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NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.

In these Volumes, for the first time, a complete colle&tion of my poetical writings has been made. While it is satisfactory to know that these scattered children of my brain have found a home, I cannot but regret that I have been unable, by reason of illness, to give that attention to their revision and arrangement, which respect for the opinions of others, and my own after-thought and experience demand.

That there are pieces in this collection which I would “willingly let die," I am free to confess. But, it is now too late to disown them, and I must submit to the inevitable penalty of poetical as well as other sins. There are others, intimately connected with the author's life and times, which owe their tenacity of vitality to the circumstances under which they were written, and the events by which they were suggested.

The long poem of Mogg Megone, was, in a great measure, composed in early life ; and it is scarcely necessary to say that its subject is not such as the writer would have chosen at any subsequent period.

J. G. W. AMESBURY, 18th, 3d Mo., 1857.

PROEM.

I LOVE the old melodious lays Which softly melt the ages through,

The songs of Spenser's golden days,

Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase,
Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dow.

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours
To breathé their marvellous notes I try;

I feel them, as the leaves and flowers

In silence feel the dewy showers,
And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky.

The rigor of a frozen clime,
The harshness of an untaught ear,

The jarring words of one whose rhyme

Beat often Labor's hurried time, Or Duty's rugged march through stórm and strife, are

here.

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, No rounded art the lack supplies;

Unskilled the subtle lines to trace,

Or softer shades of Nature's face,
I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.

Nor mine the seer-like power to show
The secrets of the heart and mind;

To drop the plummet-line below

Our common world of joy and woe,
A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.

Yet here at least an earnest sense
Of human right and weal is shown;

A hate of tyranny intense,

And hearty in its vehemence,
As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own.

Oh Freedom! if to me belong
Nor mighty Milton's gift divine,

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song,

Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine !

AMESBURY, 11th mo., 1847.

Thy Will be done..

A Word for the Hour.

"Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott”.

To John C. Fremont.

The Watchers.

To Englishmen

Astræa at the Capitol..

The Battle Autumn of 1862.

Mithridates at Chios..

The Proclamation.

Anniversary Poem.

At Port Royal.

Barbara Frietchie

311

312

313

315

316

319
320

323

324

325

327

330

334

HOME BALLADS.

Cobbler Keezar's Vision.

Amy Wentworth

The Countess.

339

345

350

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

Naples. — 1860.

The Summons.

359

360

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