1820-30.] JULIA L. DUMONT, 51 Melt as a dream — a strange and struggling scene, A dim and fitful consciousness of life. Pass, pass away ! things of a fondness vain, Fade on, frail vestments meant but for decay ; I wait the robes corruption may not stain, The bloom, the freshness of immortal day. THE ORPHAN EMIGRANT. LADY. "Whither, maiden, art thou strolling, Heedless of the evening blast? List, and hear the thunders rolling, Look ! the storm is gathering fast. With no guardian friend beside thee. Whither, whither wouldst thou roam ? Lest some evil should betide thee. Haste, oh ! maiden, to thy home. MAIDEN. Ask not, lady, where I wander. Ask not why my footsteps roam ; Tho' the skies are rent asunder, Lady, still I have no home. Crossing o'er the wide Atlantic, Seeking freedom's blissful shore, — Oh ! reflection makes me frantic — Lady, I can tell no more. LADT. Oh, be calm, poor hapless maiden, Let me hear thy artless tale, Wliy with grief so heavy laden ? What has made thy cheek so pale ? MAIDEN. Freedom's banner, brightly beaming. Lured my parents o'er the wave. But the lights of death were gleaming. Even then, around their grave. After braving toils and dangers, Scorching fevers seized their brain; Left amid a land of strangers. Penury's child, I weep in vain. Where yon willow tree is bending, There my parents mouldering lie, Grief their Ellen's heart is rending, Yet they answer not her cry. Here without a friend to cherish, Led by want's cold hand I roam — Rocked on sorrow's wave I perish. Death ! thy bed shall be iny home. LADY. Maiden, cease my heart to sever. Child of mourning, dry your tears, I will be your friend forever — I will guard your future years ; I have never known that gladness, Which a mother's heai't must own ; Crown'd with wealth, but vailed in sadness, I have sipped its sweets alone. Shall I leave thee, then, to perish, While thro' flowery paths I roam ? No, my cares thy form shall cherish. And my dwelhng be thy home. Bless'd in fondly watching o'er thee, Love shall every grief beguile ; May the shade of her who bore thee, On our sacred compact smile. THE TUMULUS.* Eternal vestige of departed years ! Mysterious signet of a race gone by, Unscath'd while Ruin o'er the earth careers, And around thy base the wrecks of ages lie. Reveal'st thou naught to the inquiring eye? What fearful changes Time has given birth Since first thy form, where now the oak towers high, A dark gray mass, rose from the verdant earth. ♦Written upon visiting one of the stupendous mounds that greet the eye of the traveler in the West.
