Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/276

. We cannot better begin our few quotations from the Poetical Remains of Miss Hooper than by presenting to our readers a poem written by her after a visit to Newburyport in August, 1839. How eloquently does she allude to the home of her infancy !

LINES. Sweet were the airs of home, when first their breath Came to the wanderer, as her gladdened eye Met the rich verdure of her native hills, And the clear glancing waters brought again A thousand dreams of childhood to the heart, That had so pined amid the city's hum For the glad breath of home, the waving trees, And the fair flowers that in the olden time Blew freshly ' mid the rocky cliffs, All these Had seemed but Fancy's picture, and the hues Of memory's pencil, fainter day by day Gave back the tracery, in the crowded mart There were no green paths where the buds of home Might blow unchecked, and a forgotten thing Were Spring's first violets to the wanderer's heart, Till once again amid those welcome haunts The faded lines grew vivid, and the flowersThe fresh pure flowers of youth brought back again The bloom of early thoughts.

Oh! brightly glanced Thy waters, river of my heart, and dreams. Sweeter than childhood conneth, came anew With my first sight of thee, bright memories linked With thy familiar music, sparkling tide ! The rocks and hills all smiled a welcome back, And Memory's pencil hath a fadeless green For that one hour by thee! Oh! gentle home, Comes with thy name fair visions, kindly tones, Warm greetings from the heart, and eyes whose light Hath smiled upon my dreams. Yet golden links Were strangely parted, music tones had past, And ties unloosed, that unto many a heart Were bound with life, the musing child no more Might watch the glancing of the distant sails , And dream of one, whose glad returning step Made ever the fair sunshine of her home; The sister's heart might thrill no more to meet One voice, that in the silence of the grave Is hushed forever, and whose eye's soft light Comes with its starry radiance, when her soul Pines in the silent hour. Home, sweet home! There are sad memories with thee ; Earth hath not A place where Change ne'er cometh, and where Death Doth cast no shadow! yet the moonlight lieth Softly in all thy still and shaded streets, And the deep stars of midnight purely shine, Bringing a thought of that far world, where Love Bindeth again his lost and treasured gems, And in whose " many mansions" there may be A home where Change ne'er cometh, and where Death May leave no trace upon the pure in heart, Who bend before their Father's throne in Heaven! Who has not read " Francesca Carrara ?" And who that has perused that novel has forgotten the gallant death of the young cavalier, Francis Evelyn, whom, with all his vices, we are forced to admire, so daringly does he meet his fate ? The following lines are not the

least forcible of Miss Hooper's. We are indebted to them for bringing up again vividly to our minds, the stirring scene to which they relate.

THE CAVALIER'S LAST HOURS. A dirge, a dirge for the young renown Of the reckless cavalier, Who passed in his youth and glory down To the grave without a fear, The smile on his lip, and the light in his eyeOh! say was it thus that the brave should die ? Midst the morning's pomp and flowers, By fierce and ruffian bands, In sight of his own ancestral towers, And his Father's sweeping lands ;Well that his Mother lay still and low, Ere the cold clods pressed on her son's bright brow!

Oh! the tide of grief swelled high In his heart, that dawn of day, As he looked his last on the glorious sky, And the scenes that round him lay ; But he trod the green earth in that moment of fear, With a statelier bearing-the doomed cavalier ! For fearless his spirt then, And bravely he met his fate, Till the brows of those iron-hearted men Grew dark in their utter hate Of the gallant victim, who met his hour With a song on his lips for his lady's bower! The light of the festive hall, The bravest in battle array,Was it thus that the star of his fate should fall ? Was it thus he should pass away? A dirge, a dirge for his hopes of Fame,The grave will close o'er the noble name! And the tide of life flow on In its dull deep current, as ever, Till every trace of his fate is gone From its dark and ceaseless river. But one may remember- oh, young cavalier--Could'st thou gaze but once on the sleeper near ! That bright and fairy girl, With no shadow on her browSave the blue vein's trace and the golden curl, She is dreaming of thee now. She whispers thy name in her gentle rest ; But how will she wake from that slumber blest ? A dirge, a dirge for the young renown Of the reckless cavalier! He hath waved for the last his plumed bonnet around, And his parting words they hear, "God save King Charles !" --a shrick ; a woman's cry Hath mingled with the martial sounds that rent the earth and sky! The following " Fragment" will convey a good idea of a different style of the poet ; but even here a strain of gentle melancholy pervades the piece. FRAGMENT.

The stars of the old year shone last night, And bright were the beams they cast, But my spirit likened each burning ray, To the torch-light of the Past; For methought that many a heart would chill, To gaze on that glowing sphere, Should Memory's chords that evening thrill, To the dreams of the olden year!