When first the queen of night in beauty rides,
That with the glory of Apollo vies,
One star alone through heaven's azure glides,
That when ten thousand thousand robe the skies,
Preeminent in beauty still presides;
To her the lover's and the poet's eyes
Are ever fondly turned to hail the power
That smiles such loveliness upon the hour.
How often have I watch'd the star of even,
When eyes of heaven's own etherial blue,
Have follow'd mine to gaze upon the heaven,
Where they as on a mirror's face might view
The bright and beautiful reflection given,
Of their own siarry light and azure hue!
But she beholding night's resplendent throne,
Of nature's beauty thought, and not her own.
I thought of both-if earth appear so fair,
How glorious the world beyond the skies;
And if the form that heaven-born spirits wear,
This earthly shrine so fascinate our eyes,
To kneel in worship we can scarce forbear,
And e'en to gaze on thine is paradise.
O what are those who free from earthly stain,
Above yon azure realms in bloom immortal reign?
Or New York, the editor of the Critic. His volume of poems, under the title of "Leisure Hours at Sea," was published in 1825. They were written while the author was a midshipman in the navy of the United States.
THE tear which thou upbraidest,
Thy falsehood taught to flow;
The misery which thou madest,
My cheek hath blighted so:
The charms, alas! that won me,
I never can forget,
Although thou hast undone me,
I own I love thee yet.
Go, seek the happier maiden
Who lured thy love from me;
My heart with sorrow laden
Is no more prized by thee:
Repeat the vows you made me,
Say, swear thy love is true;
Thy faithless vows betray'd me,
They may betray her too.
But no! may she ne'er languish
Like me in shame and wo;
Ne'er feel the throbbing anguish
That I am doom'd to know!
The eye that once was beaming
A tale of love for thee,
Is now with sorrow streaming,
For thou art false to me.
STILL, still is that heart, lovely maid! erst so warm,
And pale thy fair cheek, and thy once lovely form
Is cold as the marble that bends o'er thy tomb-
Thou art gone in the pride of thy youth and thy bloom!
There were friends weeping o'er thee, as death dimm'd thine
There was one standing by thee who breathed not a sigh: By him not a murmur of sorrow was spoken
But he thought of thy fate with a heart that was broken!
His mind as he stood there had travell'd far back
Through the vista of years, o'er life's desolate track,
To those warm sunny hours when his bosom was young,
And when on thy accents delighted he hung.
Then he left thee to mourn o'er his absence and pass'd
To where flouted war's banner and sounded her blast-
And he thought of the battle-field gory and red,
The despair of the dying, the blood that was shed:
Then a dim dungeon vault next arose on his sight, Where no voice ever entered, no glimmering of light, But in darkness and horror months, years pass'd away, Till he wish'd for that night which endureth for aye!
He died not-but after long time was set free;
Then how bounded his heart at remembrance of thee!
To the maiden he loves with what ardor he's flying!
He rushes to meet thee-behold thou art dying!
He stood by thy couch as life faded away;
With a firm step he walk'd in thy funeral array;
No sigh rent his bosom, no tear-drop did start-
But what language can picture his anguish of heart!
To the battle he hasted, and reckless of life,
His war-cry was heard 'mid the wildest of strife:
When the conflict was past he was sought for in vain,
And he never return'd to his country again.
OUR sails are spread before the wind,
And onward, onward swift we fly;
We've left our country far behind,
No prospect now invites the eye,
Save the blue sea, and cloudless sky.
Oh! when I waved my last good-bye,
To parents, friends, and Mary dear,
It was not fear that dimm'd mine eye,
This heart ne'er felt a thrill of fear-
It was affection caused the tear.
And while upon the heaving main
Our vessel dashes proudly on,
To meet those well-loved friends again,
With wealth and honors bravely won,
That is the hope I live upon.
But should some cannon pointed true,
Destroy these soothing dreams of glory,
Affection's tears my grave will dew,
And Mary, when she hears my story,
Will shed love's holiest tribute o'er me.
Or Newburyport. Miss Gould's poems have been written generally for the newspapers of Newburyport and Boston.
COME, mariner, down in the deep with me,
And hide thee under the wave-
For I have a bed of coral for thee;
And quiet and sound shall thy slumbers be
In a cell in the Mermaid's cave.
On a pillow of pearls thine eye shall sleep,
And nothing disturb thee there;
The fishes their silent vigils shall keep-
There shall be no grass thy grave to sweep
But the silk of the Mermaid's hair.
And she who is waiting with cheek so pale,
As the tempest and ocean roar;
And weeps when she hears the menacing gale,
Or sighs to behold her mariner's sail
Come whitening up to the shore.
She has not long to linger for thee ;-
Her sorrows shall soon be o'er;
For, the cord shall be broke and the prisoner free,
Her eye shall close; and her dreams will be
So sweet she will wake no more!
LIFT not, lift not the shadowy pall
From the beauteous form it veileth-
Nor ask, as the offerings of sorrow fall,
Who 't is that the mourner waileth!
For, we could not look on a face so dear
With the burial gloom surrounding.-
A name so cherish'd we must not hear
While her funeral bell is sounding.
But seek 'mid the throng of the youthful fair
Their loveliest still to number!—
Ye will find her not, for 't is her we bear
In the mansion of death to slumber.
She's gone from our sight like a gladdening ray
Of light, that awhile was given
To brighten the earth; but hath past away,
All pure to its source in heaven.
Her heart so feeling and finely strung,
It never was form'd for aching-
For, when by grief it was rudely wrung
It finish'd at once by breaking.
And that tender flower to the cold, dark tomb,
From the scenes she adorn'd is banish'd:
She hath snapt from the stem in her morning bloom,
Like a vision of beauty vanish'd!
A mournful group at her dying bed,
We watch'd with sorrowing o'er her,
Till the soul shone forth with her pinions spread
For a glorious world before her.
But grief was hush'd in the final hour,
And mute we stood around her,
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