MINE is no tale of venture bold,
Of reckless quest of fame or gold;
Of passion's dark, erratic course,
Through guilt and ruin to remorse;
Of brunt defied, of bloody war,
Or hazards cleared in travel far,
On slippery steeps, or treacherous seas,
Where summers scorch, or winters freeze.

Oh! ye that seek for such, forbear!
My theme will never charm your ear:
But if there be who pleasure find
To trace through peril's path the mind,
Wherein no personal pain nor strife
Gilds while it hazards limb and life;
If such there be, whose feelings move
At tale of simple, real love,
Ungraced with danger, wreck, or wo,
Save such as love must ever know,
The love of our ignoble time,
Unmet, or seldom met, in rhyme;
To such, at least, my quiet strain
Not wholly will appeal in vain.

Yet though no steel my form hath marred, Think not my heart hath 'scaped unscarred:

Tho' with no wounds my flesh hath bled,
I've spilt the blood that eyes can shed:
Yes! pangs have cut my soul with grief
So keen, that gashes were relief:
And racks have strained my spirit-frame,
To which the snap of joints were tame;
And battle strife itself were nought,
Beside the inner fight I've fought.

Though other than my native sod
My feet, untravelled, ne'er have trod,
Yet have I roamed through every change
Of clime the wandering heart can range :
From boyhood's home of bloomy bowers,
(The haunt of sports and dreamy hours,

By sweet rose-buttons all adorned,
Youth's tender blossoms yet unthorned,
Whose prickles, if their down were such,
Bent pointless to my gentlest touch,)
To manhood's rugged heights I roved,
And many a pang and peril proved.

Oh! home of peace! now mine no more,
For love's dim-seen and purple shore
Did I forsake thy bowers of ease,
And brave the might of passion's seas;
And shattered in my earliest gale,
Have floated, rent in helm, and sail,
O'er billows tossed, o'er billows stilled,
Where'er the wayward winds have willed:
Now sent south-wandering to the sun,
Where tempests rush, and thunders stun,
Where tropic skies, even when at rest,
Fret into feverish flame the breast;
Now by the currents of disdain
Whirled backward to the icy main,
To pine long nights of chilling wo,
More deep than polar winters know.

Bloom of the earth! my pride, my bane,
My spring of rapture, and of pain;
Bright BEAUTY!- child of starry birth,
The grace, the gem, the flower of earth:
The damask livery of Heaven,
To earth for choice apparel given,
From its own stores of rosy light:
A sample sent to tempt our sight,
That brimming fount of light to gain,
Whose drops are all it deigns to rain;
But ah! whose drops so gem the air,
And shed such rain-bow tintings there,
It seems as if some angel hand,
To mark it with the owner's brand,
Had in that fount its pencil dipped,
And every work of Nature tipped;
Which, at the master-touch, illumes,
And all the barren landscape blooms.

As morning clouds of chilly gray,
One dull disordered mass display,
Till the awakening beams aspire,
And crest each wavy ridge with fire,
So gloomed the hueless world in night,
Till Beauty rose, and all was bright!

Now roses blush, and violets' eyes,
And seas reflect the glance of skies;
And now that frolic pencil streaks
With quaintest tints the tulip's cheeks;
Rewards the lily's modest plight,
With bridal dress of virgin white,
But robes the pretty pimpernel
In the gay trappings of a belle.
Now jewels bloom in secret worth,

Like blossoms of the inner earth:
Now painted birds are pouring round
The beauty and the wealth of sound;
Now sea-shells glance with quivering ray,
Too rare to seize, too fleet to stay,
And hues out-dazzling all the rest,
Are dashed profusely on the west,
While rain-bows seem to palettes changed,
Whereon the motley tints are ranged.
But soft the moon that pencil tipped,
As though, in liquid radiance dipped,
A likeness of the sun it drew,
But flattered him with pearlier hue;
Which, haply spilling, runs astray,
And stains with light the milky way;
While stars besprinkle all the air,
Like spatterings of that pencil there.

But queen of flowers, of gems, of skies,
Now WOMAN opes her peerless eyes:
Last work the heavenly artist planned,
The rarest of that master-hand;
For there is pencilled in her face
Of all his works the hue and grace:
All brightest, purest things of earth,
Are mingled to compose her worth;
All lights that spot the evening sky,
Are clustered in her starry eye;
All sunset hues the west that streak,
Blend in the blush that lights her cheek;
All notes of sweetest song-birds' choice,
Swell the rich chord of woman's voice:
All flowers that mortal sense beguile,
Twine in the wreath of woman's smile.

But Heaven, to other creatures free,
Denied the glorious gift to me;
And formed me as for others' scoff,
Or foil to set their beauty off;
With features coarse, and stature low,
Ungainly gait, and accent slow;
But undeformed; for, humbled then,
My pride had kept me back from men;
And Pity then had stayed the sneer,
And soothed my burnings with her tear.
Such was my wavering, trying state,
Too poor for love, too good for hate;
With too much ugliness to please,
Nor yet enough my hopes to freeze;
Not limp, and yet uncouthly move,
Not loathsome, yet no thing to love.
Now drawn to seek, now driven to shun,
As shame or passion urged me on.

All this with nerves so finely strung,
That every touch of Beauty wrung;
And all the ravished cords would thrill,
When swept by their fair master's skill:
Nay, scarce a scent-breeze stirred the air,
But woke some trembling murmur there.

So much in love with Beauty's face,
I sought her glance in every place;
My busy eyes no spot let rest,
Exhausting Nature's round, in quest;
No tints the sunset cloud could dye,
But I was ever watching by:
No bow could span the stormy air,
But I stood, dumb with homage, near:
No lonely moon could walk the sky,
But I must keep her company;
Nor could she swim the glassy tide,
But still I followed by her side.
No flowers, whose garland wreathes the
year,

Could at their stated hour appear,
But far through wood or marsh I'd toil,
To greet and cull the brilliant spoil.

I loved to climb the breezy height,
And mark the valley's 'minished sight:
I loved on summer green to lie,
And scan the overhanging sky,
While all the fleet of those blue seas
Spread their white canvass to the breeze;
Some making and some furling sail,
Some rent and fluttering in the gale,
Far-scudding for the horizon dim,
Or sinking ere they reached the brim.

But clouds grown mad I loved the best,
When rushing frightful from the west,
With gestures wild, with eyes of fire,
Deep-set in frowns with tones of ire,
Denouncing vengeance deep-or worse,
With frantic laughter in their curse;
Till, spent with squandered strength,
they weep,

And powerless Nature drops to sleep :
Soft-breathing in her blest relief, [grief:
Tear-drenched, yet sweet with passing
So like the placid, dewy rest [breast:
That soothes th' exhausted maniac's
While rays the shattered gloom that
streak,

Would like returning reason break,
And dash the rain-bow tints on high,
Like sudden gleams of memory.

If soulless forms thus swayed my will, What wonder woman's glance should thrill ?

Since lesser beams my bosom won,
How must it bow to Beauty's sun?
Oh light! by whose celestial rays
My heart has counted all its days,
Whence my young budding feelings drew
The quickening warmth by which they
grew;

And ah! to which my soul has given
The worship only due to Heaven;
How have I revelled in thy rays,
And basked voluptuous in the blaze!

Too long enjoying noon so sweet,
Till crazed and blistered by the heat:
Yet when unwelcome clouds there came,
Intruding on my realm of flame,
O'ershadowing all the dazzling bloom
With chilly mist and leaden gloom,
How have I wished that sun renewed,
Burn, blind, or madden as it would!

Dear Woman! none that ever knelt,
Like me have followed, worshipped, felt :
How have I watched thine eyes, to see
Some tender favor drop to me!
And baffled oft, still watched in vain,
And ceasing, ached, and watched again.
Of all thy precious glances, none
Would light on me, for me alone:
For if one bird-like stranger fell,
It perched to visit, not to dwell;
Then flew the rugged spot, as found
For guest so fair ungenial ground.
Of all the smiles thy lips have shed,
Not one was wreathed to crown my
head,

Save such as jealous eyes could find,
With lurking thorns of scorn entwined.
No blush 1 ever thrilled to see,
Was lighted up by love for me;
No tender vow was mine to hear,
Nor mine the sweet confessing tear.
Doomed loving, yet unloved, to roam,
With houseless heart that knew no home,
With every feeling there that burned,
Cast down at woman's feet, and spurned:
And all for this corroding blight,
That stamps me charmless in her sight;
All, all for this no more!- no more!
I feel the pang that wrung before;
'Tis past! and I no more bewail
But bear my fate: now to my tale.

It was my lot for months to dwell 'Neath the same roof with one so fair It matters not whom, when, or where, 'T is what I felt, that I would tell : Let this suffice, nor seek beyond, That she was fair, and I was fond; And that the scene is laid beside Passaic's blue and silver tide. "T was at the crisis of my growth, When boyhood opens into youth; When the unfolding heart-bud blows, And sheds its incense like the rose : Sweet hour of feeling's joyous birth,

Ere curst from boybood's Eden driven, Ere thirst for tempting fruits of earth Unhoused me of my early heaven!

I.

O! she was gentle as the moon,

As mild, as soft, as sweet, as calm; And mellowed was her brightest noon, As even's stilly hour of balm.

II.

No frown, no flash, her eye could stain,
For when a cloud began to form,

It broke in tears of gentlest rain,
Ere it could gather to a storm.

To-night, her birth-night, round her hair.

Come violets first! - your eyes are bright,

But not so blue as Anna's, quite : Come wind-flowers! blossoms of the sloe!

How white! her teeth are whiter, though:

Now mountain pinks! but ah! her lips
The ruby of your bloom eclipse:
Now butter-cups, spring-beauties, flags,
And columbines, from cloven crags,
Dark arums striped, and whortle-bells,
Blend all with ferns from swampy dells;
'Tis done! yet haunts me all the while
The sweeter garland of her smile.

O! happy day!-earth, sky is fair, And fragrance floats along the air; For all the bloomy orchards glow, Like a light fall of rosy snow,