JUL 9 
OUTWARD BOUND 
189 
wd( never have put such words as these in the 
mou\ of his Eve: 
“ May the grass wither from thy foot! the woods 
DeiV thee shelter—earth a home—the dust 
the sun his light! 
and Heaven her God !” 
Cain. 
It was q)rite suitable for Byron to talk so in his 
Cain, but he\has not unsettled the position of the 
world’s estimate of its first mother, so firmly esta¬ 
blished by Milton. He was, at the time, perhaps, 
thinking of himself as Cain, and of his own mother 
as in one of her imprecating paroxysms. Alas, that 
he should have gone on in lawless indulgence, in¬ 
sulting, both in poetry and practice, the sanctity of 
domestic, heaven-constituted, earth-blessing ties, 
until, after an abortive, ill-directed struggle for poor 
Greece, he sunk into an early grave, at 36 aet., the 
very meridian of life ! He Was never satisfied with 
his earthly lot, not even with-the rare gifts of his 
genius, nor with 
achievenients it made. He 
professed to consider a poet, no matter what his emi¬ 
nence, as quite a secondary character to a great 
statesman or warrior. As he had failed in the first 
character, he resolved to try the second, and strike 
for the liberty he had sung. But Fame had noplace 
for him in' this j^a^t of her temple. With the rest of 
the tuneful tribe, he descends to the judgment of 
posterity as a Poet; with all men of genius above 
the millipn, as more deeply responsible than they to 
the/ author of all mercibs ; with all men whatever, 
as a moral and immortal being, accountable at 
the tribunal of God. 
The mind would fail in any attempt to estimate 
the immense influence of his genius and writings 
upon the youthful mind and morals of the past ge¬ 
neration—an influence to be augmented in a geo¬ 
metrical ratio in the future. What is written, is 
written, constituting a portion of the active influence 
circulating in the worltf—not to be recalled, not to 
be extinguished, but to move on to the end of time, 
■ 
and finally to be met by its originator, where all 
illusions will vanish, and all truth, justice and purity 
be vindicated. 
/ 
\ 
OUTWARD BOUND. 
BY 
Fare ye well, our native valleys, 
And our native hills farewell; 
Though we part, your blessed memory 
Shall be with us like a spell:— 
For with you are souls in silence 
Breathing for us hopes and prayers, 
Loving eyes that weep in secret 
Gazing on the vacant chairs. 
Tender hearts made dear unto us 
By unnumbered sacred ties, 
Bend at eve their tearful vision 
To the stars that o’er us rise. 
There are children, darling children, 
In the April of their years, 
In their play they cease and <yill us, 
And their laughter melts to tears. 
f 
THOMAS BTTCHANA1 READ. 
\ 
\ 
i 
There are maidens overshadowed 
With a transient cloud of May, 
There are wives who sit in sorrow 
Like a rainy summer day. 
There our parents sit dejected 
In the darkness of their grief, 
Mourning their last hope departed 
%As the autumn mourns its leaf. 
the prayers of these are with us 
H the winds that fill the sails 
Seem to be the breath of blessings 
From pur native hills and vales. 
Then farewell, the breeze is with us, 
And our vessel ploughs the foam; 
God, who guides the good ship seaward 
Will protect i^e loved at home. 
HE COMES NOT 
[with an engraving.] 
BY C. SWAIN. 
Night throws her silver tresses back, 
And cfer the mountain-tops afar 
She leaves a soft and moonlight track, 
re glorious than the day-beams are ; 
Ary! while she steers her moonlight bark 
that starry river now, 
Jach leaf, each flower, each bending bough, 
Starts into beauty from the dark ; 
Each path appears a silver line, 
And naught in earth—but all divine. | ^ 
Oh, never light of moon was 
Upon a maid’s more timid tread ; 
And never star of heaven shone 
On face more fair to look upon. 
Hark ! was not that a whisper light ? 
A step—a movement—yet so slight, 
That silence holds its breath in vain 
To catch that fleeting sound again. 
Well may’st thou start, lone, timid dove, 
To night lie comes not to U iy love.. 
