Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/277

38 To the garlands hung over Hope's gay shrine, When the hours of that year were new, And we looked not for frost in the summer prime, In the place of the early dew ; Oh ! the stars should shine with a pale, pale light, When joy has been thus o'erthrown ; And the mourner weeps in the silent night, For his beautiful- alone !

The stars of the old year shone last night ; They were linked with thoughts of pain, -Like music we ' ve heard in some happier hour, But would never list again, Like flowers the hand of Love hath plucked, That when parted we dread to see ; Precious yet twined with all mournful thoughts, Were their dying beams to me! The stars of the new year shine to-night, There is hope in their faintest gleams , They come to my heart, with their spells of light, As linked with its angel dreams! Sweet voices have broke on the weary day, I turn from the heavy Past; While the stars of the new year softly say, Wearied one, rest at last!

One of the latest, as well as the most powerful poems of Miss Hooper, was written after beholding a picture, representing the daughter of Herodias, bearing the head of John the Baptist on a charger, and wearing on her countenance an expression of sad and sorrowful remorse, instead ofthe look of triumph which some painters have given to her. The poem is indeed a gem. LINES. Mother! I bring thy gift, Take from my hand the dreaded boon- I pray Take it, the still pale sorrow of the face Hath left upon my soul its living trace, Never to pass away ;Since from these lips one word of idle breath, Blanched that calm face--oh! mother, this is death! What is it that I see From all the pure and settled features gleaming ? Reproach ! reproach ! My dreams are strange and wild, Mother! had'st thou no pity on thy child ? Lo! a celestial smile seems softly beaming On the hushed lips--my mother, can'st thou brook, Longer upon thy victim's face to look ? Alas ! at yestermorn My heart was light, and to the viol's sound I gaily danced, while crowned with summer flowers, And swiftly by me sped the flying hours, And all was joy around ;Not death ! Oh! mother could I say thee nay ? Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away! Take it ; my heart is sad, And the pure forehead hath an icy chill-I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given, And the pale face appals me, cold and still, With the closed lips, oh ! tell me, could I know That the pale features of the dead were so ?

I may not turn away From the charmed brow, and I have heard his name Even as a prophet by his people spoken, And that high brow in death bears seal and token , Of one, whose words were flame ;-Oh! Holy Teacher ! could'st thou rise and live, Would not these hushed lips whisper, " I forgive !"

Away with lute and harp, With the glad heart forever, and the dance, Never again shall tabret sound for me, Oh! fearful Mother, I have brought to thee The silent dead, with his rebuking glance, And the crushed heart of one, to whom are given Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven ! The lines on Osceola have often been quoted, and are perhaps familiar to most of our readers, but they shall win a place on our page as well for the sake of the illfated chief as for the force and dignity they display. The wrongs of the Indians have woke many an eloquent advocate, but rarely has any thing been written, in prose or poetry, that surpasses these lines. The poem was written on a picture of the chief, representing him as he appeared, when a prisoner in the American camp. LINES. Not on the battle field, As when thy thousand warriors joyed to meet thee, Sounding the fierce war-cry, Leading them forth to die-Not thus, not thus we greet thee. But in a hostile camp, Lonely amidst thy foes, Thine arrows spent, Thy brow unbent, Yet wearing record of thy people's woes. Chief! for thy memories now, While the tall palm against this quiet sky Her branches waves, And the soft river laves The green and flower-crowned banks it wanders by. While in this golden sun The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light, And sword and spear Rest harmless here, Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight ; Wake they thy glance of scorn, Thou of the folded arms and aspect sternThou of the deep low tone, For whose rich music gone, Kindred and friends alike may vainly yearn ? Wo for the trusting hour! Oh! kingly stag ! no hand hath brought thee down ; "Twas with a patriot's heart, Where fear usurped no part, Thou comest, a noble offering, and alone ! For vain yon army's might, While for thy band the wide plain owned a tree, Or the wild vine's tangled shoots On the gnarled oak's mossy roots Their trysting place might be! Wo for thy hapless fate ! Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief; Thy sadly closing story, Thy short and mournful glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief! Wo for the bitter stain That from our country's banner may not part ; Wo for the captive, wo! For burning pains, and slow, Are his who dieth of the fevered heart. Oh! in that spirit-land, Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath past, Chief by those sparkling streams Whose beauty mocks our dreams, May that high heart have won its rest at last.