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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
LINES,
Written at Midnight, when taking a final departure from land, to return to California.
[We publish the following episodical Poem as a suggestive illustration of those
painful occurrences which have so often disgraced certain portions of our State, and
as an affecting warning of consequences, where, as has been too frequently the
case, the generous errors of man and the weakness of woman have been taken
advantage of by some artful “friend of the family,” too often aided in his designs
by an unthinking and reckless crowd, worked upon by calumnies, whether against
man or woman. In this case, when the Poem was written, the usual denouement
had not occurred, but the writer was full of hope to regain happiness and peace
with those he loved. Unfortunately, he has since found that he was too truly prophetic, and that his worst suspicions have been realized. No one but a keenly
sensitive, earnest, loving nature, could have comprehended the depth of feeling
the author has given expression to. If our advice could reach him, we would urge
him not to allow the double treachery to sink him into despondency—which is too
apt to be the case with such natures—and our pity would extend no less to the frail
one, for she will probably need it most.—Eprror.]
As, gazing o’er the vessel's side,
My straining eyes just catch the glimmer
Of yonder waning light, whose sheen
Beams every moment, fainter, dimmer ;
And, as it slowly sinks from view,
Behind the midnight, silent main;
What thoughts of other days, and scenes,
Rush swiftly thro’ my troubled brain.
Thoughts! teeming with sad memories
Of hopes, now blasted: cherished, when
I call’d my home that isle—whose bound
Thou’rt set to mark. Bright denizen
Of yon lone rock! Now, o’er the land,
Soft slumber holds its peaceful sway,
And all is hush’d; save as the tide
In rippling cadence tells our way.
My aching eyes intently watch
The last reflection from that shore ;
Which now, with scarce one fond regret,
T leave, to see again—no more!
No heart affection now doth cling
To thee, tho’ thou’rt my native land:
But few within thee claim a tear,
Or can a parting sigh command.
Scatter’d, and scarce are those, who now
Will faintly own cold friendship’s name:
And kindred’s ties but weakly bind,
When most it needs to urge the claim.
Yet, far within that dormant isle,
Beneath a church-yard’s solemn shade,
Two grassy mounds denote the spot
Where those who gave me birth are laid.
And hence, shall hallow'd thoughts arise
Of thee: and memory oft shall give
A tribute, from a lonely heart,
To the lov’d dead: to none who live,
Except that faithful remnant who,
With “ old times” welcomes, greeted me;
And, most to women ;—generous—true :—
Whose knowledge rous’d their sympathy.
And, chiefly, where a modest roof
Shelters an aged matron’s head,
Now slumb’ring by her daughter’s side
My grateful thoughts shall e’er be led.
For oft, while in that cold, proud isle,
Their gen’rous care hath sooth’d my woe jy»
And cheered my drooping heart with hopes
Of brighter days, I yet might know.
No Herald's list their birth proclaims ;
But I, with England's Poet, would
‘Prefer kind hearts to coronets,
And simple faith to Norman blood.”