woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy land!

For sure, from some enchanted isle,

Where heaven and love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould;
From some green Eden of the deep,
Where pleasure's sigh alone is heaved,
Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived;
From some sweet paradise afar,
Thy music wanders, distant, lost;
Where Nature lights her leading star,
And love is never, never cross'd.

Oh, gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless hours

In Nature's more propitious home, Name to thy loved Elysian groves,

That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves,

And let the name be Caroline.