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I have stood on the deck of my noble craft,
And watched its shattered sail;
I have seen its mast in pieces dashed,
Hang quivering in the gale.

But think ye my cheeks were pale with dread,
Or my blood grew cold and chill?
There was music for me in the mad winds' mirth,
And my heart beats fearless still.

I have stood in the battle's foremost ranks,
When the booming shots came fast;
And the light grew dim in the warrior's eye,
And the valiant were breathing their last.

I never quailed 'neath a tyrant's glance,
A slave I have scorned to be;
They have sought my life, they have sought in vain,
I am free -- I am free -- I am free!

1849

THE CAPTIVE

The deep-toned bell, from Linder's lofty tower,
With awful peal proclaims the midnight hour;
And spectres grim, in robes of ghastly white,
Come forth to wander through the gloom of night.

They move with noiseless tread, that ghostly train,
Low, muttering sounds convulse the trembling frame,
The eye revolts in terror from the signt,
The blood congeals, the cheek grows deathly white.

That ancient tower for centuries hath stood,
The scene of barbarous cruelty and blood:
The hapless victim, doomed to torturing pain,
Though innocent, for mercy pleads in vain,
Within those hated walls her accents never came.

Blind superstition wields its sceptre there,
And fiends in human form its tenants are;
The mangled wretch with frantic joy they see,
And laugh exulting at his agony.

Within a deep and loathesome vault, confined
For years, a captive, hath Alvero pined;
A youth of noble origin is he
In this abode of guilt and misery.

Why is he doomed a wretched life to spend?
Oh, death to him would be a welcome friend;
Pale and distorted are his features now,
And grief sits silent on his lofty brow.

Say what his crime? ask of that tyrant band
That with malignant looks around him stand;
Fell murderers, hold! ye stern, accursed throng,
Hold, or high heaven will yet avenge his wrong.

'Tis done, 'tis done! I see the quivering dart:
The life-blood gushes from Alvero's heart,
A deep convulsive sigh his bosom yields, --
Hark! hark! methinks a kindred name he breathes.

"Oh, Evaline, far, far from thee I die,
Would thou coulds't hear my last expiring sigh;
Would that my head were pillowed on thy breast,
How calm, how peaceful, could I sink to rest.

"If those who dwell in yon celestial sphere
Forget not those they loved on earth so dear;
If mortal's sorrows they, perchance, may see,
My faithful spirit shall thy guardian be."

A groan -- another -- he has passed away
To the bright regions of eternal day,
The affrighted raven screams and flaps her wings,
Night's mournful wind the captive's requiem sings.

THE PRESUMPTUOUS MOUSE
(Written from an actual incident)

Dear friends, receive attentively
A strange account of Mr. C.
With your permission I'll relate, --
Though you may smile at his sad fate, --
How while reposing on his bed,
And airy thoughts flit through his head,
A weary mouse house-hunting crept,
Close to the pillow where he slept;
But there not feeling quite at ease,
And wishing much himself to please,
He looked with grave and thoughtful air
On Mr. C's dishevelled hair.
"Ah, here's the station I like best,"
Said he, "and here I'll build my nest.
This scalp conceals a poet's brain,
So here till morning I'll remain,
Perhaps the muse will me inspire,
And if she tune her magic lyre,
I'll to the world proclaim that we,
That mice, like men, may poets be."
Our hero thus descanted long
On love, and poesy and song;
While now and then a gentle squeal
His vocal powers would reveal.
His strain of eloquence it broke,
For Mr. C, perplexed awoke,
And starting up --- "I do declare
There's something scraping in my hair;
Alight; a light; what shall I do?"
At this the mouse, alarmed, withdrew;
And had he not, I'm certain, death
Had stopped, ere long, his little breath.

1830

TO A FRIEND
(Cynthia Bullock)

When wilt thou think of me?
When the vesper bell is pealing,
And its distant sounds are stealing
Softly on the listening ear,
Breathing music sweet and clear;
When in prayer on bended knee,
Wilt thou then remember me?

When wilt thou think of me?
When the twilight fades away,
And the bird hath ceased its lay,
And the quiet evening shade
Lingers in the silent glade;
When thy thoughts are wandering free,
Wilt thou then remember me?

When wilt thou think of me?
When thy gentle heart is crushed,
And its sweetest tones are hushed;
When upon some faithful breast,
Thou wouldst lull thy grief to rest,
Then in whispers soft to thee
I would say, remember me.

1850

"HOPE ON, HOPE EVER"

"Hope on, hope ever" -- Earth is not so drear,
Nor life a comfortless and empty dream;
The darkest clouds that gather o'er us here,
Are not the harbingers we sometimes deem;
For lo, how brilliant the returning ray,
As one by one their shadows pass away!

"Hope on, hope ever" -- Is thy heart bereft
Of all that rendered life once dear to thee?
Amid the wreck the quenchless spark is left,
Whose light, though feeble, shall thy beacon be.
Though death's cold hand some kindred tie may sever,
Still let thy motto be, "Hope on, hope ever."