THE BRIDE. 583 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. (1791-1865.) MRS. SIGOURNEY has been termed the American Hemans, and her works certainly possess much of the grace of style and purity of senti. ment characteristic of the English poetess. Her first appearance as an authoress was in 1815, when she published a series of "Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse." She afterwards issued several volumes of poetry, the most elaborate being the "The Aborigines of America," and "Pocahontas;" the latter, a poem in the Spenserian stanza, displaying some powerful and pathetic description. Mrs. Sigourney was born at Norwich, in the State of Connecticut, and in 1819 she married Mr. Sigourney, a merchant at Hartford in her native state. A very beautiful illus. trated edition of the works of this popular poetess has been published ir America. THE BRIDE. I CAME, but she was gone. In her fair home, Of all beside. It was the cherish'd home, With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, The fresh, young rose-bud, deepening in her cheek, And there was silence 'mid the gather'd throng. Which, taking in its hand its thornless joys, Mock not with mirth A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones; FROM POCAHONTAS. THE VIRGINIAN COLONISTS. Clime of the West! that to the hunter's bow, For to thy coast the fair-hair'd Saxon steers, Rich with the spoils of time, the lore of bards and seers. Behold a sail! another, and another! Like living things on the broad river's breast ;What were thy secret thoughts, oh, red-brow'd brother, As toward the shore these white-wing'd wanderers prest? But lo! emerging from her forest zone, The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder thrown, With nodding plumes her raven tresses drest, Of queenly step, and form erect and bold, Yet mute with wondering awe, the New World meets the Old. Roll on, majestic flood, in power and pride, Which like a sea doth swell old ocean's sway ;With hasting keel, thy pale-fac'd sponsors glide To keep the pageant of thy christening day. They bless thy wave, they bid thee leave unsung The uncouth baptism of a barbarous tongue, And take his name,-the Stuart's,-first to bind The Scottish thistle in the lion's mane, Of all old Albion's kings, most versatile and vain. THE PIRATE'S ISLAND. Spring robes the vales. With what a flood of light Or heavenward soar, with melody sublime ;- 585 As from their prisoning ships the enfranchis'd strangers spring. Their tents are pitch'd, their spades have broke the soil, Their lily-handed youths essay the toil, That from the forest rends its ancient crown; RICHARD HENRY DANA. MR. DANA, a native of Cambridge, Massachusetts, is author of "The Buccaneer" and other poems, and is well known as a critic and novelist. FROM THE BUCCANEER. THE PIRATE'S ISLAND. THE island lies nine leagues away. Along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home; Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea, How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And inland rests the green, warm dell; Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; But calm, low voices, words of grace, A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear: Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done.- FITZGREENE HALLECK. (1795-1867.) Like most of the American poets, Mr. Halleck was actively engaged in business, and poetry was consequently only an occasional pursuit. In 1819 he published Fanny,' a satirical poem, in 1827 "Alnwick Castle," and in 1835 "Marco Bozzaris," and other pieces. FROM MARCO BOZZARIS.1 AT midnight, in the forest shades, True as the steel of their tried blades, There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now they breathed that haunted air, The sons of sires who conquered there, As quick, as far as they. An hour past on the Turk awoke ; 1 Bozzaris was termed the Epaminondas of modern Greece. attack on the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient saying, as he expired, "To die for liberty is pleasure, not pain." He fell in a night Platea, in 1823, FROM MARCO BOZZARIS. He woke to hear his sentries shriek: "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" "Strike! till the last armed foe expires; They fought, like brave men, long and well, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. * Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb : But she remembers thee as one 587 |