b'Library of Congress. \n\n\n\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \n\n\n\nChap. . \nShelf. \n\n\n\n\nA \n\n\n\nA \n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nm \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\nTHE \n\n\n\nPOET\'S GIFT \n\n\n\na - \n\nILLUSTRATED \n\nB. \n\n\n\nBY ONE OF HER PAINTER \n\n\n\nv \n\n\n\ncs^ 4/~. 2. - \xc2\xb0t" \xc2\xa3 ^ v \n\n\n\n\' The world is full of Poetry. \xe2\x80\x94 Its words \nAre few, but deep and solemn ; and they break \nFresh from the fount of feeling." \xe2\x80\x94 Percival. \n\n\n\nY \nEDITED BY JOHN KEESE. \n\n\n\nBOSTON: \n\nPUBLISHED BY T. H. CARTER AND COMPANY. \n\nNEW YORK: COLLINS, BROTHER AND COMPANY. \n\n1845. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nD.14. \n\n16 \n\n\n\nEntered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1841, \nBy JOHN KEESE, \nin the Clerk\'s Office of the District Court of the Southern Dis- \ntrict of New York. \n\n\n\nTHIS VOLUME, \n\nILLUSTRATED BY THE GENIUS OF ONE OP \nTHEIR NUMBER, \n\nIS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n- \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nFall of Babylon .... Lorenzo L. Daponte \n\n\nPage \n\n13 \n\n\nA Serenade . . . . Edward C. Pinkney \n\n\n20 \n\n\nTo the Painted Columbine . . . Jones Very \n\n\n21 \n\n\nDeath of the Duke of Reichstadt . Emma C. Embury \n\n\n23 \n\n\n< Night Jones Very \n\n\n26 \n\n\nTo an Old Man .... Philip Freneau \n\n\n27 \n\n\ns De Profundis .... William Croswell \n\n\n31 \n\n\nSummer Midnight . . . James W. Eastburn \n\n\n32 \n\n\nThe Village Blacksmith . Henry W. Longfellow \n\n\n35 \n\n\nThe Robin Jones Very \n\n\n38 \n\n\nThe Sylph of Autumn . . Washington Allston \n\n\n39 \n\n\nThe Old North Burial Ground . . William B. Tappan \n\n\n43 \n\n\nTo a Sister .... Edward Everett \n\n\n47 \n\n\nMental Beauty . . . . James G. Perciyal \n\n\n50 \n\n\nThe Moss Supplicateth for the Poet . Richard H. Dana \n\n\n53 \n\n\nTo the Ursa Major . . . Henry Ware, jr. \n\n\n58 \n\n\nThe Brothers .... Charles Sprague \n\n\n65 \n\n\nSonnet ...... James R. Lowell \n\n\n67 \n\n\nSpring George Hill \n\n\n68 \n\n\nTo Miss M * * * * . . . Frances S. Osgood \n\n\n69 \n\n\nLove Unchangeable .... Rufus Dawes \n\n\n72 \n\n\nThe Fountain .... William C. Bryant \n\n\n74 \n\n\nMarius seated on the Ruins of Carthage Mrs. M. L. Child \n\n\n79 \n\n\n\' Sonnet \xe2\x80\x94 October .... William C. Bryant \n\n\n97 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\' Sonnet William H. Burleigh \n\n\n156 \n\n\n\n8 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nGod in Nature . \nEvening after a Battle \nIndian Girl\'s Burial \n\nOde \n\nOsceola . \n\nThe Child Playing with a Watch \nThe Beleaguered City- \nFelicia Hemans \n\n\n\n. H. W. Rockwell 81 \n\nTimothy Dwight 83 \n\nLYDIA H. SlGOURNEY 85 \n\nJohn Pierpont 88 \n\n. * Lucy Hooper 90 \n\nFrances S. Osgood 93 \n\nHenry W. Longfellow 95 \n\nLYDIA H. SlGOURNEY 98 \n\n\n\nInvitation Willis G. Clark 102 \n\n\n\nMonadnock \n\nA Death-Bed \n\nA Spring-Day Walk \n\nChansonette \n\nOn an Old Wedding Ring \n\nThe Moon upon the Spire \n\nTo Neptune \n\nSaco Falls \n\nPower of Music \n\nEuthanasia \n\nTo the Ship of the Line Pennsyl \n\nEvening . \n\nOde to the Moon . \n\nLines .... \n\nOnly one Night at Sea . \n\nTo an Elm \n\nThe Banner of Murat . \n\nJune .... \n\nTo May \n\nThe Snow-Flake \n\nSerenade . . . \n\n\n\nvania \n\n\n\nWilliam O. B. Peabody 104 \nJames Aldrich 107 \n\nU M \n\nCharles F. Hoffman 109 \n\nGeorge W. Doane 110 \n\nHannah F. Gould 113 \n\nAlbert Pike 116 \n\nJames T. Fields 119 \n\nJohn Pierpont 121 \n\nWillis G. Clark 127 \n\nWilliam B. Tappan 129 \n\nEliza Follen 131 \n\nRobert M. Bird 133 \n\n. Lucy Hooper 135 \n\nRobert M. Charlton 137 \n\nHenry T. Tuckerman 140 \n\nProsper M. Wetmore 143 \n\nWilliam H. Burleigh 145 \n\nJonathan Lawrence, jr. 148 \n\n. Hannah F. Gould 150 \n\nC. D. McLeod 153 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nBrother, come Home \n\nSpring in New England \n\nThe Falls of Niagara . \n\nScene from Hadad \n\nThe Last Reader \n\nLines on Passing the Grave of my \n\nTo a City Pigeon \n\nWritten at My Mother\'s Grave \n\nExtract from Prometheus \n\nSong .... \n\nTo the Memory of a Friend \n\nChristmas . . \n\nThe Departed \n\nThe Chimes of England , \n\nLines \n\nPalestine \n\nThe April Shower \n\nThe Voice of the Gale . \n\nTo a Water-Fall \n\nThe Mothers of the West \n\nSong \n\nGo forth into the Fields \n\nCape Colonna \n\nTo a Moonbeam \n\nLines to the Dead \n\nTo * * * \n\nThe Lost Hunter \n\nThe Lost at Sea \n\nWhat is Solitude \n\nT ook on this Picture \n\n\n\nCatharine H. Waterman 154 \n\nCarlos Wilcox 156 \n\nJ. G. C. Brainard 162 \n\nJames A. Hillhouse 163 \n\nOliver W. Holmes 172 \n\nSister Micah P. Flint 1 75 \n\nNathaniel P. Willis 178 \n\n. George D. Prentice 180 \n\nJames G. Percival 183 \n\n. George P. Morris 187 \n\nAmelia B. Welby 188 \n\n. William Croswell 192 \n\nPark Benjamin 193 \n\nArthur C. Cox 196 \n\nIsaac McLellan, jr. 199 \n\nJ. G. Whittier 201 \n\nMrs. Seba Smith 205 \n\nThomas J. Charlton 207 \n\nElizabeth F. Ellet 209 \n\nWilliam D. Gallagher 211 \n\nWilliam C. Bryant 214 \n\n. W. J. Pabodie 216 \n\nGeorge Hill 218 \n\nMargaret M. Davidson 220 \n\nMary E. Lee 224 \n\nFlTZ-GREENE HaLLECK 227 \n\nAlfred B. Street 231 \n\nJ. Otis Rockwell 237 \n\nCharles F. Hoffman 239 \n\nCharles Sprague 241 \n\n\n\n10 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nStanzas . \n\nThe Merrimack \n\nAutumn . \n\nSong of the Flower Spirit \n\nBob-O\'Linkum \n\nMy Mother\'s Grave \n\nThe Dove\'s Errand \n\nLeila \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThe Trailing Arbutus \n\nThe Hunter\'s Vision \n\nTo the Mocking Bird \n\nTo a Shower \n\nFlowers \n\nHebrew Melody \n\nThe Steam-Boat \n\nThe Closing Year \n\nAmbition . \n\nThe Two Voices . \n\nWhere Lives the Soul of Poetry \n\nSunset .... \n\nWeehawken . \n\nA Morning Invocation . \n\nLight \n\nThe Leaf .... \n\nExtract from the Judgment \n\nThe Dying Boy \n\nStanzas . \n\nThe Chieftain\'s Daughter \n\nHampton Beach \n\nWoman \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n. Willis G. Clark 244 \n\nJohn G. Whittier 247 \n\n. R. C. Waterston 252 \n\nWilliam G. Simms 254 \n\nCharles F. Hoffman 255 \n\nJames Aldrich 258 \n\nPark Benjamin 260 \n\nGeorge Hill 264 \n\nSarah H. Whitman 2G5 \n\n. William C. Bryant 268 \n\n. Albert Pike 271 \n\nJames W. Miller 274 \n\nHenry Pickering 277 \n\nProsper M. Wetmore 279 \n\nOliver W. Holmes 281 \n\nGeorge D. Prentice 284 \n\nJohn Neal 288 \n\n. G. W. Patten 290 \n\n, W. H. C. Hosmer 292 \n\nWard 295 \n\n. Robert C. Sands 297 \n\nEpes Sargent 299 \n\nWilliam P. Palmer 301 \n\n. Samuel G. Goodrich 304 \n\nJames A. Hillhouse 306 \n\nJ. H. Bright 309 \n\nEdward Sanford 312 \n\nGeorge P. Morris 313 \n\nGeorge Lunt 315 \n\nFlTZ-GREENE HaLLECK 318 \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS. \n\n\n\nFrontispiece \n\nEngraved Title Page. \n\nFall of Babylon L. L. Daponte 13 \n\n" " u u 16 \n\nDeath of Reichstadt E. C. Embury 25 \n\nVillage Blacksmith H. W. Longfellow 36 \n\nSylph of Autumn W. Allston 41 \n\nOld North Burial Ground W. B. Tappan 41 \n\nMoss Supplicateth for the Poet R. H. Dana 54 \n\nu \xc2\xab u u ....... \xc2\xab \xc2\xab 55 \n\nThe Brothers ; . . . C. Sprague 65 \n\nSpring G. Hill 68 \n\nThe Fountain W. C. Bryant 74 \n\nu it (t m 75 \n\nOsceola Lucy Hooper 90 \n\n\xc2\xab " \xc2\xab 91 \n\nMrs. Hemans L. H. Sigourney 101 \n\nMonadnock W. O. B. Peabody 194 \n\nMoon upon the Spire H. F. Gould 113 \n\nNeptune Albert Pike 116 \n\nOnly One Night at Sea . . . ... . R. M. Charlton 137 \n\nTo an Elm H. T. Tuckerman 140 \n\nSpring in New England C. Wilcox 161 \n\nHadad J. A. Hillhouse 164 \n\nPrometheus J. G. Percival 185 \n\nTo the Memory of a Friend . . Amelia B. Welby 188 \n\nTo a Waterfall E. F. Ellet 209 \n\nMothers of the West W. D. Gallagher 212 \n\nTo a Moonbeam . M. M. Davidson 221 \n\nLines to the Dead Mary E. Lee 224 \n\nStanzas W. G. Clark 245 \n\nThe Merrimack 3.G. Whittier 248 \n\nBob O\'Linkum C. F. Hoffman 257 \n\nDove\'s Errand P^RK Benjamin 260 \n\nSteamboat O. W. Holmes 281 \n\nThe Closing Year G. D. Prentice 284 \n\n\n\n\n|h held his banquet \npleasant sound, \nruddy bowl \nflinds the soul \nshing wine was crowned ; \ntArMj beauty all unlovely \nWitfi mright but hollow eye, \nIn rapture wild \nUpon him smiled \nIn his drunken revelry. \n\n\n\n14 FALL OF BABYLON. \n\nWhat ho, what ho, the goblet ! \nThe rosy wine for me ; \n\nMy father stood \n\nOn the field of blood \nAnd what reward hath he ? \nThey circled him with glory \xe2\x80\x94 \nThey called him, mighty Lord ! \n\nThey bent the knee \n\nHis face to see, \nAnd they trembled at his word ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut where is he, the mighty, \nAnd the glory he hath won 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \nThey have laid him low \nWith the conquered foe, \nEre half his work was done. \nBut the joy of the bounding pulse- \nAnd the heart that laughs at care, \nThey are found in the throng \nOf the dance and song, \nAnd the monarch\'s feast to share. \n\nWhat ho, what ho, the goblet ! \n\nIt hath held the holy wine ; \nAnd prophets of old \nHave blessed the gold, \n\nAnd the gods have made it mine : \n\n\n\nFALL OF BABYLON. 15 \n\nThen fill to the foaming brim ; \nOh, the cup is only blest \n\nWhen the dewy lip \n\nOf the fair doth sip \nAs we lean on her snowy breast. \n\nHe raised the goblet high, \n\nAnd the foaming juice ran o\'er ; \n\nAnd ever the bout \n\nOf the frantic rout \nDid shake the marble floor. \nThe matron rent her veil \nAs she tossed the beady wine, \n\nAnd even the queen \n\nTo drink was seen \nWith the reeling concubine. \n\nWhat ho, what ho, the goblet ! \nHe grasps it in his hands \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat ails the king \n\nWhile the minstrels sing, \nAnd the wine untasted stands 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe hath dashed his jewelled crown, . \nHe hath rent his golden pall, \n\nFor a finger dark \n\nOn the wall doth mark, \nAnd an earthquake rocks the halL \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nft Iff \n\n\n\nj&K \xe2\x80\xa2r^S^- \n\n\n\n\nNow fetch me my magicians, \nBid them hither haste \'with speed, \n\nFor a kingly state \n\nUpon him doth wait \nThat the deadly scroll shall read. \nThey have looked upon the scroll ; \nBut word said never a breath, \n\nTill stern and loud \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nTo the frightened crowd \nSpoke the voice of the Seer of Death. \n\n\n\n\nFALL OF BABYLON. 17 \n\nThou has pledged me a kingdom \xe2\x80\x94 hast offered a throne ; \nTo-morrow, oh king, thou shalt seek for thine own ; \nAnd the daughters of Ashur shall wail in the cry, \nThat the widows of Judah have sent to the sky. \n\nThou hast wasted the altar, and trod, in thy pride, \nOn the ark for which princes and prophets have died ; \nAnd the priest\'s hallowed rose, and the gem and the shrine, \nThou hast cursed with the drunken pollution of wine. \n\nFor this thou art weighed, and thy balance is light ; \nAnd the hand of the Lord hath condemned thee to-night ! \nLo, the sentence of wrath that his finger hath wrote ; \nLo, the sword of the conqueror gleams at thy throat, \nAnd the Mede and the Persian shall sit in thy place, \nWhen Jehovah has scattered the house of thy race. \n\nNow crown the prophet straight ; \nHe hath read the scroll aright, \n\nAnd chance may be, \n\nThat I and ye \nShall perish here to-night. \nBut bid the banquet on, \nTo the gods we leave the rest, \n\nFor fear, at least, \n\nAt the monarch\'s feast, \nWere a most unseemly guest \n\n\n\n18 FALL OF BABYLON. \n\nFlows the wine, and swells the revel \nStill in Bela\'s house of pride : \nHark the cry ! \'tis but Euphrates, \nChiding with his rushing tide. \n\nLive, Belshazzar ! night is waning, \nSafety with the morning beams ! \nWhere is now the boding prophet } \nWhere the terror of his dreams 1 \n\nCrown the goblet ! let it circle ; \nLive, Belshazzar, king of men ! \nHark ! the murmur of the waters \nBursts upon the night again ! \n\nMorn is breaking ! lo, the summit \nKindles with his coming ray ! \nBrighter, clearer, now it flashes, \nBursting into sudden day. \n\n\'Tis not morning ; darkness hovers \nO\'er the firmament afar ; \nBabylon, to death devoted, \nLightens with the blaze of war. \n\nArm we then ! the blood of Ninus, \n\'Gainst the Persian, sword to sword ! \n\n\n\nFALL OF BAB.TLON. 19 \n\n\'Tis not Persian triumphs o\'er thee \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut the vengeance of the Lord. \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 Yet the bridges ! broad Euphrates, \nStill protects us from the foe !" \n" God nath struck the mighty river, \nAnd its billows cease to flow." \n\n\n\nA SERENADE. \n\n\n\nBY EDWARD C. PIxNCKNEY. \n\n\n\nLook out upon the stars, my love, \n\nAnd shame them with thine eyes, \nOn which, than on the lights above, \n\nThere hang more destinies. \nNight\'s beauty is the harmony \n\nOf blending shades and light ; \nThen, lady, up \xe2\x80\x94 look out, and be \n\nA sister to the night ! \n\n\n\nSleep not ! \xe2\x80\x94 thine image wakes for aye, \n\nWithin my watching breast : \nSleep not ! \xe2\x80\x94 from her soft sleep should fly, \n\nWho robs all hearts of rest. \nNay, lady, from thy slumbers break, \n\nAnd make this darkness gay \nWith looks, whose brightness well might make \n\nOf darker nights a day. \n\n\n\nTO THE PAINTED C OLUMBINE. \n\nBY JONES VERY. \n\nBright image of the early years \nWhen glowed my cheek as red as thou, \nAnd life\'s dark throng of cares and fears \nWere swift- winged shadows o\'er my sunny brow ! \n\nThou blushest from the painter\'s page, \nRobed in the mimic tints of art ; \nBut Nature\'s hand in youth\'s green age \nWith fairer hues first traced thee on my heart \n\nThe morning\'s blush, she made it thine, \nThe morn\'s sweet breath, she gave it thee, \nAnd in thy look, my Columbine ! \nEach fond-remembered spot she bade me see. \n\nI see the hill\'s far-gazing head, \nWhere gay thou noddest in the gale ; \nI hear light-bounding footsteps tread \nThe grassy path that winds along the vale. . \n\n\n\n22 TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. \n\nI hear the voice of woodland song \nBreak from each bush and well-known tree, \nAnd on light pinions borne along, \nComes back the laugh from childhood\'s heart of glee. \n\nO\'er the dark rock the dashing brook, \nWith look of anger, leaps again, \nAnd, hastening to each flowery nook, \nIts distant voice is heard far down the glen. \n\nFair child of art ! thy charms decay, \nTouched by the withered hand of Time ; \nAnd hushed the music of that day, \nWhen my voice mingled with the streamlet\'s chime ; \n\nBut on my heart thy cheek of bloom \nShall live when Nature\'s smile has fled ; \nAnd, rich with memory\'s sweet perfume, \nShall o\'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. \n\nThere shalt thou live and wake the glee \nThat echoed on thy native hill ; \nAnd when, loved flower ! I think of thee, \nMy infant feet will seem to seek thee still. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS \n\nOn the Death of the Duke of Reichstadt \nBY EMMA C. EMBURY. \n\nHeir of that name \nWhich shook with sudden terror the far earth \xe2\x80\x94 \nChild of strange destinies e\'en from thy birth, \n\nWhen kings and princes round thy cradle came, \nAnd gave their crowns, as playthings, to thine hand, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThine heritage the spoils of many a land ! \n\nHow were the schemes \nOf human foresight baffled in thy fate, \nThou victim of a parent\'s lofty state ! \n\nWhat glorious visions filled thy father\'s dreams, \nWhen first he gazed upon thy infant face, \nAnd deemed himself the Rodolph of his race ! \n\nScarce had thine eyes \nBeheld the light of day, when thou wert bound \nWith power\'s vain symbols, and thy young brow crowned \n\nWith Rome\'s imperial diadem : \xe2\x80\x94 the prize \nFrom priestly princes by thy proud sire won, \nTo deck the pillow of his cradled son. \n\n\n\n24 THE DEATH OF KEICHSTADT. \n\nYet where is now \nThe sword that flashed as with a meteor light, \nAnd led on half the world to stirring fight ; \n\nBidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow ] \nAlas ! when foiled on his last battle plain, \nIts shattered fragments forged thy father\'s chain. \n\nFar worse thy fate \nThan that which doomed him to the barren rock ; \nThrough half the universe was felt the shock, \n\nWhen down he toppled from his high estate ; \nAnd the proud thought of still acknowledged power, \nCould cheer him e\'en in that disastrous hour. \n\nBut thou, poor boy ! \nHadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours, \nThy chains still galled, tho\' wreathed with fairest flowers ; \n\nThou hadst no images of by-gone joy, \nNo visions of anticipated fame, \nTo bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. \n\nAnd where was she, \nWhose proudest title was Napoleon\'s wife 1 \nShe who first gave, and should have watched thy life, \n\nTrebling a mother\'s tenderness for thee, \nDespoiled heir of empire 7 On her breast \nDid thy young head repose in its unrest ! \n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF REICHSTADT. \n\n\n\n25 \n\n\n\nNo ! round her heart \nChildren of humbler, happier lineage twined, \nThou couldst but bring dark memories to mind \nOf pageants where she bore a heartless part ; \nShe who shared not her monarch-husband\'s doom \nCared little for" her first-born\'s living tomb. \n\n\n\n\nThou art at rest ! \nChild of Ambition\'s martyr : \xe2\x80\x94 life had been \nTo thee no blessing, but a dreary scene \n\nOf doubt and dread and suffering at the best ; \nFor thou wert one, whose path, in these dark times, \nWould lead to sorrows \xe2\x80\x94 it may be to crimes. \n\n\n\n26 NIGHT. \n\nThou art at rest! \nThe idle sword has worn its sheath away,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe spirit has consumed its bonds of clay, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd they, who with vain tyranny comprest \nThy souPs high yearnings, now forget their fear, \nAnd fling ambition\'s purple o\'er thy bier I \n\n\n\nNIGHT. \n\n\n\nBY JONES VERT. \n\n\n\nI thank thee, Father, that the night is near \nWhen I this conscious being may resign ; \nWhose only task thy words of love to hear, \nAnd in thy acts to find each act of mine ; \nA task too great to give a child like me, \nThe myriad-handed labors of the day, \nToo many for my closing eyes to see, \nThy words. too frequent for my tongue to say ; \nYet when thou seest me burthened by thy love, \nEach other gift more lovely then appears, \nFor dark-robed night comes hovering from above, \nAnd all thine other gifts to me endears ; \nAnd while within her darkened couch I sleep, \nThine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep. \n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\nT.9>AN OLD MAN. \n\n\n\nBY PHILIP PRENEATJ. \n\nWhy, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan \nBeneath a weight of years and wo \xe2\x80\x94 \nThy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, \nAnd age proclaims, " \'Tis time to go." \n\nTo willows sad and weeping yews \nWith us awhile, old man, repair ; \nNor to the vault thy steps refuse, \nThy constant home must soon be there. \n\nTo summer suns and winter moons \nPrepare to bid a long adieu, \nAutumnal seasons shall return \nAnd spring shall bloom, but not for you. \n\nWhy so perplexed with cares and toil \nTo rest upon this darksome road ; \n\'Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil, \nA barren and a bleak abode. \n\n\n\n28 TO AN OLD MAN. \n\nConstrained to dwell with pain and care, \nThese dregs of life are bought too dear ; \n\'Tis better far to die, than bear \nThe torments of life\'s closing year. \n\nSubjected to perpetual ills \nA thousand deaths around us grow : \nThe frost the tender blossom kills, \nAnd roses wither as they blow. \n\nCold, nipping winds your fruits assail, \nThe blasted apple seeks the ground, \nThe peaches fall, the cherries fail, \nThe grape receives a mortal wound. \n\nThe breeze, that gently ought to blow, \nSwells to a storm, and rends the main ; \nThe sun, that charmed the grass to grow, \nTurns hostile, and consumes the plain ; \n\nThe mountains waste, the shores decay, \nOnce purling streams are dead and dry : \n\'Twas Nature\'s work \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis Nature\'s play,- \nAnd Nature says, that all must die. \n\nYon flaming lamp, the source of light, \nIn chaos dark may shroud his beam \n\n\n\nTO AN OLD MAN. \n\nAnd leave the world to mother Night, \nA farce, a phantom, or a dream. \n\nWhat now is young, must soon be old, \nWhate\'er we love, we soon must leave : \n\'Tis now too hot, \'tis now too cold \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo live, is nothing but to grieve. \n\nHow bright the morn her course begun, \nNo mists bedimmed the solar sphere \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe clouds arise \xe2\x80\x94 they shade the sun, \nFor nothing can be constant here. \n\nNow hope the longing soul employs, \nIn expectation we are blest ; \nBut soon the airy phantom flies, \nFor, lo ! the treasure is possessed. \n\nThose monarchs proud that havoc spread, \n(While pensive reason dropped a tear,) \nThose monarchs have to darkness fled, \nAnd ruin bounds their mad career. \n\nThe grandeur of this earthly round, \nWhere folly would for ever stay, \nIs but a name, is but a sound \xe2\x80\x94 \nMere emptiness and vanity. \n\n\n\n29 \n\n\n\n30 TO AN OLD MAN. \n\nGive me the stars, give me the skies, \nGive me the heavens\' remotest sphere, \nAbove these gloomy scenes to rise \nOf desolation and despair. \n\nThose native fires, that warmed the mind, \nNow languid grown, too dimly glow ; \nJoy has to grief the heart resigned, \nAnd love, itself, is changed to wo. \n\nThe joys of wine are all you boast, \n\nThese, for a moment, damp your pain ; \nThe gleam is o\'er, the charm is lost \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd darkness clouds the soul again. \n\nThen seek no more for bliss below, \nWhere real bliss can ne\'er be found ; \nAspire where sweeter blossoms blow \nAnd fairer flowers bedeck the ground ; \n\nWhere plants of life the plains invest, \nAnd green eternal crowns the year : \nThe little god, that warms the breast, \nIs weary of his mansion here. \n\nLike Phosphor, sent before the day, \nHis height meridian to regain, \n\n\n\nDE PROFUNDIS. 31 \n\nThe dawn arrives \xe2\x80\x94 he must not stay- \nTo shiver on a frozen plain. \n\nLife\'s journey past, for fate prepare, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\'Tis but the freedom of the mind ; \nJove made us mortal \xe2\x80\x94 his we are, \nTo Jove, be all our cares resigned. \n\n\n\nDE PHOFUNDIS. \n\n\n\nBY WILLIAM CROSWELL. \n\n\n\n" There may be a cloud without a rainbow, but there cannot be a rainbow \nwithout a cloud." \n\nMy soul were dark \nBut for the golden light and rainbow hue \nThat, sweeping Heaven with their triumphal arc, \n\nBreak on the view. \n\nEnough to feel \nThat God indeed is good ! enough to know \nWithout the gloomy clouds he could reveal \n\nNo beauteous bow. \n\n\n\nSUMMER MIDNIG-HT. \n\nBY JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. \n\nThe breeze of night has sunk to rest, \nUpon the river\'s tranquil breast ; \nAnd every bird has sought her nest, \n\nWhere silent is her minstrelsy ; \nThe queen of heaven is sailing high, \nA pale bark on the azure sky, \nWhere not a breath is heard to sigh \xe2\x80\x94 - \n\nSo deep the soft tranquillity. \n\nForgotten now the heat of day \nThat on the burning waters lay, \nThe noon of night her mantle gray \n\nSpreads, for the sun\'s high blazonry ; \nBut glittering in that gentle night \nThere gleams a line of silvery light, \nAs tremulous on the shores of white \n\nIt hovers sweet and playfully. \n\n\n\nSUMMER MIDNIGHT. 33 \n\nAt peace the distant shallop rides ; \nNot as when dashing o\'er her sides \nThe roaring bay\'s unruly tides \n\nWere beating round her gloriously ; \nBut every sail is furPd and still : \nSilent the seaman\'s whistle shrill, \nWhile dreamy slumbers seem to thrill \n\nWith parted hours of ecstasy. \n\nStars of the many-spangled heaven ! \nFaintly this night your beams are given, \nThough proudly where your hosts are driven \n\nYe rear your dazzling galaxy ; \nSince far and wide a softer hue \nIs spread across the plains of blue, \nWhere in bright chorus, ever true, \n\nFor ever swells your harmony. \n\nO for some sadly dying note \n\nUpon this silent hour to float, \n\nWhere from the bustling world remote \n\nThe lyre might wake its melody ; \nOne feeble strain is all can swell \nFrom mine almost deserted shell, \nIn mournful accents yet to tell \n\nThat slumbers not its minstrelsy. \n\n\n\n34 SUMMER MIDNIGHT. \n\nThere is an hour of deep repose \nThat yet upon my heart shall close, \nWhen all that nature dreads and knows \n\nShall burst upon me wondrously ; \nO may I then awake for ever \nMy heart to rapture\'s high endeavour, \nAnd as from earth\'s vain scene I sever, \n\nBe lost in Immortality ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. \n\nBY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. \n\nUnder a spreading chestnut tree \n\nThe village smithy stands ; \nThe smith, a mighty man is he, \n\nWith large and sinewy hands ; \nAnd the muscles of his brawny arms \n\nAre strong as iron bands. \n\nHis hair is crisp, and black, and long ; \n\nHis face is like the tan ; \nHis brow is wet with honest sweat ; \n\nHe earns whate\'er he can, \nAnd looks the whole world in the face, \n\nFor he owes not any man. \n\nWeek out, week in, from morn till night, \nYou can hear his bellows blow ; \n\nYou can hear him swing his heavy sledge, \nWith measured beat and slow, \n\nLike a sexton ringing the old kirk chimes \nWhen the evening sun is low. \n\n\n\n\nAnd children coming home from school, \nLook in at the open door ; \n\nThey love to see the flaming forge, \nAnd hear the bellows roar, \n\nAnd catch the burning sparks that fly- \nLike chaff from a threshing-floor. \n\n\n\nHe goes on Sunday to the church, \n\nAnd sits among his boys ; \nHe hears the parson pray and preach, \n\nHe hears his daughter\'s voice, \nSinging in the village choir, \n\nAnd it makes his heart rejoice. \n\n\n\nTHE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 37 \n\nIt sounds to him like her mother\'s voice, \n\nSinging in Paradise ! \nHe needs must think of her once more, \n\nHow in the grave she lies ; \nAnd with his hard rough hand he wipes \n\nA tear from out his eyes. \n\nToiling \xe2\x80\x94 rejoicing \xe2\x80\x94 sorrowing \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOnward through life he goes : \nEach morning sees some task begin, \n\nEach evening sees it close ; \nSomething attempted \xe2\x80\x94 something done, \n\nHas earned a night\'s repose. \n\nThanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, \n\nFor the lesson thou hast taught ! \nThus at the naming forge of Life \n\nOur fortunes must be wrought, \nThus on its sounding anvil shaped \n\nEach burning deed and thought. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOBIN. \n\n\n\nBY JONES VERT. \n\n\n\nThou need\'st not nutter from thy half-built nest, \nWhene\'er thou hear\'st man\'s hurrying feet go by, \nFearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, \nOr he thy young unfinished cottage spy ; \nAll will not heed thee on that swinging bough, \nNor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, \nNor watch thee on the pool\'s wet margin now, \nFor clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves ; \nAll will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, \nThat with morn\'s stillness blends the voice of song, \nFor over-anxious cares their souls employ, \nThat else upon thy music borne along \nAnd the light wings of heart-ascending prayer \nHad learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to \nshare. \n\n\n\nTHE SYLPH OF AUTUMN \n\nBY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. \n\nAnd now, in accents deep and low, \nLike voice of fondly-cherished wo, \n\nThe Sylph of Autumn sad : \nThough I may not of raptures sing, \nThat graced the gentle song of Spring, \nLike Summer, playful pleasures bring, \nThy youthful heart to glad ; \n\nYet still may I in hope aspire \n\nThy heart to touch with chaster fire, \n\nAnd purifying love : \nFor I with vision high and holy, \nAnd spell of quick\'ning melancholy, \nThy soul from sublunary folly \n\nFirst raised to worlds above. \n\nWhat though be mine the treasures fair \nOf purple grape and yellow pear, \n\n\n\n40 THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN. \n\nAnd fruits of various hue, \nAnd harvests rich of golden grain, \nThat dance in waves along the plain \nTo merry song of reaping swain, \n\nBeneath the welkin blue ; \n\nWith these I may not urge my suit, \nOf Summer\'s patient toil the fruit, \n\nFor mortal purpose given ; \nNor may it fit my sober mood \nTo sing of sweetly murmuring flood," \nOr dyes of many-coloured wood, \n\nThat mock the bow of heaven. \n\nBut, know, \'twas mine the secret power \nThat waked thee at the midnight hour \n\nIn bleak November\'s reign : \n\'Twas I the spell around thee cast, \nWhen thou didst hear the hollow blast \nIn murmurs tell of pleasures past, \n\nThat ne\'er would come again : \n\nAnd led thee, when the storm was o\'er, \nTo hear the sullen ocean roar, \nBy dreadful calm opprest ; \nWhich, still, though not a breeze was there, \n\n\n\n\n\n\'Twas I, when thou, subdued by p \nDidst watch the leaves descending \n\nTo each a moral gave ; \nAnd as they moved in mournful train, \nWith rustling sound, along the plain, \nTaught them to sing a seraph\'s strain \n\nOf peace within the grave. \n\n\n\n42 THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN. \n\nAnd then, upraised thy streaming eye, \nI met thee in the western sky \n\nIn pomp of evening cloud ; \nThat, while with varying form it rolled, \nSome wizard\'s castle seemed of gold, \nAnd now a crimsoned knight of old, \n\nOr king in purple proud. \n\nAnd, last, as sunk the setting sun, \nAnd Evening with her shadows dun, \n\nThe gorgeous pageant past, \n\'Twas then of life a mimic show, \nOf human grandeur here below, \nWhich thus beneath the fatal blow \n\nOf Death must fall at last. \n\nOh, then with what aspiring gaze \nDidst thou thy tranced vision raise \n\nTo yonder orbs on high, \nAnd think how wondrous, how sublime \n\'Twere upward to their spheres to climb, \nAnd live, beyond the reach of Time, \n\nChild of Eternity ! \n\n\n\nTHE OLD ISTOP.TH BURIAL G-HOUND. \n\nBY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. \n\nI stand where I have stood before in boyhood\'s sunny \nprime, \n\nThe same \xe2\x80\x94 yet not the same, but one who wears the \ntouch of Time ; \n\nAnd gaze around on what was then familiar to the eye, \n\nBut whose inconstant features tell that years have jour- \nneyed by, \n\nSince o\'er this venerable ground a truant child I played, \n\nAnd chased the bee and plucked the flower, where an- \ncient dust is laid : \n\nAnd hearkened, in my wondering mood, when tolled the \npassing bell, \n\nAnd started at the coffin\'s cry, as clods upon it fell. \n\nThese mossy tombs I recollect, the same o\'er which I pored, \n\nThe same these rhymes and texts, with which my memory \nwas stored ; \n\nThese humble tokens, too, that lean, and tell where rest- \ning bones \n\nAre hidden, though their date and name have perished \nfrom the stones. \n\n\n\n\n\'"^fg^Jf^W \n\n\n\nHow rich these precincts with the spoils of ages buried \nhere! \n\nWhat hearts have ached, what eyes have given this con- \nscious earth the tear \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow many friends, whose welcome cheered their now \ndeserted doors, \n\nHave, since my last sojourning, swelled these melancholy \nstores ! \n\n\n\nYon spot, where in the sunset ray a single white stona \n\ngleams, \nI\'ve visited, I cannot tell how often in my dreams, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nTHE OLD NORTH BURIAL GROUND. 45 \n\nThat spot o\'er which I wept, though then too young my \n\nloss to know, \nAs I beheld my father\'s form sepulchred far below. \n\nHow freshly every circumstance, though seas swept wide \n\nbetween, \nAnd years have vanished since that hour, in vagaries I\'ve \n\nseen ! \nThe lifted lid \xe2\x80\x94 that countenance \xe2\x80\x94 the funeral array, \nAs vividly as if the scene were but of yesterday. \n\nHow pleasant seem the moments now, as up their shad- \nows come, \n\nSpent in that domicil which wore the sacred name of \nhome, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow in the vista years have made, they shine with mel- \nlowed light, \n\nTo which meridian bliss has nought so beautiful and \nbright ! \n\nHow happy were those fireside hours \xe2\x80\x94 how happy sum- \nmer\'s walk, \n\nWhen listening to my father\'s words or joining in the \ntalk; \n\nHow passed like dreams those early hours, till down upon \nus burst \n\nThe avalanche of grief, and laid our pleasures in the dust ! \n\n\n\n46 THE OLD NORTH BURIAL GROUND. \n\nThey tell of loss, but who can tell how thorough is the \n\nstroke \nBy which the tie of sire and son in death\'s for ever broke ! \nThey tell of Time ! \xe2\x80\x94 though he may heal the heart that\'s \n\nwounded sore, \nThe household bliss thus blighted, Time ! canst thou \n\nagain restore i \n\nYet if this spot recalls the dead, and brings from memory\'s \n\nleaf \nA sentence wrote in bitterness, of raptures, bright and \n\nbrief, \nI would not shun it, nor would lose the moral it will give, \nTo teach me by the withered past, for better hopes to live. \n\nAnd though to warn of future wo, or whisper future bliss, \nOne comes not from the spirit world, a witness unto this, \nYet from memorials of his dust, \'tis wholesome thus to learn \nAnd print upon our thought the state to which we must \nreturn. \n\nWherever then my pilgrimage in coming days shall be, \nMy frequent visions, favourite ground ! shall backward \n\nglance to thee ; \nThe holy dead, the bygone hours, the precepts early given, \n. Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way to \n\nheaven. \n\n\n\n\nTO A SISTER. \n\n\n\nBY EDWARD EVERETT. \n\n\n\n\nYes, dear one, to the envied train \n\nOf those around thy homage pay ; \nBut wilt thou never kindly deign \n\nTo think of him that\'s far away ? \nThy form, thine eye, thine angel smile, \n\nFor many years I may not see ; \nBut wilt thou not sometimes the while, \n\nMy sister dear, remember me ] \n\nBut not in fashion\'s brilliant hall, \n\nSurrounded by the gay and fair, \nAnd thou the fairest of them all, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO, think not, think not of me there. \nBut when the thoughtless crowd is gone, \n\nAnd hushed the voice of senseless glee, \nAnd all is silent, still, and lone, \n\nAnd thou art sad, remember me. \n\n\n\n48 TO A SISTER. \n\nRemember me \xe2\x80\x94 but, loveliest, ne\'er, \n\nWhen, in his orbit fair and high, \nThe morning\'s glowing charioteer \n\nRides proudly up the blushing sky ; \nBut when the waning moonbeam sleeps \n\nAt moonlight on that lonely lea, \nAnd nature\'s pensive spirit weeps \n\nIn all her dews, remember me. \n\nRemember me, I pray \xe2\x80\x94 but not \n\nIn Flora\'s gay and blooming hour, \nWhen every brake hath found its note, \n\nAnd sunshine smiles in every flower ; \nBut when the falling leaf is sear, \n\nAnd withers sadly from the tree, \nAnd o\'er the ruins of the year . \n\nCold Autumn weeps, remember me. \n\nRemember me \xe2\x80\x94 but choose not, dear, \n\nThe hour when, on the gentle lake, \nThe sportive wavelets, blue and clear, \n\nSoft rippling, to the margin break ; \nBut when the deaf \'ning billows foam \n\nIn madness o\'er the pathless sea, \nThen let thy pilgrim fancy roam \n\nAcross them, and remember me. \n\n\n\nTO A SISTER. 49 \n\nRemember me \xe2\x80\x94 but not to join \n\nIf haply some thy friends should praise ; \n\'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine, ^ \n\nTo echo what the stranger says. \nThey know us not \xe2\x80\x94 but shouldst thou meet \n\nSome faithful friend of me and thee, \nSoftly, sometimes, to him repeat \n\nMy name, and then remember me. \n\nRemember me \xe2\x80\x94 not, I entreat, \n\nIn scenes of festal week-day joy, \nFor then it were not kind or meet, \n\nThy thought thy pleasure should alloy ; \nBut on the sacred, solemn day, \n\nAnd, dearest, on thy bended knee, \nWhen thou for those thou lov\'st dost pray, \n\nSweet spirit, then remember me. \n\nRemember me \xe2\x80\x94 but not as I \n\nOn thee for ever, ever dwell, \nWith anxious heart and drooping eye, \n\nAnd doubts \'twould grieve thee should I tell ; \nBut in thy calm, unclouded heart, \n\nWhere dark and gloomy visions flee, \nOh there, my sister, be my part, \n\nAnd kindly there remember me. \n\n\n\nMENTAL BEAUTY. \n\nBY JAMES G. PERCIVAL. \n\nBeauty has gone, but yet her mind is still \n\nAs beautiful as ever ; still the play \n\nOf light around her lips has every charm \n\nOf childhood in its freshness : Love has there \n\nStamped his unfading impress, and the hues \n\nOf fancy shine around her, as the sun \n\nGilds at his setting some decaying tower, \n\nWith feathered moss and ivy overgrown. \n\nI knew her in the dawning of her charms. \n\nWhen the new rose first opened, and its sweets \n\nNo wind had wasted. She was of those forms \n\nAppelles might have painted for the Queen \n\nOf loveliness and love \xe2\x80\x94 light as the fays \n\nDancing on glimmering dew-drops, when the moon \n\nRides in her silver softness, and the world \n\nIs calm and brightly beautiful below. \n\nShe was all mildness, and the melting tone \n\n\n\nMENTAL BEAUTY. 51 \n\nOf her sweet voice thrilled me and seemed to flow \n\nInto my soul, a stream of melody, \n\nDelicious in its mellowness ; it spake \n\nA heart at ease \xe2\x80\x94 and then the quiet smile \n\nSat playing on her lips, that, pouting, spread \n\nTheir vermil freshness forth, as if to ask \n\nThe kiss of him she smiled on. In her eye \n\nGentleness had its dwelling, and light Mirth \n\nGlanced out in sudden flashes, and keen Wit \n\nShot arrows which delighted, while they stung. \n\nShe was a young Medusa, ere she knew \n\nThe evil of a world that watched to blast \n\nHer loveliness, and make it terrible ; \n\nStriking a dead cold horror on the heart \n\nOf him who saw the fairest of all things, \n\nA lovely woman, made the common prey \n\nOf lawless passion \xe2\x80\x94 but it touched not her : \n\nNo mist breathed o\'er her brightness ; but the pure \n\nFull light of virtue rested there, and shed \n\nNew lustre on the light that ever came \n\nThrough her transparent features, and revealed \n\nEach movement of the soul that swelled within : \n\nAnd they were all of Heaven \xe2\x80\x94 such high desires \n\nAs angels had been proud of\xe2\x80\x94 pure as light \n\nIn its primeval fountain, ere it flowed \n\nTo mingle with the elements, and lose \n\nIts perfect clearness. She was as a flower \n\n\n\n52 MENTAL BEAUTY. \n\nNew opened in a valley, where no foot \nHad trodden, and no living thing had left \nPrint of the world\'s pollution : there she blew \nFragrant and lovely, and a parent\'s hand \nShielded her from the winds that blast, or bring \nPoison upon their wings, and taint the heart \nLeft open to their influence. Shielded there, \nShe ripened all her treasures, and became \nFull-blown and rich in her maturity \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe dwelling of a spirit, not of earth, \nBut ever mingling with the pure and high \nConceptions of a soul that spreads its wings \nTo fly where Mind, when boldest, dared to soar. \nAnd though the form has withered, and the bloom \nHas faded, she is lovely ; for the sounds \nThat issue from her lips, and flow around \nIn liquid eloquence, are oracles \nOf more than ancient wisdom, or they speak \nPortions of that full hymn of Poesy, \nWhich ever rises when a mind on fire \nBlends with the majesty of outward things ; \nAnd with the glories of a boundless Heaven, \nAnd a rich earth, and ever-rolling sea \nCommuning, swells to that ineffable \nFruition, which in hope will never end. \n\n\n\nTHE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOB, \nTHE POET. \n\nBY RICHAKD H. DANA. \n\nThough I am humble, slight me not, \n\nBut love me for the Poet\'s sake ; \nForget me not till he\'s forgot ; \n\nI, care or slight, with him would take. \n\nFor oft he passed the blossoms by, \nAnd gazed on me with kindly look ; \n\nLeft flaunting flowers and open sky, \nAnd wooed me by the shady brook. \n\nAnd like the brook his voice was low : \nSo soft, so sad the words he spoke, \n\nThat with the stream they seemed to flow : \nThey told me that his heart was broke ;^ \n\nThey said, the world he fain would shun, \nAnd seek the still and twilight wood \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis spirit, weary of the sun, \n\nIn humblest things found chiefest good ; \xe2\x80\x94 * \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^-/""CWJj \n\n\n\nThat I was of a lowly frame, \n\nAnd far more constant than the flower, \nWhich, vain with many a boastful name, \n\nBut fluttered out its idle hour ; \n\nThat I was kind to old decay, \n\nAnd wrapt it softly round in green, \n\nOn naked root, and trunk of gray, \nSpread out a garniture and screen :\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey said, that he was withering fast, \nWithout a sheltering friend like me ; \n\nThat on his manhood fell a blast, \nAnd left him bare, like yonder tree ; \n\n\n\nMOSS STJPPLICATETH FOR THE POET. \n\n\n\n55 \n\n\n\nThat spring would clothe Ms boughs no more, \nNor ring his boughs with song of bird \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSounds like the melancholy shore \nAlone were through his branches heard. \n\nMethought, as then, he stood to trace \nThe withered stems, there stole a tear \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat I could read in his sad face, \xe2\x80\x94 \nBrother, our sorrows make us near. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n>: \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^ \n\n\n\n\n\nAnd then he stretched him all along, \nAnd laid his head upon my breast, \n\nListening the water\'s peaceful song, \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow glad was I to tend his rest ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n56 MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET. \n\nThen happier grew his soothed soul. \n\nHe turned and watched the sunlight play \nUpon my face, as in it stole, \n\nWhispering, Above is brighter day ! \n\nHe praised my varied hues \xe2\x80\x94 the green, \nThe silver hoar, the golden, brown ; \n\nSaid, Lovelier hues were never seen ; \nThen gently pressed my tender down. \n\nAnd where I sent up little shoots, \nHe called them trees, in fond conceit : \n\nLike silly lovers in their suits \n\nHe talked, his care awhile to cheat. \n\nI said, I\'d deck me in the dews, \nCould I but chase away his care, \n\nAnd clothe me in a thousand hues, \nTo bring him joys that I might share. \n\nHe answered, earth no blessing had \nTo cure his lone and aching heart \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat I was one, when he was sad, \nOft stole him from his pain, in part. \n\nBut e\'en from thee, he said, I go, \n\nTo meet the world, its care and strife, \n\n\n\n\n\n\nMOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET. \n\nNo more to watch this quiet flow, \nOr spend with thee a gentle life. \n\nAnd yet the brook is gliding on, \n\nAnd I, without a care, at rest, \nWhile back to toiling life he\'s gone, \n\nWhere finds his head no faithful breast. \n\nDeal gently with him, world, I pray ; \n\nYe cares, like softened shadows come ; \nHis spirit, wellnigh worn away, \n\nAsks with ye but awhile a home. \n\nO, may I live, and when he dies \n\nBe at his feet an humble sod ; \nO, may I lay me where he lies, \n\nTo die when he awakes in God ! \n\n\n\nTO THE URSA MAJOR \n\nBY HENRY WARE, JR. \n\nWith what a stately and majestic step \nThat glorious constellation of the north \nTreads its eternal circle ! going forth \nIts princely way amongst the stars in slow \nAnd silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail ! \nI joy to see thee on thy glowing path \nWalk, like some stout and girded giant \xe2\x80\x94 stern, \nUnwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot \nDisdains to loiter on its destined way. \nThe other tribes forsake their midnight track, \nAnd rest their weary orbs beneath the wave ; \nBut thou dost never close thy burning eye, \nNor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on, \nWhile systems change, and suns retire, and worlds \nSlumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. \nThe near horizon tempts to rest in vain. \nThou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit \nThy long-appointed watch ; but, sleepless still, \n\n\n\nTO THE URSA MAJOR, 59 \n\nDost guard the fixed light of the universe, \nAnd bid the north for ever know its place. \nAges have witnessed thy devoted trust, \nUnchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God \nSent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven, \nAnd echoed from the outer spheres that bound \nThe illimitable universe, thy voice \nJoined the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs \nThe glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise, \nWho thus had cast another sparkling gem, \nLittle, but beautiful, amid the crowd \nOf splendors that enrich his firmament. \nAs thou art now, so wast thou then the same. \nAges have rolled their course, and time grown gray ; \nThe earth has gathered to her womb again, \nAnd yet again, the myriads that were born \nOf her uncounted, unremembered tribes ; \nThe seas have changed their beds \xe2\x80\x94 the eternal hills \nHave stooped with age \xe2\x80\x94 the solid continents \nHave left their banks\xe2\x80\x94 and man\'s imperial works \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung \nTheir haughty honors in the face of heaven, \nAs if immortal \xe2\x80\x94 have been swept away \xe2\x80\x94 \nShattered and mouldering, buried and forgot. \nBut time has shed no dimness on thy front, \nNor touched the firmness of thy tread ; youth, strength, \nAnd beauty still are thine \xe2\x80\x94 as clear, as bright, \n\n\n\n60 TO THE URSA MAJOR. \n\nAs when the Almighty Former sent thee forth, \nBeautiful offspring of his curious skill, \nTo watch earth\'s northern beacon, and proclaim \nThe eternal chorus of eternal Love. \n\nI wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, \nUn dimmed, unquenched, \xe2\x80\x94 just as I see it now, \xe2\x80\x94 \nHas issued from those dazzling points, through years \nThat go back far into eternity. \nExhaustless flood ! for ever spent, renewed \nFor ever ! Yea, and those refulgent drops, \nWhich now descend upon my lifted eye, \nLeft their far fountain twice three years ago. \nWhile those winged particles, whose speed outstrips \nThe flight of thought, were on their way, the earth \nCompassed its tedious circuit round and round, \nAnd, in the extremes of annual change, beheld \nSix autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom. \nSo far from earth those mighty orbs revolve ! \nSo vast the void through which their beams descend ! \n\nYea, glorious lamps of God ! He may have quenched \nYour ancient flames, and bid eternal night \nRest on your spheres ; and yet no tidings reach \nThis distant planet. Messengers still come \nLaden with your far fire, and we may seem \nTo see your lights still burning ; while their blaze \nBut hides the black wreck of extinguished realms, \nWhere anarchy and darkness long have reigned. \n\n\n\nTO THE URSA MAJOR. 61 \n\nYet what is this, which to the astonished mind \nSeems measureless, and which the baffled thought \nConfounds 1 A span, a point, in those domains \nWhich the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars \nDwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight \nEmbraces all at once ; yet each from each \nRecedes as far as each of them from earth. \nAnd every star from every other burns \nNo less remote. From the profound of heaven, \nUntravelled even in thought, keen, piercing rays \nDart through the void, revealing to the sense \nSystems and worlds unnumbered. Take the glass, \nAnd search the skies. The opening skies pour down \nUpon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire \xe2\x80\x94 \nStars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote, \nThat their swift beams \xe2\x80\x94 the swiftest things that be \xe2\x80\x94 \nHave travelled centuries on their flight to earth. \nEarth, sun, and nearer constellations ! what \nAre ye, amid this infinite extent \nAnd multitude of God\'s most infinite works ! \n\nAnd these are suns ! \xe2\x80\x94 vast, central, living fires, \nLords of dependent systems, kings of worlds \nThat wait as satellites upon their power, \nAnd flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, \nAnd meditate the wonder ! Countless suns \nBlaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nWorlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice, \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n62 TO THE URSA MAJOR. \n\nAnd drink the bliss of being from the fount \n\nOf all-pervading Love. What mind can know, \n\nWhat tongue can utter, all their multitudes ! \n\nThus numberless in numberless abodes ! \n\nKnown but to thee, blessed Father ! Thine they are \n\nThy children, and thy care\xe2\x80\x94 and none o\'erlooked \n\nOf thee ! No, not the humblest soul that dwells \n\nUpon the humblest globe, which wheels its course \n\nAmid the giant glories of the sky, \n\nLike the mean mote that dances in the beam \n\nAmongst the mirrored lamps, which fling \n\nTheir wasteful splendour from the palace wall \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNone, none escape the kindness of thy care ; \n\nAll compassed underneath thy spacious wing, \n\nEach fed and guided by thy powerful hand. \n\nTell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne, \nYe mark the rolling provinces that own \nYour sway \xe2\x80\x94 what beings fill those bright abodes ] \nHow formed, how gifted] what their powers, their state, \nTheir happiness, their wisdom 1 Do they bear \nThe stamp of human nature 1 Or has God \nPeopled those purer realms with lovelier forms \nAnd more celestial minds 1 Does Innocence \nStill wear her native and untainted bloom ] \nOr has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad, \nAnd sowed corruption in those fairy bowers 1 \nHas War trod o\'er them with his foot of fire ] \n\n\n\nTO THE URSA 31AJOR. 63 \n\n4.nd Slavery forged his chains ; and Wrath, and Hate, \n\nAnd sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust, \n\nLeagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, \n\nAnd scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy 1 \n\nOr are they yet all paradise, unfallen \n\nAnd uncorrupt 1 existence one long joy, \n\nWithout disease upon the frame, or sin \n\nUpon the heart, or weariness of life \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHope never quenched, and age unknown, \n\nAnd death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth \n\nGlows in the light from God\'s near throne of love 7 \n\nOpen your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! \nSpeak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds \nUnfold ! \xe2\x80\x94 No language 1 Everlasting light, \nAnd everlasting silence 1 \xe2\x80\x94 Yet the eye \nMay read and understand. The hand of God \nHas written legibly what man may know, \nThe glory of the Maker. There it shines, \nIneffable, unchangeable ; and man, \nBound to the surface of this pigmy globe, \nMay know and ask no more. In other days, \nWhen death shall give the encumbered spirit wings, \nIts range shall be extended ; it shall roam, \nPerchance, amongst those vast mysterious spheres, \nShall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each \nFamiliar with its children \xe2\x80\x94 learn their laws, \nAnd share their state, and study and adore \n\n\n\n\n\n\n64 TO THE URSA MAJOR. \n\nThe infinite varieties of bliss \n\nAnd beauty, by the hand of Power divine \n\nLavished on all its works. Eternity \n\nShall thus roll on with ever fresh delight ; \n\nNo pause of pleasure or improvement ; world \n\nOn world still opening to the instructed mind \n\nAn unexhausted universe, and time \n\nBut adding to its glories. While the soul, \n\nAdvancing ever to the Source of light \n\nAnd all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns \n\nIn cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nII \n\n\n\n\nTHE BUOTHEHS. \n\nBY CHARLES SPRAGTTE. \n\nWe are but two \xe2\x80\x94 the others sleep \nThrough death\'s untroubled night ; \n\nWe are but two \xe2\x80\x94 O, let us keep \nThe link that binds us bright. \n\n\n\nHeart leaps to heart \xe2\x80\x94 the sacred flood \nThat warms us is the same ; \n\nThat good old man \xe2\x80\x94 his honest blood . \nAlike we fondly claim. \n\n\n\n66 THE BROTHERS. \n\nWe in one mother\'s arms were locked- \n\nLong be her love repaid ; \nIn the same cradle we were rocked, \n\nRound the same hearth we played. \n\nOur boyish sports were all the same, \nEach little joy and wo ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLet manhood keep alive the flame, \nLit up so long ago. \n\nWe are but two \xe2\x80\x94 be that the band \n\nTo hold us till we die ; \nShoulder to shoulder let us stand, \n\nTill side by side we lie. \n\n\n\nSONNET. \n\nBY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. \n\nMy friend, adown Life\'s valley, hand in hand, \n\nWith grateful change of grave and merry speech \n\nOr song, our hearts unlocking each to each, \n\nWe\'ll journey onward to the silent land ; \n\nAnd when stern Death shall loose that loving band, \n\nTaking in his cold hand a hand of ours, \n\nThe one shall strew the other\'s grave with flowers, \n\nNor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. \n\nMy friend and brother ! if thou goest first, \n\nWilt thou no more re-visit me below ] \n\nYea, when my heart seems happy causelessly \n\nAnd swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst \n\nWith joy unspeakable, \xe2\x80\x94 my soul shall know \n\nThat thou, unseen, art bending over me. \n\n\n\n* M \n\n\n\nrSJ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNow Heaven seems one bright rejoicing eye, \nAnd Earth her sleeping vesture flings aside, \nAnd with a blush awakes as does a bride ; \n\nAnd Nature speaks, like thee, in melody. \n\nThe forest, sunward, glistens, green and high ; \nThe ground each moment, as some blossom springs^\' \n\nPuts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye, \nAnd each new morning some new songster brings-. \n\nAnd hark ! the brooks their rocky prisons break \n\nAnd echo calls on echo to awake, \n\nLike nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings^ \n\nRustling through wood or dripping over lake. \nHerb, bud and bird return \xe2\x80\x94 but not to me \nWith song or beauty, since they bring not thee. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n* *& \n\n\n\n\nTO MISS M- \n\n\n\nBY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. \n\nI know that thou art beautiful, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn dreams I see thy face, \nI see its dimples come and go \n\nLike light in frolic grace. \nThy rich eyes steal before mine own \n\n\'Neath lashes long and dark, \nAnd on thy softly rounded cheek, \n\nThe maiden bloom I mark. \nAnd why is this 1 what wizard spell \n\nHath touched with prophet power \nMy fancy thus 7 a simple thing \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA tone \xe2\x80\x94 a word \xe2\x80\x94 a flower ! \nI heard thy voice \xe2\x80\x94 so gayly sweet\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI could not choose to guess, \nThe mouth that breath\'d it wreath\'d with smiles \n\nOf playful loveliness. \nIt spoke to one whose tiny lips \n\n\n\n\n\n\n70 TO MISS M . \n\nTo lisp thy name shall learn, \nThough now they can but murmur soft \n\nAnd answering smiles return. \nIn gentle words of love they spoke, \n\nAnd I was very sure, \nThat all thy looks were eloquent, \n\nWith feeling high and pure. \n\nI know that thou art beautiful, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor thou hast told me so, \nIn a sweet language that I learned \n\nOf Flora long ago. \nThou\'st sent me from thy garden bower \n\nThe latest rosebud there, \nIts blush was eloquent, its leaves \n\nWere rife with meaning rare ; \nIt told of virgin bloom and hope, \n\nAnd modesty and truth : \nAh ! what so fit as fragrant flowers \n\nTo emblem sunny youth ] \nIt touched a weary stranger\'s heart, \n\nThat one she had not known, \nCould give a kindly thought to her \n\nIn sadness and alone ; \nIt minded her of days gone by, \n\nWhen Love\'s untiring hand \nWove blossoms for her youthful brow, \n\n\n\nTO MISS M . 71 \n\n\n\nIn many a graceful band. \nAh ! far away from home and friends, \n\nThat heart still warmly beats \nWith something of its olden joy, \n\nWhen such as thou she meets ! \nAnd oft in future dreams shall rise \n\nThe eye and glossy curl, \nThe soft rose-bloom and dimple \n\nOf the sweet- voiced English girl! \n\n\n\nLOVE UNCHANGEABLE. \n\nBY RUFUS DAWES. \n\nYes ! still I love thee : \xe2\x80\x94 Time, who sets \n\nHis signet on my brow, \nAnd dims my sunken eye, forgets \n\nThe heart he could not bow ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere love, that cannot perish, grows \nFor one, alas ! that little knows \n\nHow love may sometimes last ; \nLike sunshine wasting in the skies, \n\nWhen clouds are overcast. \n\nThe dew-drop hanging o\'er the rose, \n\nWithin its robe of light, \nCan never touch a leaf that blows, \n\nThough seeming to the sight ; \nAnd yet it still will linger there, \nLike hopeless love without despair, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA snow-drop in the sun ! \nA moment finely exquisite, \n\nAlas ! but only one. \n\n\n\nLOVE UNCHANGEABLE. 73 \n\nI would not have thy married heart \n\nThink momently of me, \xe2\x80\x94 \nNor would I tear the cords apart, \n\nThat bind me so to thee ; \nNo ! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, \nLike dew upon the roses wild, \n\nI would not have thee know, \nThe stream that seems to thee so still, \n\nHas such a tide below ! \n\nEnough ! that in delicious dreams, \n\nI see thee and forget \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nEnough, that when the morning beams, \n\nI feel my eyelids wet ! \nYet, could I hope, when Time shall fall \nThe darkness, for creation\'s pall, \n\nTo meet thee, \xe2\x80\x94 and to love, \xe2\x80\x94 \nI would not shrink from aught below, \n\nNor ask for more above. \n\nG \n\n\n\n\nBY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. \n\n\n\nx ountain, that springest on this grassy slope, \n\'jFfry quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, \nWith the cool sound of breezes in the beech, \nAbove me in the noontide. Thou dost wear \nNo stain of thy dark birthplace ; gushing up \nFrom -the red mould and slimy roots of earth, \nThou flashest through the sun. The mountain air, \nIn winter, is not clearer, nor the dew \nThat shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God \nBring, fiom the dark and foul, the pure and bright. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n.# \n\n\n\ntanked tliicket on the bank above \nImirfj bow thy waters keep it green ! \nFor thoitdost feed the roots of the wild vine \nThat traifs^ft over it, and to the twigs \n\nlusters. There the spice-bush lifts \nis ; the viburnum there, \nage^to the sun holds up \ngireen berries. In and out \niparrow, in her coat of brown, \nlest I should mark her nest. \n\nBpt such i^tjou wert of yore, ere yet the axe \nHad smitten -the old woods. Then hoary trunks \n^^^^plane, and hickory o\'er thee held \n~* ipy. When April winds \napl% burst into a flush \nlowers. The tulip-tree, high up, \n^Opefiteaf in &irs of June, her multitude \nOf golden ~Q%p\xc2\xa5fces to humming birds \n*ed insects of the sky. \n\n\n\niTwbod-plants clustered round thy edge in spring \neli\'Ver ilaf put forth her sister blooms \nOf fainte^i||t#". Here the quick-footed wolf, \nthy waters, crushed the flower \n;; Oi3aBgi*|(\xc2\xa7p4a, from whose brittle stem \njThe red ftftips fell like blood. The deer too, left \n\' H& 4&] ictfts /Sotvprint in the soft moist mould, \n^t.nd brFtjxe^fajlen leaves. The slow-paced bear, \n1 In 0kh a^/sulfry summer noon as this, \n& Stoebed. > attrW stream, and drank, and leaped across. \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xab^g^^NB^ \n\n\n\n~6 THE FOUNTAIN. \n\nBut thou hast histories that stir the heart \nWith deeper feeling; while I look on thee \nThey rise before me. I behold the scene \nHoary again with forests ; I behold \nThe Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen \nHas smitten with his death-wound in the woods, \nCreep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, \nAnd slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry \nThat rends the utter silence ; \'tis the whoop \nOf battle, and a throng of savage men \nWith naked arms, and faces stained like blood, \nFill the green wilderness ; the long bare arms \nAre heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream; \nEach makes a tree his shield, and every tree \nSends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short, \nAs is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors \nAnd conquered vanish, and the dead remain, \nGashed horribly with tomahawks. The woods \nAre still again, the frighted bird comes back \nAnd plumes her wings, but thy sweet waters run \nCrimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down, \nAmid the deepening twilight I descry \nFigures of men that crouch and creep unheard, \nAnd bear away the dead. The next day\'s shower \nShall wash the tokens of the fight away. \n\n1 look again \xe2\x80\x94 the hunter\'s lodge is built, \nWith poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, \nWhile the meek autumn stains the woods with gold, \nAnd sheds his golden sunshine. To the door \nThe red man slowly drags the enormous bear \nSlain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down \nThe deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells \nOf wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, \n\n\n\nTHE FOUNTAIN. 77 \n\nAnd loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, \nThat gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, \nThe hickory\'s white nuts, and the dark fruit \nThat falls from the gray butternut\'s long boughs. \n\nSo centuries passed by, and still the woods \nBlossomed in spring, and reddened when the year \nGrew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains \nOf winter, till the white man swung the axe \nBeside thee\xe2\x80\x94 signal of a mighty change. \nThen all around was heard the crash of trees, \nTrembling awhile and rushing to the ground, \nThe low of ox, and shouts of men who fired \nThe brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs \nThe grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green \nThe blackened hill-side ; ranks of spiky maize \nRose like a host embattled ; the buckwheat \nWhitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers \nThe August wind. White cottages were seen \nWith rose-trees at the windows ; barns from which \nSwelled loud and shrill the cry of chanticleer; \nPastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, \nAnd white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf \nOf grasses brought from far o\'ercrept thy bank, \nSpotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls \nBrought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool; \nAnd children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired, \nGathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge. \n\nSince then, what steps have trod thy border ! Here, \nOn thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp \nHas laid his axe, the reaper of the hill \nHis sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. \nThe sportsman, tired with wandering in the still \n\n\n\n78 THE FOUNTAIN. \n\nSeptember noon, has bathed his heated brow \n\nIn thy cool current. Shouting boys let loose \n\nFor a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped \n\nInto a cup the folded linden leaf, \n\nAnd dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars \n\nReturning, the plumed soldier by thy side \n\nHas sat, and mused how pleasant \'twere to dwell \n\nIn such a spot, and be as free as thou, \n\nAnd move for no man\'s bidding more. At eve, \n\nWhen thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, \n\nLovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought \n\nTheir mingled lives should flow\' as peacefully \n\nAnd brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, \n\nGazing into thy self-replenished depth, \n\nHas seen eternal order circumscribe \n\nAnd bind the motions of eternal change, \n\nAnd from the gushing of thy simple fount \n\nHas reasoned to the mighty universe. \n\nIs there no other change for thee, that lurka \nAmong the future ages ? Will not man \nSeek out strange arts to wither aud deform \nThe pleasant landscape which thou makest green T \nOr shall the veins that feed thy constant stream \nBe choked in middle earth, and flow no more \nFor ever, that the water-plants along \nThy channel perish, and the bird in vain \nAlight to drink 1 Haply shall these green hills \nSink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf \nOf ocean waters, and thy source be lost \nAmidst the bitter brine ? Or shall they rise \nUpheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, \nHaunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou \nGush midway from the bare and barren steep 1 \n\n\n\nMARIUS SEATED ON THE RUINS \nOF CARTHAGE. \n\nBY MRS. M. L. CHILD. \n\nPillars are fallen at thy feet, \nFanes quiver in the air, \nA prostrate city is thy seat, \nAnd thou alone art there. \n\nNo change comes o\'er thy noble brow, \nThough ruin is around thee ; \nThine eyebeam burns as proudly now, \nAs when the laurel crowned thee. \n\nIt cannot bend thy lofty soul \nThough friends and fame depart ; \nThe car of fate may o\'er thee roll, \nNor crush thy Roman heart \n\n\n\n\n\n\n80 TO MARIUS. \n\nAnd genius hath electric power, \nWhich earth can never tame ; \nBright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower- \nIts flash is still the same. \n\nThe dreams we loved in early life, \n\nMay melt like mist away ; \n\nHigh thoughts may seem, mid passion\'s strife, \n\nLike Carthage in decay ; \n\n\n\nAnd proud hopes in the human heart \nMay be to ruin hurled ; \nLike mouldering monuments of art \nHeaped on a sleeping world : \n\nYet, there is something will not die, \nWhere life hath once been fair ; \nSome towering thoughts still rear on high, \nSome Roman lingers there ! \n\n\n\nG-OD IN NATURE. \n\nBY H. W. ROCKWELL. \n\nOh mighty is the Lord of Hosts ! \n\nHe spans the spangled skies ; \nHe speaks, and in its palaces \n\nThe midnight thunder cries ! \n\nHe wields the awful lightning-brand, \nThe war-torch of the storm, \n\nWhether upon the Northern pines \nIt rocks its cloud- wrapt form ; \n\nOr, conquering, tramps right royally \n\nThe hollow-sounding seas, \nOr holds high carnival among \n\nThe crashing mountain trees ! \n\nHis earthquakes shake the eternal hills \nAnd toss " old ocean\'s locks :" \n\n\n\n82 GOD IN NATURE. \n\nThe hungry breakers howl amain, \nBetween the dreadful shocks : \n\nAnd the swift whirlwind spinning o\'er \nThe mountain bald and pale, \n\nRaves wildly to the angry flood \nThat thunders in the vale. \n\nHe sows death in the red simoon, \nAnd cities shrink aghast ; \n\nHe speaks ! and mist- wrapt pestilence, \nIn horrid gloom, moves past ! \n\nOh mighty is the Lord of Hosts ! \n\nOf all earth\'s kings, the King ! \nBehold ! he shakes the mountain pine, \n\nAnd plumes the whirlwind\'s wing ! \n\nAnd from his throne of majesty, \n\nUpon the bended sky, \nAround the universe he casts \n\nHis all-beholding eye ! \n\n\n\nEVENING- AFTER, A BATTLE. \n\nBY TIMOTHY DWIGHT. \n\nAbove tall western hills, the light of day- \nShot far the splendours of his golden ray ; \nBright from the storm with tenfold grace he smiled, \nThe tumult softened, and the world grew mild. \nWith pomp transcendent, robed in heavenly dyes, \nArched the clear rainbow round the orient skies ; \nIts changeless form, its hues of beam divine, \n\xe2\x80\x94 Fair type of truth and beauty\'s \xe2\x80\x94 endless shine \nAround the expanse, with thousand splendours rare ; \nGay clouds sailed wanton through the kindling air ; \nFrom shade to shade, unnumbered tinctures blend ; \nUnnumbered forms of wond\'rous light extend : \nIn pride stupendous, glittering walls aspire, \nGraced with bright domes, and crowned with towers of fire, \nOn cliffs cliffs burn ; o\'er mountains mountains roll : \nA burst of glory spreads from pole to pole : \nRapt with the splendour, every songster sings, \nTops the high bough, and claps his glistening wings; \n\n\n\n84 EVENING AFTER A BATTLE. \n\nWith new-born green, reviving nature blooms, \nAnd sweeter fragrance freshening air perfumes. \n\nFar south the storm withdrew its troubled reign ; \nDescending twilight dimmed the dusky plain ; \nBlack night arose ; her curtains hid the ground*: \nLess roared, and less, the thunder\'s solemn sound ; \nThe bended lightning shot a brighter stream, \nOr wrapped all heaven in one wide, mantling flame ; \nBy turns, o\'er plains, and woods, and mountains, spread \nFaint, yellow glimmerings, and a deeper shade. \n\nFrom parting clouds, the moon outbreaking shone, \nAnd sate, sole empress, on her silver throne ; \nIn clear, full beauty, round all nature smiled, \nAnd claimed o\'er heaven and earth, dominion mild ; \nWith humbler glory, stars her court attend, \nAnd blessed, and unioned, silent lustre blend. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nINDIAN G-IRL\'S BURIAL. \n\nBY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. \n\nA voice upon the prairies, \n\nA cry of woman\'s wo, \nThat mingleth with the autumn blast \n\nAll fitfully and low ; \nIt is a mother\'s wailing ; \n\nHath earth another tone \nLike that with which a mother mourns \n\nHer lost, her only one ] \n\nPale faces gather round her, \n\nThey marked the storm swell high \nThat rends and wrecks the tossing soul, \n\nBut their cold, blue eyes are dry. \nPale faces gaze upon her, \n\nAs the wild winds caught her moan, \nBut she was an Indian mother, \n\nSo she wept her tears alone. \ni \n\n\n\n86 INDIAN GIRL\'S BURIAL. \n\nLong o\'er that wasted idol, \n\nShe watched and toiled, and prayed, \nThough every dreary dawn revealed \n\nSome ravage Death had made, \nTill the fleshless sinews started, \n\nAnd hope no opiate gave, \nAnd hoarse, and hollow grew her voice, \n\nAn echo from the grave. \n\nShe was a gentle creature, \n\nOf raven eye and tress, \nAnd dovelike were the tones that breathed \n\nHer bosom\'s tenderness, \nSave when some quick emotion, \n\nThe warm blood strongly sent, \nTo revel in her olive-cheek \n\nSo richly eloquent \n\nI said Consumption smote her, \n\nAnd the healer\'s art was vain, \nBut she was an Indian maiden, \n\nSo none deplored her pain ; \nNone, save that widowed mother, \n\nWho now by her open tomb, \nIs writhing like the smitten wretch \n\nWhom judgment marks for doom. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nINDIAN GIRL\'S BURIAL. 87 \n\nAlas ! that lowly cabin, \n\nThat bed beside the wall, \nThat seat beneath the mantling vine, \n\nThey\'re lone and empty all. \nWhat hand shall pluck the tall, green corn \n\nThat ripeneth on the plain ] \nSince she for whom the board was spread \n\nMust ne\'er return again. \n\nRest, rest, thou Indian maiden, \n\nNor let thy murmuring shade \nGrieve that those pale-browed ones with scorn \n\nThy burial rite surveyed ; \nThere\'s many a king whose funeral \n\nA black-robed realm shall see, \nFor whom no tear of grief is shed \n\nLike that which falls for thee. \n\nYea, rest thee, forest maiden ! \n\nBeneath thy native tree ! \nThe proud may boast their little day, \n\nThen sink to dust like thee : \nBut there\'s many a one whose funeral \n\nWith nodding plumes may be, \nWhom nature nor affection mourn, \n\nAs here they mourn for thee. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nODE \n\nBY JOHN PIERPONT. \n\nWritten for the laying of the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, \nJune 17th, 1825. \n\nO, is not this a holy spot ! \n\n\'Tis the high place of Freedom\'s birth ! \nGod of our fathers ! is it not \n\nThe holiest spot of all the earth ] \n\nQuenched is thy flame on Horeb\'s side ; \n\nThe robber roams o\'er Sinai now ; \nAnd those old men, thy seers, abide \n\nNo more on Zion\'s mournful brow. \n\nBut on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, \n\nSince round its head the war-cloud curled, \n\nAnd wrapped our fathers, where they knelt \nIn prayer and battle for a world. \n\n\n\nODE. 59 \n\nHere sleeps their dust ; \'tis holy ground ; \n\nAnd we, the children of the brave, \nFrom the four winds are gathered round, \n\nTo lay our offering on their grave. \n\nFree as the winds around us blow, \n\nFree as the waves below us spread, \nWe rear a pile, that long shall throw \n\nIts shadow on their sacred bed. \n\nBut on their deeds no shade shall fail, \n\nWhile o\'er their couch thy sun shall flame \n\nThine ear was bowed to hear their call, \nAnd thy right hand shall guard their fame. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n- in \n\n\n\n\nNot on the battle-field, \nAs when thy thousand warriors joyed to meet thee, \n\nSounding the fierce war-cry, \n\nLeading them forth to die \xe2\x80\x94 \nNot thus, not thus we greet thee. \n\ni \n\nBut in a hostile camp, \nLonely amidst thy foes, \n\nThine arrows spent, \n\nThy brow unbent ; \nYet wearing record of thy people\'s woes. \n\nChief ! for thy memories now, \nWhile the tall palm against this quiet sky \n\n\n\n\nHer branches waves, \nAnd the soft river laves \nYon green and flower-crowned banks it wanders by, \n\nWhile in this golden sun \nThe burnished rifle gleameth with strange light, \n\nAnd sword and spear \n\nRest harmless here, \nYet flash with startling radiance on the sight : \n\nWake they thy glance of scorn, \nThou of the folded arms and aspect stern \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThou of the deep low tone, \n\nFor whose rich music gone, \nKindred and friends alike may vainly yearn ? \n\n\n\n92 OSCEOLA. \n\nWo for the trusting hour ! \nOh kingly stag ! no hand hath brought thee down ; \n\n\'Twas with a patriot\'s heart, \n\nWhere fear usurped no part, \nThou earnest, a noble offering, and alone ! \n\nFor vain yon army\'s might, \n\nWhile for thy band the wide plain owned a tree, \nOr the wild vine\'s tangled shoots \nOn the gnarled oak\'s mossy roots \n\nTheir trysting-place might be ! \n\nWo for thy hapless fate ! \n\nWo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief; \nThy sadly closing story, \nThy short and mournful glory, \n\nThy high and hopeless struggle, brave and brief I \n\nWo for the bitter stain \nThat from our country\'s banner may not part : \n\nWo for the captive, wo ! \n\nFor burning pains, and slow, \nAre his who dieth of the fevered heart. \n\nOh ! in that spirit-land, \n\nWhere never yet the oppressor\'s foot hath past, \nChief! by those sparkling streams \nWhose beauty mocks our dreams, \n\nMay that high heart have won its rest at last \n\n\n\nTHE CHILD PLAYING- WITH A WATCH. \n\nBY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. \n\nArt thou playing with Time, in thy sweet baby-glee 1 \nWill he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee 1 \nOh ! show him those shadowless, innocent eyes, \nThat smile of bewildered and beaming surprise ; \nLet him look on that cheek where thy rich hair reposes, \nWhere dimples are playing " bopeep" with the roses ; \nHis wrinkled brow press with light kisses and warm, \nAnd clasp his rough neck with thy soft wreathing arm. \nPerhaps thy bewitching and infantine sweetness \nMay win him, for once, to delay in his fleetness ; \nTo pause, ere he rifle, relentless in flight, \nA blossom so glowing of bloom and of light. \nThen, then would I keep thee, my beautiful child, \nWith thy blue eyes unshadowed, thy blush undefiled ; \nWith thy innocence only to guard thee from ill, \nIn life\'s sunny dawning, a lily-bud still ! \n\n\n\n94 THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH. \n\nLaugh on ! my own Ellen ! that voice, which to me \nGives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee ; \nAnd while I at those sounds feel the idler\'s annoy, \nThou hear\'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy ; \nThou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl, \nMay his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girL \nAnd oh ! may his step as he wanders with thee, \nLight and soft as thine own little fairy-tread be ! \nWhile still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather, \nMay Time and my Ellen be playmates together. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BELEAGUERED CITY. \n\nBY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. \n\nI have read, in some old marvellous tale, \nSome legend strange and vague, \n\nThat a midnight host of spectres pale \nBeleaguered the walls of Prague. \n\nBeside the Moldau\'s rushing stream, \nWith the wan moon overhead, \n\nThere stood, as in an awful dream, \nThe army of the dead. \n\nWhite as a sea-fog, landward bound, \n\nThe spectral camp was seen, \nAnd, with a sorrowful, deep sound, \n\nThe river flowed between. \n\n\n\n96 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. \n\nNo other voice nor sound was there, \n\nNo drum, nor sentry\'s pace ; \nThe mist-like banners clasped the air, \n\nAs clouds with clouds embrace. \n\nBut, when the old cathedral bell \nProclaimed the morning prayer, \n\nThe white pavilions rose and fell \nOn the alarmed air. \n\nDown the broad valley fast and far \n\nThe troubled army fled ; \nUp rose the glorious morning star, \n\nThe ghastly host was dead. \n\nI have read, in the marvellous heart of man, \nThat strange and mystic scroll, \n\nThat an army of phantoms vast and wan \nBeleaguer the human soul. \n\nEncamped beside Life\'s rushing stream, \n\nIn Fancy\'s misty light, \nGigantic shapes and shadows gleam \n\nPortentous through the night \n\nUpon its midnight battle-ground \nThe spectral camp is seen, \n\n\n\nSONNE T O CTOBER. 97 \n\nAnd, with a sorrowful, deep sound, \nFlows the River of Life between. \n\nNo other voice, nor sound is there, \n\nIn the army of the grave ; \nNo other challenge breaks the air, \n\nBut the rushing of Life\'s wave. \n\nAnd, when the solemn and deep church-bell \n\nEntreats the soul to pray, \nThe midnight phantoms feel the spell, \n\nThe shadows sweep away. \n\nDown the broad Vale of Tears afar \n\nThe spectral camp is fled ; \nFaith shineth as a morning star, \n\nOur ghastly fears are dead. \n\n\n\nSONNET-OCTOBER. \n\nBY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. \n\nAy, thou art welcome, heaven\'s delicious breath ! \nWhen woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, \nAnd suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, \n\nAnd the year smiles as it draws near its death. \n\n\n\n98 FELICIA HEMANS. \n\nWind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay \nIn the gay woods and in the golden air, \nLike to a good old age released from care, \n\nJourneying, in long serenity, away. \n\nIn such a bright, late quiet, would that I \n\nMight wear out life like thee, \'mid bowers and brooks, \nAnd dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, \n\nAnd music of kind voices ever nigh ; \n\nAnd when my last sand twinkled in the glass, \n\nPass silently from men, as thou dost pass. \n\n\n\nFELICIA HEMANS. \n\nBY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. \n\nNature doth mourn for thee. \n\nThere is no need \nFor man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail, \nAs fail he must, if he attempt thy praise. \nThe little plant that never sang before, \nSave one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell, \nSighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee, \nAs for a florist fallen. The ivy, wreathed \n\n\n\nFELICIA HEMANS. \n\nRound the gray turrets of a buried race, \n\nAnd the tall palm that like a prince doth rear \n\nIts diadem \'neath Asia\'s burning sky, \n\nWith their dim legends blend thy hallowed name. \n\nThy music, like baptismal dew, did make \n\nWhate\'er it touched most holy. The pure shell, \n\nLaying its pearly lip on Ocean\'s floor, \n\nThe cloistered chambers, where the sea-gods sleep, \n\nAnd the unfathomed melancholy main, \n\nLament for thee, through all the sounding deeps. \n\nHark ! from the snow-breasted Himmaleh to where \n\nSnowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, \n\nFrom the scathed pine tree, near the red man\'s hut, \n\nTo where the everlasting banian builds \n\nIts vast columnac temple, comes a moan \n\nFor thee, whose ritual made each rocky height \n\nAn altar, and each cottage-home, the haunt \n\nOf Poesy. \n\nYea, thou didst find the link \nThat joins mute nature to ethereal mind, \nAnd make that link a melody. \n\nThe couch \nOf thy last sleep, was in the native clime \nOf song and eloquence and ardent soul, \nSpot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle \nSo loved of favouring skies, yet banned by fate, \nMight shadow forth thine own unspoken lot \n\nK* \n\nLtrc \n\n\n\n100 FELICIA HEMANS. \n\nFor at thy heart the ever-pointed thorn \nDid gird itself, until the life-stream oozed \nIn gushes of such deep and thrilling song, \nThat angels poising on some silver cloud \nMight linger mid the errands of the skies, \nAnd listen, all unblamed. \n\nHow tenderly \nDoth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest ! \nAnd like a nurse, with finger on her lip, \nWatch, lest some step disturb thee, striving still \nFrom other touch, thy sacred harp to guard. \nWaits she thy waking, as the mother waits \nFor some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen, \nAnd laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven 1 \nWe say not thou art dead. We dare not. No. \nFor every mountain stream and shadowy dell \nWhere thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back \nThe falsehood on our souls. Thou spak\'st alike \nThe simple language of the freckled flower, \nAnd of the glorious stars. God taught it thee. \nAnd from thy living intercourse with man \nThou shalt not pass away, until this earth \nDrops her last gem into the doom\'s-day flame. \nThou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir, \nWhose hymns thy tuneful spirit learned so well \nFrom this sublunar terrace, and so long \nInterpreted. \n\n\n\nFELICIA HEMANS. \n\n\n\n101 \n\n\n\nTherefore, we will not say- \nFarewell to thee ; for every unborn age \nShall mix thee with its household charities, \nThe sage shall greet thee with his benison, \nAnd Woman shrine thee as a vestal flame \nIn all the temples of her sanctity, \nAnd the young child shall take thee by the hand \nAnd travel with a surer step to Heaven. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA^ INVITATION. \n\nBY WILLIS GAYLOUD CLARK. \n"They that seek me early shall find me." \n\nCome, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, \n\nThou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze, \n\nCome, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, \n\nAnd joy\'s pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways ; \n\nCome, while sweet thoughts, like summer-buds unfolding, \n\nWaken rich feelings in the careless breast, \n\nWhile yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding, \n\nCome, \xe2\x80\x94 and secure interminable rest ! \n\nSoon will the freshness of thy days be over, \nAnd thy free buoyancy of soul be flown ; \nPleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover \nWill to the embraces of the worm have gone ; \nThose who now love thee, will have passed for ever : \nTheir looks of kindness will be lost to thee ; \nThou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit\'s fever, \nAs thy sick heart broods over years to be ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nAN INVITATION. 103 \n\nCome, while the morning of thy life is glowing, \nEre the dim phantoms thou art chasing, die ; \nEre the gay spell which Earth is round thee throwing, \nFades, like the crimson from a sunset sky ; \nLife hath but shadows, save a promise given, \nWhich lights the future with a fadeless ray ; \nOh, touch the sceptre ! \xe2\x80\x94 win a hope in heaven ; \nCome ! \xe2\x80\x94 turn thy spirit from the world away ! \n\nThen will the crosses of this brief existence \nSeem airy nothings to thine ardent soul ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd shining brightly in the forward distance, \nWill of thy patient race appear the goal : \nHome of the weary ! \xe2\x80\x94 where in peace reposing, \nThe spirit lingers in unclouded bli^s, \nThough o\'er its dust the curtained grave is closing ; \nWho would not, early, choose a lot like this ] \n\n\n\n\nMONADNOCK, \n\n\n\nBY WILLIAM 0. B. PEABObr. \n\n\n\nUpon the far-off mountain\'s brow \nThe angry storm has ceased to beat ; \nAnd broken clouds are gathering now \nIn sullen reverence round his feet ; \nI saw their dark and crowded bands \nIn thunder on his breast descending ; \nBut there once more redeemed he stands, \nAnd heaven\'s clear arch is o\'er him bending. \n\n\n\nMONADNOCK. 105 \n\nI\'ve seen him when the morning sun \nBurned like a bale-fire on the height ; \nI\'ve seen him when the day was done, \nBathed in the evening\'s crimson light. \nFve seen him at the midnight hour, \nWhen all the world were calmly sleeping, \nLike some stern sentry in his tower, \nHis weary watch in silence keeping. \n\nAnd there for ever firm and clear, \nHis lofty turret upward springs ; \nHe owns no rival summit near, \nNo sovereign but the King of kings. \nThousands of nations have passed by, \nThousands of years unknown to story, \nAnd still his aged walls on high \nHe rears, in melancholy glory. \n\nThe proudest works of human hands \nLive but an age, before they fall ; \nWhile that severe and hoary tower \nOutlasts the mightiest of them all. \nAnd man himself, more frail by far, \nThan even the works his hand is raising, \nSinks downwards like the falling star, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat flashes, and expires in blazing. \n\n\n\n106 MONADNOCK. \n\nAnd all the treasures of the heart, \nIts loves and sorrows, joys and fears, \nIts hopes and memories must depart \nTo sleep with unremembered years. \nBut still that ancient rampart stands \nUnchanged, though years are passing o\'er him; \nAnd time withdraws his powerless hands, \nWhile ages melt away before him. \n\nSo should it be \xe2\x80\x94 for no heart beats \nWithin his cold and silent breast ; \nTo him no gentle voice repeats \nThe soothing words that make us blest. \nAnd more than this \xe2\x80\x94 his deep repose \nIs troubled by no thoughts of sorrow, \nHe hath no weary eyes to close, \nNo cause to hope or fear to-morrow. \n\nFarewell ! I go my distant way ; \nPerchance in some succeeding years, \nThe eyes that know no cloud to-day, \nMay gaze upon thee dim with tears. \nThen may thy calm, unaltering form, \nInspire in me the firm endeavour \xe2\x80\x94 \nLike thee to meet each lowering storm, \nTill life and sorrow end for ever. \n\n\n\nA DEATH-EED. \n\nBY JAMES ALDRICH. \n\nHer suff \'ring ended with the day, \n\nYet lived she at its close, \nAnd breathed the long, long night away, \n\nIn statue-like repose. \n\nBut when the sun, in all his state, \n\nUlum\'d the eastern skies, \nShe passed through Glory\'s Morning-gate, \n\nAnd walked in Paradise ! \n\n\n\nA SPUING-DAY WALK. \n\nBY JAMES ALDRICH. \n\nAdieu, the city\'s ceaseless hum, \nThe haunts of sensual life, adieu ! \n\nGreen fields, and silent glens ! we come, \nTo spend this bright spring-day with you. \n\n\n\n108 A SPRING-DAY WALK. \n\nWhether the hills and vales shall gleam \nWith beauty, is for us to choose ; \n\nFor leaf and blossom, rock and stream, \nAre coloured with the spirit\'s hues. \n\nHere, to the seeking soul, is brought \nA nobler view of human fate, \n\nAnd higher feeling, higher thought, \nAnd glimpses of a higher state. \n\nThrough change of time, on sea and shore, \nSerenely nature smiles away ; \n\nYon infinite blue sky bends o\'er \nOur world, as at the primal day. \n\nThe self-renewing earth is moved \nWith youthful life each circling year ; \n\nAnd flowers that Ceres\' daughter loved \nAt Enna, now are blooming here. \n\nGlad nature will this truth reveal, \nThat God is ours and we are His ; \n\nO friends, my friends ! what joy to feel \nThat He our loving father is ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHANSONETTE. \n\nBY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. \n\nShe loves \xe2\x80\x94 but \'tis not me she loves : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNot me on whom she ponders, \nWhen in some dream of tenderness \n\nHer truant fancy wanders. \nThe forms that flit her visions through, \n\nAre like the shapes of old, \nWhere tales of Prince and Paladin \n\nOn tapestry are told. \nMan may not hope her heart to win, \n\nBe his of common mould ! \n\nBut I \xe2\x80\x94 though spurs are won no more \n\nWhere herald\'s trump is pealing, \nNor thrones carved out for lady fair \n\nWhere steel-clad ranks are wheeling\xe2\x80\x94 \nI loose the falcon of my hopes \n\nUpon as proud a flight \nAs those who hawked at high renown, \n\nIn song-ennobled fight. \nIf daring then true love may crown, \n\nMy love she must requite ! \n\n\n\nON AN OLD WEDDING- RING \n\nBY GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE. \n\nThe device \xe2\x80\x94 two hearts united. \n\nThe motto \xe2\x80\x94 u Dear love of mine, my heart is thine. 71 \n\nI like that ring, that ancient ring, \n\nOf massive form, of virgin gold, \nAs firm, as free from base alloy, \n\nAs were the sterling hearts of old. \nI like it \xe2\x80\x94 for it wafts me back, \n\nFar, far along the stream of time, \nTo other men, and other days \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe men and days of deeds sublime. \n\nBut most I like it as it tells \n\nThe tale of well requited love ; \nHow youthful fondness persevered, \n\nAnd youthful faith disdained to rove ; \nHow warmly lie his suit preferred, \n\nThough she unpitying, long denied, \nTill, softened and subdued, at last \n\nHe won his fair and blooming bride ; \n\n\n\nON AN OLD WEDDING RING. Ill \n\nHow, till the appointed day arrived, \n\nThey blamed the lazy-footed hours ; \nHow then the white-robed maiden train \n\nStrewed their glad way with freshest flowers ; \nAnd how, before the holy man, \n\nThey stood in all their youthful pride, \nAnd spoke those words, and vowed those vows \n\nWhich bind the husband to his bride. \n\nAll this it tells ;\xe2\x80\x94 the plighted troth, \n\nThe gift of every earthly thing, \nThe hand in hand, the heart in heart \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor this I like this ancient ring. \nI like its old and quaint device ; \n\nTwo blended hearts \xe2\x80\x94 though time may wear them, \nNo mortal change, no mortal chance, \n\n" Till death," shall e\'er in sunder tear them. \n\nYear after year, \'neath sun and storm, \n\nTheir hopes in heaven, and trust in God, \nIn changeless, heartfelt, holy love, \n\nThese two, the world\'s rough pathways trod. \nAge might impair their youthful fires, \n\nTheir strength might fail, \'mid life\'s bleak weather \nStill, hand in hand, they travelled on, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nKind souls ! they slumber now together. \n\n\n\n112 ON AN OLD WEDDING RING. \n\nI like its simple poesy too ; \n\n" Mine own dear love, this heart is thine 1" \nThine, when the dark storm howls along, \n\nAs when the cloudless sunbeams shine. \n" This heart is thine, mine own dear love !" \n\nThine, and thine only, and forever ; \nThine, till the springs of life shall fail \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThine, till the chords of life shall sever. \n\nRemnant of days departed long, \nEmblem of plighted troth unbroken, \n\nPledge of devoted faithfulness, \n\nOf heartfelt, holy love, the token \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat varied feelings round it cling ! \n\nFor these, I like that ancient ring. \n\n\n\n\nTHE MOON UPON THE SPIRE \n\n\n\nBY HANNAH F. GOULD. \n\n\n\nThe full-orbed moon has reached no higher, \nThan yon old church\'s mossy spire, \nAnd seems, as gliding up the air, \nShe saw the fane ; and, pausing there, \nWould worship, in the tranquil night, \nThe Prince of peace \xe2\x80\x94 the Source of light, \nWhere man for God prepared the place, \nAnd God to man unveils his face. \n\n\n\n114 THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. \n\nHer tribute all around is seen ; \nShe bends, and worships like a queen ! \nHer robe of light and beaming crown, \nIn silence, she is casting down ; \nAnd, as a creature of the earth, \nShe feels her lowliness of birth \xe2\x80\x94 \nHer weakness and inconstancy \nBefore unchanging purity ! \n\nPale traveller, on thy lonely way, \n\'Tis well thine homage thus to pay ; \nTo reverence that ancient pile, \nAnd spread thy silver o\'er the aisle, \nWhich many a pious foot has trod, \nThat now is dust beneath the sod ; \nWhere many a sacred tear was wept, \nFrom eyes that long in death have slept ! \n\nThe temple\'s builders \xe2\x80\x94 where are they ? \n\nThe worshippers ] \xe2\x80\x94 all passed away, \n\nWho came the first, to offer there \n\nThe song of praise, the heart of prayer ! \n\nMan\'s generation passes soon ; \n\nIt wanes and changes like the moon. \n\nHe rears the perishable wall ; \n\nBut, ere it crumbles, he must fall L \n\n\n\nTHE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. 115 \n\nAnd does he sink to rise no more ] \nHas he no part to triumph o\'er \nThe pallid king ] no spark, to save \nFrom darkness, ashes, and the grave 1 \nThou holy place, the answer, wrought \nIn thy firm structure, bars the thought ! \nThe spirit that established thee, \nNor death, nor darkness e\'er shall see ! \n\n\n\n^&? \n\n\n\n\nTO NEPTUNE. \n\n\n\nBY ALBERT PIKE. \n\n\n\nGod of the mighty sea ! \xe2\x80\x94 wherever now \n\nThe waves beneath thy brazen axle bow \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhether thy strong, proud steeds, wind- winged and wild, \n\nTrample upon the waves about them piled \n\nBy the strong storm-god, whirling thy swift car \n\nEach way among the winds, that near and far \n\nYell out for pleasure, tossing crested foam \n\nUpon their floating manes, and on their sides \n\nOf glossy blackness \xe2\x80\x94 god of the torn sea \n\nAnd stormy waters \xe2\x80\x94 thou from whom ships flee, \n\n\n\nTO NEPTUNE. 117 \n\nOr sink into thy waves \xe2\x80\x94 god of the mighty storm, \nAnd of fierce winds that on the ocean swarm \xe2\x80\x94 \nGod of the roar, the foam, the thunder crash \nOf angry waves \xe2\x80\x94 the low and sullen dash \nThat waters make, while far beneath they flow \nOver some storm-wreck \xe2\x80\x94 we thy great power know, \nAnd call thee to our offering. Come and drive \nThy chariots to our shore, and see us strive \nTo do thee honour. Come ! with thy fierce crowd \nOf fleeting winds \xe2\x80\x94 O god, most strong and proud ! \n\nPerhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam \nUpon some quiet sea \xe2\x80\x94 no wind-tossed foam \nIs now upon their limbs, but leisurely \nThey tread with silver feet the sleeping sea, \nFanning the waves with slowly floating manes, \nBut late storm-driven. Haply, silver strains, \nFrom trumpets spirit-blown, about thee ring ; \nAnd green-robed sea-gods, unto thee their king, \nSing, loud in praise. Apollo now doth gaze \nWith friendly looks upon thee, and his rays \nLight up thy steeds\' wild eyes \xe2\x80\x94 a pleasant warm \nIs felt upon the sea, where fierce cold storm \nHas just been rushing, and the noisy winds \nThat Eolus within their prison binds, \nFlying with misty wings \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps below \nThou liest in green caves, where bright things glow \n\n\n\n118 TO NEPTUNE. \n\nWith many colours \xe2\x80\x94 many a monster keeps \nHis watch a near thee, while old Triton sleeps \nAs idly as his wont \xe2\x80\x94 and bright eyes peep \nUpon thee every way as thou dost sleep. \n\nPerhaps thou liest in some Indian isle, \nUnder a waving tree, where many a mile \nStretches a sunny shore, with golden sands \nHeaped up in many shapes by Naiad\'s hands, \nAnd blushing as the waves come rippling on, \nShaking the sunlight from them as they run \nAnd curl towards the land \xe2\x80\x94 like molten gold \nThick set with jewelry most rare and old \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd sea nymphs sit, and with small delicate shells \nMake thee sweet melody, as in deep dells \nWe hear of summer nights by fairies made, \nThe while they dance within some quiet shade, \nAnd sound their silver flutes most low and sweet, \nIn strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet \nMay dance upon the bright and misty dew \nIn better time ; all wanton airs that blew \nBut lately over spice trees, now are here, \nAnd wave their wings, all odour-laden, near \nThe bright and joyful sea. Oh ! wilt thou rise \nAnd come from them to our new sacrifice ! \n\n\n\nSACO FALLS. \n\n\n\nBY JAMES T. FIELDS. \n\n\n\nRush on, bold stream ! thou sendest up \n\nBrave notes to all the woods around, \nWhen morning beams are gathering fast, \n\nAnd hushed is every human sound ; \nI stand beneath the sombre hill, \nThe stars are dim o\'er fount and rill, \nAnd still I hear thy waters play \nIn welcome music, far away ; \nDash on bold stream ! I love the roar \nThou sendest up from rock and shore. \n\'Tis night in heaven \xe2\x80\x94 the rustling leaves \n\nAre whispering of the coming storm, \nAnd thundering down the river\'s bed, \n\nI see thy lengthened, darkling form ; \nNo voices from the vales are heard, \nThe winds are low, \xe2\x80\x94 each little bird \n\n\n\n120 SACO FALLS. \n\nHath sought its quiet, rocking nest, \nFolded its wings, and gone to rest, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd still I hear thy waters play- \nIn welcome music, far away. \n\nOh ! earth hath many a gallant show \xe2\x80\x94 \nOf towering peak and glacier height, \nBut ne\'er beneath the glorious moon, \n\nHath nature framed a lovelier sight, \nThan thy fair tide with diamonds fraught, \nWhen every drop with light is caught, \nAnd o\'er the bridge, the village girls \nReflect below their waving curls, \nWhile merrily thy waters play \nIn welcome music, far away ! \n\n\n\nPOWEE OF MUSIC. \n\n\n\nBY JOHN PIERPONT. \n\n\n\nOn Arno\'s bosom, as he calmly flows, \n\nAnd his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, \n\nRolling his crystal tide through classic vales, \n\nAlone, \xe2\x80\x94 at night, \xe2\x80\x94 the Italian boatman sails. \n\nHigh o\'er Mont\' Alto walks, in maiden pride, \n\nNight\'s queen ; \xe2\x80\x94 he sees her image on that tide, \n\nNow, ride the wave that curls its infant crest \n\nAround his prow, then rippling sinks to rest ; \n\nNow, glittering dance around his eddying oar, \n\nWhose every sweep is echoed from the shore ; \n\nNow, far before him, on a liquid bed \n\nOf waveless water, rest her radiant head. \n\nHow mild the empire of that virgin queen ! \n\nHow dark the mountain\'s shade ! how still the scene ! \n\nHushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep \n\nOn dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, \n\nNor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir \n\nThe valley\'s willow, nor the mountain\'s fir, \no \n\n\n\n122 POWER OF MUSIC. \n\nNor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, \nNor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river. \n\nHark ! \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis a convent\'s bell : \xe2\x80\x94 its midnight chime ; \nFor music measures even the march of Time : \xe2\x80\x94 \nO\'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, \nGray turrets rise : \xe2\x80\x94 the eye can catch no more. \nThe boatman, listening to the tolling bell, \nSuspends his oar : \xe2\x80\x94 a low and solemn swell, \nFrom the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, \nRolls through the air, and on the water dies. \nWhat melting song wakes the cold ear of Night 1 \nA funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, \nChant round a sister\'s dark and narrow bed, \nTo charm the parting spirit of the dead. \nTriumphant is the spell ! with raptured ear, \nThat uncaged spirit hovering lingers near ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhy should she mount ] why pant for brighter bliss, \nA lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this ! \n\nOn Caledonia\'s hills, the ruddy morn \nBreathes fresh : \xe2\x80\x94 the huntsman winds his clamorous horn \nThe youthful minstrel from his pallet springs, \nSeizes his harp, and tunes its slumbering strings. \nLark-like he mounts o\'er gray rocks, thunder-riven, \nLark-like he cleaves the white mist, tempest-driven, \nAnd lark-like carols, as the cliff he climbs, \n\n\n\nPOWER OF MUSIC. 123 \n\nWhose oaks were vocal with his earliest rhymes. \n\nWith airy foot he treads that giddy height ; \n\nHis heart all rapture, and his eye all light ; \n\nHis voice all melody, his yellow hair \n\nFloating and dancing on the mountain air, \n\nShaking from its loose folds the liquid pearls, \n\nThat gather clustering on his golden curls ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd, for a moment, gazes on a scene, \n\nTinged with deep shade, dim gold, and brightening green; \n\nThen plays a mournful prelude, while the star \n\nOf morning fades ; \xe2\x80\x94 but when heaven\'s gates unbar, \n\nAnd on the world a tide of glory rushes, \n\nBurns on the hill, and down the valley blushes ; \n\nThe mountain bard in livelier numbers sings, \n\nWhile sunbeams warm and gild the conscious strings, \n\nAnd his young bosom feels the enchantment strong \n\nOf light, and joy, and minstrelsy, and song. \n\nFrom rising morn, the tuneful stripling roves \nThrough smiling valleys and religious groves ; \nHears, there, the flickering blackbird strain his throat, \nHere, the lone turtle pour her mournful note, \nTill night descends, and round the wanderer flings \nThe dew-drops dripping from her dusky wings. \nFar from his native vale and humble shed \nBy nature\'s smile and nature\'s music led, \nThis child of melody has thoughtless strayed, \n\n\n\n124 POWER OF MUSIC. \n\nTill darkness wraps him in her deepening shade. \nThe scene that cheered him, when arrayed in light, \nNow lowers around him with the frown of night. \n\nWith weary foot the nearest height he climbs, \n\nCrowned with huge oaks, giants of other times ; \n\nWho feel, but fear not, Autumn\'s breath, and cast \n\nTheir summer robes upon the roaring blast, \n\nAnd glorying in their majesty of form, \n\nToss their old arms, and challenge every storm. \n\nBelow him, Ocean rolls : \xe2\x80\x94 deep in a wood, \n\nBuilt on a rock, and frowning o\'er the flood, \n\nLike the dark Cyclops of Trinacria\'s isle, \n\nRises an old and venerable pile : \n\nGothic its structure ; once a cross it bore, \n\nAnd pilgrims thronged to hail it and adore. \n\nMitres and crosiers awed the trembling friar, \n\nThe solemn organ led the chanting quire, \n\nWhen in those vaults the midnight dirge was sung, \n\nAnd o\'er the dead a requiescat rung. \n\nNow, all is still : \xe2\x80\x94 the midnight anthem hushed : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe cross is crumbled, and the mitre crushed. \n\nAnd is all still 1 \xe2\x80\x94 No : round those ruined altars, \n\nWith feeble foot as our musician falters, \n\nFaint, wearv, lost, benighted, and alone, \n\nHe sinks, all trembling, on the threshold stone. \n\nHere nameless fears the young enthusiast chill : \n\n\n\nPOWER OF MUSIC. 125 \n\nThey\'re superstitious, but religious still. \n\nHe hears the sullen murmur of the seas, \n\nThat tumble round the stormy Orcades, \n\nOr, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar \n\nTheir sparkling surges to that savage shore ; \n\nAnd thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves \n\nThrough rifted rocks and hollow-rumbling caves. \n\nRound the dark windows clasping ivy clings, \n\nTwines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings ; \n\nIts green leaves rustle : \xe2\x80\x94 heavy winds arise ; \n\nThe low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs. \n\nNow Fancy sees the ideal canvass stretched, \n\nAnd o\'er the lines, that Truth has dimly sketched, \n\nDashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly \n\nHurtled along before her frenzied eye. \n\nThe scudding cloud, that drives along the coast, \n\nBecomes the drapery of a warrior\'s ghost, \n\nWho sails serenely in his gloomy pall, \n\nO\'er Morven\'s woods and Tura\'s mouldering wall, \n\nTo join the feast of shells, in Odin\'s misty hall. \n\nIs that some demon\'s shriek, so loud and shrill, \n\nWhose flapping robes sweep o\'er the stormy hill ] \n\nNo : \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis the mountain blast, that nightly rages \n\nAround those walls, gray with the moss of ages. \n\nIs that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light \n\nShines in yon vault, before a spectre white ? \no* \n\n\n\n126 \n\n\n\nPOWER OF MUSIC. \n\n\n\nNo : \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis a glow-worm, burning greenly there, \n\nOr meteor, swimming slowly on the air. \n\nWhat mighty organ swells its deepest tone, \n\nAnd sighing heaves a low, funereal moan, \n\nThat murmurs through the cemetery\'s glooms, \n\nAnd throws a deadlier horror round its tombs 1 \n\nSure, some dread spirit o\'er the keys presides ! \n\nThe same that lifts these darkly thundering tides ; \n\nOr, homeless, shivers o\'er an unclosed grave ; \n\nOr shrieking, off at sea, bestrides the white-maned wave. \n\n\n\nYes ! \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis some Spirit that those skies deforms, \nAnd wraps in billowy clouds that hill of storms. \nYes : \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis a Spirit in those vaults that dwells, \nIllumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells. \nYes : \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis some Spirit on the blast that rides, \nAnd wakes the eternal tumult of the tides. \nThat Spirit broke the poet\'s morning dream, \nLed him o\'er woody hill and babbling stream, \nLured his young foot to every vale that rung, \nAnd charmed his ear in every bird that sung ; \nWith various concerts cheered his hours of light, \nBut kept the mightiest in reserve till night ; \nThen, throned in darkness, pealed that wildest air, \nFroze his whole soul, and chained the listener there. \n\n\n\nEUTHANASIA. \n\nBY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. \n\nMethinks, when on the languid eye \n\nLife\'s autumn scenes grow dim ; \nWhen evening shadows veil the sky, \n\nAnd Pleasure\'s syren hymn \nGrows fainter on the tuneless ear, \nLike echoes from another sphere, \n\nOr dream of Seraphim, \nIt were not sad, to cast away \nThis dull and cumbrous load of clay. \n\nIt were not sad, to feel the heart \nGrow passionless and cold ; \n\nTo feel those longings to depart, \nThat cheered the good of old ; \n\n\n\n128 EUTHANASIA. \n\nTo clasp the faith which looks on high, \nWhich fires the Christian\'s dying eye, \n\nAnd makes the curtain fold \nThat falls upon his wasting breast, \nThe door that leads to endless rest. \n\nIt were not lonely thus to lie \n\nOn that triumphant bed, \nTill the pure spirit mounts on high, \n\nBy white-winged seraphs led : \nWhere glories earth may never know, \nO\'er \' many mansions\' lingering glow, \n\nIn peerless lustre shed ; \nIt were not lonely thus to soar, \nWhere Sin and Grief can sting no more- \n\nAnd though the way to such a goal \n\nLies through the clouded tomb, \nIf on the free unfettered soul \n\nThere rests no stains of gloom, \nHow should its aspirations rise, \nFar through the blue unpillared skies, \n\nUp \xe2\x80\x94 to its final home ! \nBeyond the journeyings of the sun, \nWhere streams of living waters run. \n\n\n\nTO THE SHIP OF THE LINE \nPENNSYLVANIA. \n\nBY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. \n\n" Leap forth to the careering seas," \n\nOh, ship of lofty name ! \nAnd toss upon thy native breeze \n\nThe stars and stripes of fame ! \nAnd bear thy thunders o\'er the deep \n\nWhere vaunting navies ride ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nThou hast a nation\'s gems to keep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer honor and her pride ! \nOh ! holy is the covenant made \n\nWith thee and us to-day ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nNone from the compact shrinks afraid, \n\nNo traitor utters nay ! \nWe pledge our fervent love, and thou \n\nThy glorious ribs of oak, \nAlive with men who cannot bow \n\nTo kings, nor kiss the yoke ! \n\nSpeed lightnings o\'er the Carib Sea, \nWhich deeds of hell deform ; \n\nAnd look ! her hands are spread to thee \nWhere Afric\'s robbers swarm. \n\nGo ! lie upon the iEgean\'s breast, \nWhere sparkle emerald isles \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n130 THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA. \n\nGo ! seek the lawless Suliote\'s nest, \n\nAnd spoil his cruel wiles. \nAnd keep, where sail the merchant ships, \n\nStern watch on their highway, \nAnd promptly, through thine iron lips, \n\nWhen urged, our tribute pay ; \nYea, show thy bristling teeth of power, \n\nWherever tyrants bind, \nIn pride of their own little hour, \n\nA freeborn, noble mind. \n\nSpread out those ample wings of thine ! \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nWhile crime doth govern men, \n\'Tis fit such bulwark of the brine \n\nShould leave the shores of Penn ; \nFor hid within thy giant strength \n\nAre germs of welcome Peace, \nAnd such as thou, shall cause at length \n\nMan\'s feverish strife to cease. \nFrom every vale, from every crag, \n\nWord of thy beauty\'s past, \nAnd joy we that our country\'s flag \n\nStreams from thy towering mast \xe2\x80\x94 \nAssured that in thy prowess, thou \n\nFor her wilt win renown, \nWhose sons can die, but know not how \n\nTo strike that pennon down. \n\n\n\nEVENING-. \n\n\n\nBY ELIZA FOLLEN. \n\n\n\nThe sun is set, the day is o\'er, \nAnd labor\'s voice is heard no more ; \nOn high, the silver moon is hung ; \nThe birds their vesper hymns have sung, \nSave one, who oft breaks forth anew, \nTo chant another sweet adieu \nTo all the glories of the day, \nAnd all its pleasures passed away. \nHer twilight robe all nature wears, \nAnd evening sheds her fragrant tears, \nWhich every thirsty plant receives, \nWhile silence trembles on its leaves. \nFrom every tree and every bush, \nThere seems to breathe a soothing hush ; \nWhile every transient sound but shows \nHow deep and still is the repose. \nThus calm and fair may all things be, \nWhen life\'s last sun has set with me ; \n\n\n\nL \n\n\n\n132 EVENING. \n\nAnd may the lamp of memory shine \n\nAs sweetly on my day\'s decline, \n\nAs yon pale crescent, pure and fair, \n\nThat hangs so safely in the air, \n\nAnd pours her mild, reflected light, \n\nTo soothe and bless the weary sight. \n\nAnd may my spirit often wake \n\nLike thine, sweet bird ; and, singing, take \n\nAnother farewell of the sun, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf pleasures past, of labors done. \n\nSee, where the glorious sun has set, \n\nA line of light is lingering yet : \n\nO, thus may love awhile illume \n\nThe silent darkness of my tomb. \n\n\n\nODE TO THE MOON. \n\nBY ROBERT M. BIRD. \nO MELANCHOLY Moon, \n\nQueen of the midnight, though thou palest away \nFar in the dusky west, to vanish soon \n\nUnder the hills that catch thy waning ray, \nStill art thou beautiful beyond all spheres, \nThe friend of grief, and confidant of tears. \n\nMine earliest friend wert thou : \nMy boyhood\'s passion was to stretch me under \n\nThe locust tree, and, through the chequered bough, \nWatch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder \nAt thy strange loveliness, and wish to be \nThe nearest star to roam the heavens with thee. \n\nYouth grew ; but as it came, \nAnd sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole \n\nTo gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name \nThat was the early music of my soul, \n\n\n\n134 ODE TO THE MOON. \n\nAnd seemed upon thy pictured disk to trace \n\nRemembered features of a radiant face. \n\n* \n\nAnd manhood, though it bring \nA winter to my bosom, cannot turn \n\nMine eyes from thy lone loveliness ; still spring \nMy tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern \nFalters, in secret, with the ancient thrill \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe boyish yearning to be with thee still. \n\nWould it were so ; for earth \nGrows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail ; \n\nAnd her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth, \nTurn to a moody melody of wail, \nAnd through her stony throngs I go alone, \nEven with the heart I cannot turn to stone. \n\nWould it were so ; for still \nThou art my only counsellor, with whom \n\nMine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill, \nNor my weak lips to murmur at the doom \nOf solitude, which is so sad and sore, \nWeighing like lead upon my bosom\'s core. \n\nA boyish thought, and weak : \xe2\x80\x94 \nI shall look up to thee from the deep sea, \nAnd in the land of palms, and on the peak \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLINES. 135 \n\nOf her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee ; \nAnd then perhaps lie down in solemn rest, \nWith nought but thy pale beams upon my breast. \n\nLet it be so indeed ! \nEarth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone ; \n\nAnd let me perish where no heart shall bleed, \nAnd nought, save passing winds, shall make my moan, \nNo tears, save night\'s, to wash my humble shrine, \nAnd watching o\'er me, no pale face but thine. \n\n\n\nLINES. \n\nBY LUCY HOOPER. \n\nGive me armour of proof, I must ride to the plain ; \nGive me armour of "proof, ere the trump sound again : \nTo the halls of my childhood no more am I known, \nAnd the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath blown, \nTill the conflict is over, the battle is past \xe2\x80\x94 \nGive me armour of proof \xe2\x80\x94 I am true to the last ! \n\nGive me armour cf proof\xe2\x80\x94 bring me helmet and spear ; \nAway ! shall the warrior\'s cheek own a tear ] \nBring the steel of Milan \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis the firmest and best, \nAnd bind o\'er my bosom its closely linked vest, \nWhere the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, \nWhose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain ! \n\n\n\nlb \n\n\n\n\n136 LINES. \n\nGive me armour of proof\xe2\x80\x94 I have torn from my heart \nEach soft tie and true that forbade me to part : \nBring the sword of Damascus, its blade cold and bright, \nThat bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight ; \nAnd stay \xe2\x80\x94 let me fasten your scarf on my breast, \nLove\'s light pledge and true \xe2\x80\x94 I will answer the rest ! \n\nGive me armour of proof! \xe2\x80\x94 shall the cry be in vain, \nWhen to life\'s sternest conflicts we rush forth amain 1 \nThe knight clad in armour the battle may bide ; \nBut wo to the heedless when bendeth the tried ; \nAnd wo to youth\'s morn, when we rode forth alone, \nTo the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown ! \n\nGive us armour of proof\xe2\x80\x94 our hopes were all high ; \nBut they passed like the meteor lights from the sky ; \nOur hearts\' trust was firm, but life\'s waves swept away, \nOne by one the frail ties which were shelter and stay ; \nAnd true was our love, but its bonds broke in twain, \xe2\x80\x94 \nGive me armour of proof, ere we ride forth again. \n\nGive me armour of proof \xe2\x80\x94 we would turn from the view, \nOf a world that is fading to one that is true ; \nWe would lift up each thought from this earth-shaded light, \nTo the regions above, where there stealeth no blight ; \nAnd with Faith\'s chosen shield by no dark tempests riven, \nWe would gaze from Earth\'s storms on the brightness of \nHeaven. \n\n\n\n\nm \n\n\n\n\nLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA. \n\n; \\ BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON. \n\n\n\ne^night at sea," \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n4T\\f as thus the promise ran, \n\n* ijBy & a ^ presumptuous mortal given, \n\nTo/vain, confiding man, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Only one night at sea, \n\nAnd land shall bless thy sight, \nWhen morning\'s rays dispel \nThe shadows of that night." \n\n\n\n138 ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA. \n\nThe pledge has been received, \n\nThe vessel leaves the shore, \nBearing the beautiful and brave, \n\nWho ne\'er shall greet us more ; \nAnd every heart beats high, \n\nAs bounding o\'er the wave, \nThe gallant bark moves on \n\nTo bear them to their grave. \n\nThe merry beams of day \n\nBefore the darkness flee, \nAnd gloomy night comes slowly on, \n\nThat " only night at sea :" \nThe watch upon the deck, \n\nTheir weary vigils keep, \nAnd countless stars look down \n\nIn beauty o\'er the deep. \n\nWithin that stately boat \n\nThe prattler\'s voice is still, \nAnd beauty\'s lovely form is there, \n\nUnheeding of the ill ; \nAnd manhood\'s vigorous mind \n\nIs wrapped in deep repose, \nAnd sorrow\'s victim lies \n\nForgetful of his woes. \n\n\n\nONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA. 139 \n\nBut hark ! that fearful sound, \n\nThat wild, appalling cry, \nThat wakes the sleepers from their dreams, \n\nAnd rouses them \xe2\x80\x94 to die : \nAh, who shall tell the hopes \n\nThat rose, so soon to flee ; \nThe good resolves destroyed \n\nBy that "one night at sea]" \n\nThat hour hath passed away, \n\nThe morning\'s beams are bright, \nAs if they met no record there, \n\nOf that all-fearful night ; \nBut many souls have fled \n\nTo far eternity, \nAnd many hearts been wrecked \n\nIn that " one night at sea." \n\nGreat God ! whose hand hath launched \n\nOur boat upon life\'s sea, \nAnd given us as a pilot there, \n\nA spirit bold and free, \nSo guide us with thy love, \n\nThat our frail bark may be, \nMid waves of doubt and fear, \n\n" Only one night at sea." \n\n\n\n\nTO AN ELM. \n\nBY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. \n\n\n\nBravely thy old arms fling \nTheir countless pennons to the fields of air \n\nAnd like a sylvan king, \nTheir panoply of green still proudly wear. \n\n\n\nTO AN ELM. 141 \n\nAs some rude tower of old, \nThy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, \n\nWith limbs of giant mould, \nTo battle sternly with the winter storm. \n\nIn Nature\'s mighty fane, \nThou art the noblest arch beneath the sky ; \n\nHow long the pilgrim train, \nThat with a benison have passed thee by ! \n\nLone patriarch of the wood ! \nLike a true spirit thou dost freely rise, \n\nOf fresh and dauntless mood, \nSpreading thy branches to the open skies. \n\nThe locust knows thee well, \nAnd when the summer days his notes prolong, \n\nHid in some leafy cell, \nPours from thy world of leaves his drowsy song. \n\nOft on a morn in spring, \nThe yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, \n\nAnd there securely swing, \nTo whet his beak, and breathe his blithesome lay. \n\nHow bursts thy monarch wail, \nWhen sleeps the pulse of Nature\'s buoyant life, \n\n\n\n142 TO AN ELM. \n\nAnd bared to meet the gale, \nWave thy old branches eager for the strife I \n\nThe sunset often weaves \nUpon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare, \n\nWhile the fresh-murmuring leaves \nFill with cool sound the evening\'s sultry air. \n\nSacred thy roof of green \nTo rustic dance, and childhood\'s gambols free ; \n\nGay youth and age serene, \nTurn with familiar gladness unto thee. \n\nOh, hither should we roam, \nTo hear Truth\'s herald in the lofty shade ; \n\nBeneath thy emerald dome \nMight Freedom\'s champion fitly draw his blade. \n\nWith blessings, at thy feet \nFalls the worn peasant to his noontide rest ; \n\nThy verdant, calm retreat, \nInspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. \n\nWhen at the twilight hour, \nPlays through thy tressil crown, the sun\'s last gleam, \n\nUnder thy ancient bower \nThe school-boy comes to sport, the bard to dream. \n\n\n\nTHE BANNER OF MURAT. 143 \n\nAnd when the moonbeams fall \nThrough thy broad canopy upon the grass, \n\nMaking a fairy hall, \nAs o\'er the sward the flitting shadows pass ; \n\nThen lovers haste to thee, \nWith hearts that tremble like that shifting light : \n\nTo them, oh, brave old tree, \nThou art joy\'s shrine \xe2\x80\x94 a temple of delight ! \n\n\n\nTHE BANNER OF MURAT. \n\nBY PROSPER M. WETMORE. \n"Thou, of the snow-white plume!" \xe2\x80\x94 Byron, \n\nForemost among the first, \n\nAnd bravest of the brave ! \nWhere\'er the battle\'s fury burst, \n\nOr rolled its purple wave \xe2\x80\x94 \nThere flashed his glance like a meteor, \n\nAs he charged the foe afar ; \nAnd the snowy plume that his helmet bore, \n\nWas the banner of Murat ! \n\n\n\n144 THE BANNER OF MUKAT. \n\nMingler on many a field, \n\nWhere rung wild victory\'s peal ! \nThat fearless spirit was like a shield\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA panoply of steel : \nFor very joy in a glorious name, \n\nHe rushed where danger stood ; \nAnd that banner-plume, like a winged flame, \n\nStreamed o\'er the field of blood ! \n\nHis followers loved to gaze \n\nOn his form with a fierce delight, \nAs it towered above the battle\'s blaze \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA pillar \'midst the fight : \nAnd eyes looked up, ere they closed in death, \n\nThrough the thick and sulphury air \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd lips shrieked out with their parting breath, \n\n1 The lily plume is there !\' \n\nA cloud is o\'er him now \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor the peril hour hath come \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd he stands with his high unshaded brow, \n\nOn the fearful spot of doom : \nAway ! no screen for a soldier\'s eye \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo fear his soul appals ; \nA rattling peal \xe2\x80\x94 and a shuddering cry \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd bannerless he falls ! \n\n\n\nJUNE. \n\nBY WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. \n\nJune, with its roses \xe2\x80\x94 June ! \nThe gladdest month of our capricious year, \nWith its thick foliage and its sunlight clear ; \n\nAnd with the drowsy tune \nOf the bright leaping waters, as they pass \nLaughingly on amid the springing grass ! \n\nEarth, at her joyous coming, \nSmiles as she puts her gayest mantle on ; \nAnd Nature greets her with a benison ; \n\nWhile myriad voices, humming \nTheir welcome song, breathe dreamy music round, \nTill seems the air an element of sound. \n\nThe overarching sky \nWeareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue, \nAs if the light of heaven were melting through \n\nIts sapphire home on high; \n\n\n\n146 JUNE. \n\nHiding the sunshine in their vapory breast, \nThe clouds float on like spirits to their rest. \n\nA deeper melody, \nPoured by the birds, as o\'er their callow young \nWatchful they hover, to the breeze is flung \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGladsome, yet not of glee \xe2\x80\x94 \nMusic heart-born, like that which mothers sing \nAbove their cradled infants slumbering. \n\nOn the warm hill-side, where \nThe sunlight lingers latest, through the grass \nPeepeth the luscious strawberry ! As they pass, \n\nYoung children gambol there, \nCrushing the gathered fruit in playful mood, \nAnd staining their bright faces with its blood. \n\nA deeper blush is given \nTo the half-ripened cherry, as the sun \nDay after day pours warmth the trees upon, \n\nTill the rich pulp is riven ; \nThe truant school-boy looks with longing eyes. \nAnd perils limb and neck to win the prize. \n\nThe farmer, in his field, \nDraws the rich mould around the tender maize ; \nWhile Hope, bright-pinioned, points to coming days, \n\n\n\nJUNE. 147 \n\nWhen all his toil shall yield \nAn ample harvest, and around his hearth \nThere shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth. \n\nPoised on his rainbow wing, \nThe butterfly, whose life is but an hour, \nHovers coquettishly from flower to flower, \n\nA gay and happy thing ; \nBorn for the sunshine and the summer day, \nSoon passing, like the beautiful, away ! \n\nThese are thy pictures, June ! \nBrightest of summer months \xe2\x80\x94 thou month of flowers ! \nFirst-born of Beauty, whose swift-footed hours \n\nDance to the merry tune \nOf birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout \nOf Childhood on the sunny hills pealed out. \n\nI feel it were not wrong \nTo deem thou art a type of Heaven\'s clime, \nOnly that there the clouds and storms of Time \n\nSweep not the sky along ; \nThe flowers \xe2\x80\x94 air \xe2\x80\x94 beauty \xe2\x80\x94 music \xe2\x80\x94 all are thine, \nBut brighter \xe2\x80\x94 purer \xe2\x80\x94 lovelier \xe2\x80\x94 more divine ! \n\n\n\nTO MAY. \n\nBY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JR. \n\nCome, gentle May ! \nCome with thy robe of flowers, \nCome with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers, \n\nCome, and bring forth unto the eye of day, \nFrom their imprisoning and mysterious night, \nThe buds of many hues, the children of thy light. \n\nCome, wondrous May ! \nFor at the bidding of thy magic wand, \nQuick from the caverns of the breathing land, \n\nIn all their green and glorious array \nThey spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail \nThy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale. \n\nCome, vocal May ! \nCome with thy train, that high \nOn some fresh branch pour out their melody, \n\nOr carolling thy praise, the live-long day, \nSit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling, \nMid murmuring woods, and musical waters falling. \n\n\n\nTO MAT. 149 \n\nCome, sunny May ! \nCome with thy laughing beam, \nWhat time the lazy mist melts on the stream, \n\nOr seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, \nEre yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower, \nHath lost its light or died beneath his power. \n\nCome, holy May ! \nWhen sunk behind the cold and western hill, \nHis light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, \n\nAnd twilight\'s footsteps hasten his decay ; \nCome with thy musings, and my heart shall be \nLike a pure temple consecrate to thee. \n\nCome, beautiful May ! \nLike youth and loveliness \xe2\x80\x94 \nLike her I love ; oh, come in thy full dress, \n\nThe drapery of dark winter cast away ; \nTo the bright eye, and the glad heart appear, \nQueen of the spring and mistress of the year ! \n\nYet, lovely May ! \nTeach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme \nTo spurn the gilded mockeries of time, \n\nThe heartless pomp that beckons to betray, \nAnd keep as thou wilt find that heart each year, \nPure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n150 THE SNOW-FLAKE. \n\nAnd let me too, sweet May ! \nLet thy fond votary see \nAs fade thy beauties, all the vanity \n\nOf this world\'s pomp, then teach, that though decay \nIn his short winter, bury beauty\'s frame, \n\nIn fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, \nAnother spring shall bloom eternal and the same. \n\n\n\nTHE SNOV^-FLAKE \n\n\n\nBY HANNAH F. GOULD. \n\n\n\n" Now, if I fall, will it be my lot \n\nTo be cast in some lone, and lowly spot, \n\nTo melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot 1 \n\nAnd there will my course be ended V* \n\'Twas this a feathery Snow-Flake said, \nAs down through measureless space it strayed, \nOr, as half by dalliance, half afraid, \n\nIt seemed in mid air suspended. \n\n" Oh ! no," said the Earth, " thou shalt not lie \nNeglected and lone on my lap to die, \nThou pure and delicate child of the sky ! \nFor thou wilt be safe in my keeping. \n\n\n\nTHE SNOW-FLAKE. 151 \n\nBut then, I must give thee a lovelier form \xe2\x80\x94 \nThou wilt not be part of the wintry storm, \nBut revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, \nAnd the flowers from my bosom are peeping ! \n\n"And then thou shalt have thy choice, to.be \nRestored in the lily, that decks the lea, \nIn the jessamine-bloom, the anemone, \n\nOr aught of thy spotless whiteness : \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo melt, and be cast in a glittering bead, \nWith the pearls, that the night scatters over the mead, \nIn the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, \n\nRegaining thy dazzling brightness. \n\n" Fll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, \nWhen Viola\'s mild blue eye shall weep, \nIn a tremulous tear ; or, a diamond, leap \n\nIn a drop from the unlocked fountain : \nOr, leaving the valley, the meadow and heath, \nThe streamlet, the flowers and all beneath, \nGo up and be wove in the silvery wreath \n\nEncircling the brow of the mountain. \n\n" Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies ! \nTo shine in the Iris I\'ll let thee arise, \nAnd appear in the many and glorious dyes \nA pencil of sunbeams is blending ! \n\n\n\n152 THE SNOW-FLAKE. \n\nBut true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, \nI\'ll give thee a new and vernal birth, \nWhen thou shalt recover thy primal worth, \nAnd never regret descending !" \n\n"Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake ; \n" But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make \nIs not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake ; \n\nNor the mist that shall pass with the morning. \nFor, things of thyself, they will die with thee ; \nBut those that are lent from on high, like me, \nMust rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, \n\nTo the regions above returning. \n\n"And if true to thy word and just thou art, \nLike the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, \nUnsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart \n\nAnd return to my native heaven. \nFor I would be placed in the beautiful Bow, \nFrom time to time, in thy sight to glow ; \nSo thou may\'st remember the Flake of Snow, \n\nBy the promise that God hath given !" \n\n\n\nSERENADE. \n\n\n\nBY C. DONALD Mc LEOD. \n\n\n\nThe singing birds have chorused \n\nThe day-star to the sea ; \nThe echoes of the forest \n\nAre slumbering silently ; \nThe vesper bell is telling \n\nThine hour for wandering forth ; \nIts welcome tones are swelling \nAcross the star-lit earth. \n\nAnd as my cithern\'s breathing notes \n\nAre wafted up to thee, \n\nMy spirit on their music floats, \n\nMa mignonne Eulalie ! \n\nThe lengthening shades will hide us, \n\nAnd \'neath their influence sweet, \nThe cold hearts that would chide us, \n\nSleep \xe2\x80\x94 careless that we meet \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe spirit-stars are placing \n\nTheir gem-lights in the sky ; \nThey wait our first embracing, \nTo bless us from on high. \n\nThen while the dreamy spell of night \n\nStill rests on earth and sea, \nArise ! oh star of my delight, \nMa mignonne Eulalie ! \n\n\n\nBROTHER, COME HOME. \n\nBY CATHARINE H. WATERMAN. \n\nCome home, \nWould I could send my spirit o\'er the deep, \nWould I could wing it like a bird to thee, \nTo commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep \nWith these unwearying words of melody ; \nBrother, come home. \n\nCome home, \nCome to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes \n\nThat beam in brightness but to gladden thine, \nCome where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, \nWhere cherished memory rears her altar\'s shrine ; \nBrother, come home. \n\nCome home, \nCome to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, \nCome to the ark, like the o\'er-wearied dove, \n\n\n\nBROTHER, COME HOME. 155 \n\nCome with the sunlight of thy heart\'s warm rays, \nCome to the fireside circle of thy love ; \nBrother, come home. \n\nCome home, \nIt is not home without thee, the lone seat \n\nIs still unclaimed where thou were wont to be, \nIn every echo of returning feet, \n\nIn vain we list for what should herald thee ; \nBrother, come home. \n\nCome home, \nWe\'ve nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, \n\nWatched every germ the full-blown flowers rear, \nSeen o\'er their bloom the chilly winter bring \nIts icy garlands, and thou art not here ; \nBrother, come home. \n\nCome home, \nWould I could send my spirit o\'er the deep, \n\nWould I could wing it like a bird to thee \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep \nWith these unwearying words of melody ; \nBrother, come home. \n\n\n\nSONNET. \n\nBY WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. \n\nA dreamy whisper from the sweet South-west, \nBorne on the just-awakened Zephyr\'s wing, \nComes to the ear with stories of the Spring, \n\nAnd bids the heart in her return be blest. \n\nJoy to the Earth ! \xe2\x80\x94 for Spring with breeze and song, \nLeaflet and bud, comes jocundly along, \n\nWhile in her breath the trees are Dlossoming. \nAnd see ! the greenness of the tender grass \nWhere her light footstep airily doth pass \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe clear- voiced birds, and streams, and fountains sing \nA woven melody to greet her coming, \nAnd voices low and musical are humming \n\nA song of welcome \xe2\x80\x94 and the earth rejoices, \n\nAnd praises God with multitudinous voices. \n\n\n\nSPUING IN NEW ENGLAND. \n\nBY CARLOS WILCOX. \n\nLong swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds \nStart at the touch of vivifying beams. \nMoved by their secret force, the vital lymph \nDiffusive runs, and spreads o\'er wood and field \nA flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, \nIs naked Nature in her full attire. \n\n\n\nSPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. \n\nOn the first morn, light as an open plain \n\nIs all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured \n\nThrough the bare tops, on yellow leaves belowi \n\nWith strong reflection : on the last, \'tis dark \n\nWith full-grown foliage, shading all within. \n\nIn one short week the orchard buds and blooms ; \n\nAnd now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers, \n\nIt yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, \n\nOr all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. \n\nE\'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth, \n\nAnd the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, \n\nFilled with a watery glimmering, receives \n\nA grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. \n\nEach day are heard, and almost every hour, \n\nNew notes to swell the music of the groves. \n\nAnd soon the latest of the feathered train \n\nAt evening twilight come ; the lonely snipe, \n\nO\'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, \n\nInvisible, but with faint, tremulous tones, \n\nHovering or playing o\'er the listener\'s head ; \n\nAnd, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen \n\nFlying awhile at random, uttering oft \n\nA cheerful cry, attended with a shake \n\nOf level pinions, dark, but when upturned \n\nAgainst the brightness of the western sky, \n\nOne white plume showing in the midst of each, \n\nThen far down diving with loud hollow sound ; \n\n\n\n157 \n\n\n\n158 SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. \n\nAnd, deep at first within the distant wood, \nThe whip-poor-will, her name her only song. \nShe, soon as children from the noisy sport \nOf hooping, laughing, talking with all tones, \nTo hear the echoes of the empty barn, \nAre by her voice diverted and held mute, \nComes to the margin of the nearest grove ; \nAnd when the twilight, deepened into night, \nCalls them within, close to the house she comes, \nAnd on its dark side, haply on the step \nOf unfrequented door, lighting unseen, \nBreaks into strains, articulate and clear, \nThe closing sometimes quickened as in sport. \nNow, animate throughout, from morn to eve \nAll harmony, activity, and joy, \nIs lovely Nature, as in her blessed prime. \nThe robin to the garden or green yard, \nClose to the door, repairs to build again \nWithin her wonted tree ; and at her work \nSeems doubly busy for her past delay. \nAlong the surface of the winding stream, \nPursuing every turn, gay swallows skim, \nOr round the borders of the spacious lawn \nFly in repeated circles, rising o\'er \nHillock and fence with motion serpentine, \nEasy, and light. One snatches from the ground \n\n\n\nSPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. 159 \n\nA downy feather, and then upward springs, \nFollowed by others, but oft drops it soon, \nIn playful mood, or from too slight a hold, \nWhen all at once dart at the falling prize. \nThe flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown, \nHangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick \nTill her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops \nOn the next tree, and on its highest limb \nOr some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits, \nHer strain repeating. With sonorous notes \nOf every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, \nAll chanted in the fulness of delight, \nThe forest rings : where, far around enclosed \nWith bushy sides, and covered high above \nWith foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, \nLike pillars rising to support a roof, \nIt seems a temple vast, the space within \nRings loud and clear with thrilling melody. \nApart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, \nThe merry mocking-bird together links \nIn one continued song their different notes, \nAdding new life and sweetness to them all. \nHid under shrubs, the squirrel that in fields \nFrequents the stony wall and briery fence, \nHere chirps so shrill that human feet approach \nUnheard till just upon him, when, with cries \n\n\n\n160 SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. \n\nSudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat \nBeneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; \nBut oft a moment after reappea \nFirst peeping out, then starting forth at once \nWith a courageous air, yet in his pranks \nKeeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far \nTill left unheeded. In rank pastures graze, \nSingly and mutely, the contented herd ; \nAnd on the upland rough the peaceful sheep ; \nRegardless of the frolic lambs, that, close \nBeside them, and before their faces prone, \nWith many an antic leap and butting feint, \nTry to provoke them to unite in sport \nOr grant a look, till tired of vain attempts ; \nWhen, gathering in one company apart, \nAll vigour and delight, away they run, \nStraight to the utmost corner of the field, \nThe fence beside ; then, wheeling, disappear \nIn some small sandy pit, then rise to view ; \nOr crowd together up the heap of earth \nAround some upturned root of fallen tree, \nAnd on its top a trembling moment stand, \nThen to the distant flock at once return. \nExhilarated by the general joy, \nAnd the fair prospect of a fruitful year, \nThe peasant, with light heart and nimble step, \n\n\n\nSPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. \n\n\n\n161 \n\n\n\nHis work pursues, as it were pastime sweet, \nWith many a cheering word, his willing team, \nFor labour fresh he hastens to the field \n\nat eve, \n\n\n\n\nWhen loosened from the plough and homeward turned, \nHe follows slow and silent, stopping oft \nTo mark the daily growth of tender grain \nAnd meadows of deep verdure, or to view \nHis scattered flock and herd, of their own will \n\nsibling for the night by various paths, \nThe old now freely .sporting with the young, \nOr labouring with uncouth attempts at sport. \n\n\n\nTHE FALLS OF NIAGARA \n\nBY J. G. C. BRAINARD. \n\nThe thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, \nWhile I look upward to thee. It would seem \nAs if God poured thee from his " hollow hand," \nAnd hung his bow upon thine awful front ; \nAnd spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him, \nWho dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour\'s sake, \n" The sound of many waters ;" and had bade \nThy flood to chronicle the ages back, \nAnd notch His cent\'ries in the eternal rocks. \n\nDeep calleth unto deep. And what are we, \nThat hear the question of that voice sublime? \nO, what are all the notes that ever rung \nFrom war\'s vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! \nYea, what is all the riot man can make, \nIn his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! \nAnd yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, \nWho drowned a world, and heaped the waters far \nAbove its loftiest mountains 1 \xe2\x80\x94 a light wave, \nThat breaks, and whispers of its Maker\'s might \n\n\n\nSCENE FROM HADAD. \n\nBY JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. \n\nHie garden of Absalom\'s house on Mount Zion, near the \npalace, overlooking the city. Tamar sitting by a fountain. \n\nTarn. How aromatic evening grows ! The flowers \nAnd spicy shrubs exhale like onycha ; \nSpikenard and henna emulate in sweets. \nBlest hour ! which He, who fashioned it so fair, \nSo softly glowing, so contemplative, \nHath set, and sanctified to look on man. \nAnd lo ! the smoke of evening sacrifice \nAscends from out the tabernacle. \xe2\x80\x94 Heaven, \nAccept the expiation, and forgive \nThis day\'s offences ! \xe2\x80\x94 Ha ! the wonted strain, \nPrecursor of his coming ! \xe2\x80\x94 Whence can this\xe2\x80\x94 \nIt seems to flow from some unearthly hand \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\nEnter Hadad. \n\nHad. Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount, \nHerself, or heaven ? \n\nTarn. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence \nThose sad, mysterious sounds. \n\nHad. What sounds, dear Princess ] \n\nTarn. Surely, thou know\'st ; and now I almost think \nSome spiritual creature waits on thee. \n\nHad. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends \nUp from the city to these quiet shades ; \nA blended murmur sweetly harmonizing \nWith flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, \nAnd voices from the hills. \n\n\n\nSCENE FROM HADAD. 165 \n\nTarn. The sounds I mean, \nFloated like mournful music round my head, \nFrom unseen fingers. \n\nHad. When! \n\nTarn. Now, as thou earnest. \n\nHad. \'Tis but thy fancy, wrought \nTo ecstasy ; or else thy grandsire\'s harp \nResounding from his tower at eventide. \nI\'ve lingered to enjoy its solemn tones, \nTill the broad moon, that rose o\'er Olivet, \nStood listening in the zenith ; yea, have deemed \nViols and heavenly voices answered him. \n\nTarn. But these \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHad. Were we in Syria, I might say \nThe Naiad of the fount, or some sweet Nymph, \nThe goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee, \nAnd gave thee salutations ; but I fear \nJudah would call me infidel to Moses. \n\nTarn. How like my fancy ! When these strains precede \nThy steps, as oft they do, I love to think \nSome gentle being who delights in us \nIs hovering near, and warns me of thy coming ; \nBut they are dirge-like. \n\nHad. Youthful fantasy, \nAttuned to sadness, makes them seem so, lady. \nSo evening\'s charming voices, welcomed ever, \nAs signs of rest and peace ; \xe2\x80\x94 the watchman\'s call, \n\n\n\n166 SCENE FROM HADAD. \n\nThe closing gates, the Levite\'s mellow trump \nAnnouncing the returning moon, the pipe \nOf swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell, \nSend melancholy to a drooping soul. \n\nTarn. But how delicious are the pensive dreams \nThat steal upon the fancy at their call ! \n\nHad. Delicious to behold the world at rest. \nMeek labour wipes his brow, and intermits \nThe curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot ; \nHerdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks, \xe2\x80\x94 and hark ! \nWhat merry strains they send from Olivet ! \nThe jar of life is still ; the city speaks \nIn gentle murmurs ; voices chime with lutes \nWaked in the streets and gardens ; loving pairs \nEye the red west in one another\'s arms ; \nAnd nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields \nA glimpse of happiness, which He, who formed \nEarth and the stars, had power to make eternal. \n\nTarn. Ah ! Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend \nWho gave so much, because he gave not all ] \n\nHad. Perfect benevolence, methinks, had willed \nUnceasing happiness, and peace, and joy ; \nFilled the whole universe of human hearts \nWith pleasure, like a flowing spring of life. \n\nTarn. Our Prophet teaches so, till man\'s rebellion. \n\nHad. Rebellion ! \xe2\x80\x94 Had he leaguered Heaven itself \nWith beings powerful, numberless, and dreadful \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nSCENE FROM HADAD. 167 \n\nMixed onset \'midst the lacerating hail, \n\nAnd snake-tongued thunderbolts, that hissed and stung \n\nWorse than eruptive mountains, \xe2\x80\x94 this had fallen \n\nWithin the category. \xe2\x80\x94 But what did man ] \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTasted an apple ! and the fragile scene, \n\nEden, and innocence, and human bliss, \n\nThe nectar-flowing streams, life-giving fruits, \n\nCelestial shades, and amaranthine flowers, \n\nVanish ; and sorrow, toil, and pain, and death, \n\nCleave to him by an everlasting curse. \n\nTarn. Ah ! talk not thus. \n\nHad. Is this benevolence 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \nNay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me ; \nFor I was tutored in a brighter faith. \nOur Syrians deem each lucid fount and stream, \nForest and mountain, glade and bosky dell, \nPeopled with kind divinities, the friends \nOf man, a spiritual race allied \nTo him by many sympathies, who seek \nHis happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts, \nCool with their waves, and fan him with their airs. \nO\'er them, the Spirit of the Universe, \nOr Soul of Nature, circumfuses all \nWith mild, benevolent, and sun-like radiance ; \nPervading, warming, vivifying earth, \nAs spirit does the body, till green herbs, \nAnd beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars rise ; \n\n\n\n168 SCENE FROM HADAD. \n\nAnd shooting stellar influence through her caves, \nWhence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre. \n\nTarn. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams. \n\nHad. These Deities \nThey invocate with cheerful, gentle rites, \nHang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines \nWith Nature\'s bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers. \nNot like yon gory mount that ever reeks \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTarn. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar. \n\nHad. Nay, sweet.\xe2\x80\x94 Having enjoyed all pleasures here \nThat Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love, \nAt death, the happy Syrian maiden deems \nHer immaterial flies into the fields, \nOr circumambient clouds, or crystal brooks, \nAnd dwells, a Deity, with those she worshipped ; \nTill time, or fate, return her in its course \nTo quaff, once more, the cup of human joy. \n\nTarn. But thou believ\'st not this. \n\nHad. I almost wish \nThou didst ; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar, \nThy spirit is too tender for a Law \nAnnounced in terrors, coupled with the threats \nOf an inflexible and dreadful Being, \nWhose word annihilates, \xe2\x80\x94 who could arrest \nThe sun in heaven, or, if he pleased, abolish \nLight from creation, and leave wretched man \nTo darkness, \xe2\x80\x94 as he did to worse, when all \n\n\n\nSCENE FROM HADAD, 169 \n\nHis firmamental cataracts came down ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nAll perished, \xe2\x80\x94 yet his purpose faltered not ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nHis anger never dies, never remits. \nBut unextinguished burns to deepest hell. \nJealous, implacable \n\nTarn. Peace ! impious ! peace ! \n\nHad. Ha ! says not Moses so 7 \nThe Lord is jealous. \n\nTarn. Jealous of our faith, \nOur love, our true obedience, justly his ; \nAnd a poor recompense for all his favours. \nImplacable he is not ; contrite man, \nNe\'er found him so. \n\nHad. But others have, \nIf oracles be true. \n\nTarn. Little we know \nOf them ; and nothing of their dire offence. \n\nHad. I meant not to displease, love ; but my soul \nRevolts, because I think thy gentle nature \nShudders at him and yonder bloody rites. \nHow dreadful ! when the world awakes to light, \nAnd life, and gladness, and the jocund tide \nBounds in the veins of every happy creature, \nMorning is ushered by a murdered victim, \nWhose wasting members reek upon the air, \nPolluting the pure firmament ; the shades \nOf evening scent of death ; almost, the shrine \n\n\n\n170 SCENE FROM HADAD. \n\nItself, o\'ershadowed by the Cherubim ; \nAnd where the clotted current from the altar \nMixes with Kedron, all its waves are gore. \nNay, nay, I grieve thee ; \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis not for myself, \nBut that I fear these gloomy things oppress \nThy soul, and cloud its native sunshine. \n\nTarn, (in tears, clasping her hands.) \nWitness, ye Heavens ! Eternal Father, witness ! \nBlest God of Jacob ! Maker ! Friend ! Preserver ! \nThat with my heart, my undivided soul, \nI love, adore, and praise thy glorious name, \nConfess thee Lord of all, believe thy Laws \nWise, just, and merciful, as they are true. \nO, Hadad, Hadad ! you misconstrue much \nThe sadness that usurps me ; \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis for thee \nI grieve, \xe2\x80\x94 for hopes that fade, \xe2\x80\x94 for your lost soul, \nAnd my lost happiness. \n\nHad. O, say not so, \nBeloved Princess. Why distrust my faith] \n\nTarn. Thou know\'st, alas, my weakness ; but remember* \nI never, never will be thine, although \nThe feast, the blessing, and the song were past, \nThough Absalom and David called me bride, \nTill sure thou own\'st, with truth, and love sincere, \nThe Lord Jehovah. \n\nHad. Leave me not \xe2\x80\x94 Hear, hear \xe2\x80\x94 \nI do believe \xe2\x80\x94 I know that Being lives \n\n\n\nSCENE FROM HADAD. 171 \n\nWhom you adore. Ah ! stay \xe2\x80\x94 by proofs I know \nWhich Moses had not. \n\nTarn. Prince, unclasp my hand. \n\n(Exit.) \n\nHad. Untwine thy fetters if thou canst. \xe2\x80\x94 How sweet \nTo watch the struggling softness ! It allays \nThe beating tempest of my thoughts, and flows, \nLike the nepenthe of Elysium through me. \nHow exquisite ! Like subtlest essences, \nShe fills the spirit ! How the girdle clips \nHer taper waist with its resplendent clasp ! \nHer bosom\'s silvery-swelling network yields \nRavishing glimpses, like sweet shade and moonshine \nCheckering Astarte\'s statue \n\n\n\nTHE LAST HEADER. \n\nBY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. \n\nI sometimes sit beneath a tree, \nAnd read my own sweet songs ; \n\nThough nought they may to others be, \nEach humble line prolongs \n\nA tone that might have passed away, \n\nBut for that scarce remembered lay. \n\nI keep them like a lock or leaf, \nThat some dear girl has given ; \n\nFrail record of an hour, as brief \nAs sunset clouds in heaven, \n\nBut spreading purple twilight still \n\nHigh over memory\'s shadowed hill. \n\n\n\nTHE LAST READER. 173 \n\nThey lie upon my pathway bleak, \n\nThose flowers that once ran wild, \nAs on a father\'s care-worn cheek \n\nThe ringlets of his child ; \nThe golden mingling with the gray, \nAnd stealing half its snows away. \n\nWhat care I though the dust is spread \n\nAround these yellow leaves, \nOr o\'er them his sarcastic thread \n\nOblivion\'s insect weaves ; \nThough weeds are tangled on the stream, \nIt still reflects my morning\'s beam. \n\nAnd therefore love I such as smile \n\nOn these neglected songs, \nNor deem that flattery\'s needless wile \n\nMy opening bosom wrongs ; \nFor who would trample, at my side, \nA few pale buds, my garden\'s pride ? \n\nIt may be that my scanty ore \n\nLong years have washed away, \nAnd where were golden sands before, \n\nIs nought but common clay ; \nStill something sparkles in the sun \nFor memory to look back upon. \n\n\n\n174 THE LAST READER. \n\nAnd when my name no more is heard, \n\nMy lyre no more is known, \nStill let me, like a winter\'s bird, \n\nIn silence and alone, \nFold over them the weary wing \nOnce flashing through the dews of spring. \n\nYes, let my fancy fondly wrap \n\nMy youth in its decline, \nAnd riot in the rosy lap \n\nOf thoughts that once were mine, \nAnd give the worm my little store \nWhen the last reader reads no more ! \n\n\n\nLINES ON PASSING- THE GHAVE OF \nMY SISTER. \n\nBY MICAH P. FLINT. \n\nOn yonder shore, on yonder shore, \n\nNow verdant with the depths of shade, \n\nBeneath the white-armed sycamore, \nThere is a little infant laid. \n\nForgive this tear. \xe2\x80\x94 A brother weeps. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps. \n\nShe sleeps alone, she sleeps alone, \nAnd summer\'s forests o\'er her wave ; \n\nAnd sighing winds at autumn moan \nAround the little stranger\'s grave, \n\nAs though they murmured at the fate \n\nOf one so lone and desolate. \n\n\n\n176 ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER. \n\nIn sounds that seem like sorrow\'s own, \nTheir funeral dirges faintly creep ; \n\nThen deepening to an organ tone, \nIn all their solemn cadence sweep, \n\nAnd pour, unheard, along the wild, \n\nTheir desert anthem o\'er a child. \n\nShe came, and passed. Can I forget, \n\nHow we whose hearts had hailed her birth, \n\nEre three autumnal suns had set, \nConsigned her to her mother Earth ! \n\nJoys and their memories pass away ; \n\nBut griefs are deeper ploughed than they. \n\nWe laid her in her narrow cell, \n\nWe heaped the soft mould on her breast ; \n\nAnd parting tears, like rain-drops, fell \nUpon her lonely place of rest. \n\nMay angels guard it ; \xe2\x80\x94 may they bless \n\nHer slumbers in the wilderness. \n\nShe sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; \n\nFor, all unheard, on yonder shore, \nThe sweeping flood, with torrent moan, \n\nAt evening lifts its solemn roar, \nAs, in one broad, eternal tide, \nThe rolling waters onward glide. \n\n\n\nON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER. 177 \n\nThere is no marble monument, \n\nThere is no stone, with graven lie, \nTo tell of love and virtue blent \n\nIn one almost too good to die. \nWe needed no such useless trace \nTo point us to her resting place. \n\nShe sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; \n\nBut, midst the tears of April showers, \nThe genius of the wild hath strown \n\nHis germs of fruits, his fairest flowers, \nAnd cast his robes of vernal bloom \nIn guardian fondness o\'er her tomb. \n\nShe sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; \n\nYet yearly is her grave-turf dressed, \nAnd still the summer vines are thrown, \n\nIn annual wreaths, across her breast, \nAnd still the sighing autumn grieves, \nAnd strews the hallowed spot with leaves. \n\n\n\nTO A CITY PIG-EON. \n\nBY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. \n\nStoop to my window, thou beautiful dove ! \nThy daily visits have touched my love, \nI watch thy coming, and list the note \nThat stirs so low in thy mellow throat, \n\nAnd my joy is high \nTo catch the glance of thy gentle eye. \n\nWhy dost thou sit on the heated eaves, \n\nAnd forsake the wood with its freshened leaves 1 \n\nWhy dost thou haunt the sultry street, \n\nWhen the paths of the forest are cool and sweet 1 \n\nHow canst thou bear \nThis noise of people \xe2\x80\x94 this sultry air ] \n\nThou alone of the feathered race \nDost look unscared on the human face ; \nThou alone, with a wing to flee, \nDost love with man in his haunts to be ; \n\n\n\nTO A CITY PIGEON. 179 \n\nAnd " the gentle dove" \nHas become a name for trust and love. \n\nA holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! \nThou\'rt named with childhood\'s earliest word ! \nThou\'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild \nIn the prisoned thoughts of the city child, \n\nAnd thy glossy wings \nAre its brightest image of moving things. \n\nIt is no light chance. Thou art set apart, \nWisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, \nTo stir the love for the bright and fair \nThat else were sealed in this crow ded air ; \n\nI sometimes dream \nAngelic rays from thy pinions stream. \n\nCome then, ever, when daylight leaves \nThe page I read, to my humble eaves, \nAnd wash thy breast in the hollow spout, \nAnd murmur thy low sweet music out ! \n\nI hear and see \nLessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! \n\n\n\nWRITTEN AT MY MOTHER\'S GRAVE, \n\nBY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. \n\nThe trembling dew-drops fall \nUpon the shutting flowers, like souls at rest, \nThe stars shine gloriously, and all, \nSave me, is blest. \n\nMother, I love thy grave ! \nThe violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, \nWaves o\'er thy head \xe2\x80\x94 when shall it wave \nAbove thy child ? \n\n\'Tis a sweet flower, yet must \nIts bright leaves to the coming tempest bow, \nDear mother, \'tis thine emblem \xe2\x80\x94 dust \nIs on thy brow ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nWRITTEN AT MY MOTHER\' S GRAVE. 181 \n\nAnd I could love to die, \nTo leave untasted life\'s dark, bitter stream?, \nBy thee, as erst in childhood, lie, \n\nAnd share thy dreams. \n\nAnd must I linger here, \nTo stain the plumage of my sinless years, \nAnd mourn the hopes to childhood dear \nWith bitter tears ! \n\nAy, must I linger here, \nA lonely branch upon a blasted tree, \nWhose last frail leaf, untimely sere, \nWent down with thee ! \n\nOft from life\'s withered bower, \nIn still communion with the past I turn, \nAnd muse on thee, the only flower \nIn memory\'s urn. \n\nAnd, when the Evening pale \nBows like a mourner on the dim blue wave, \nI stray to hear the night-winds wail \nAround thy grave. \n\nWhere is thy spirit flown 1 \nI gaze above \xe2\x80\x94 thy look is imaged there, \n\nT \n\n\n\n182 WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER\'S GRAVE. \n\nI listen \xe2\x80\x94 and thy gentle tone \nIs on the air. \n\nOh come, while here I press \nMy brow upon thy grave \xe2\x80\x94 and, in those mild \nAnd thrilling tones of tenderness, \nBless, bless thy child ! \n\nYes, bless thy weeping child, \nAnd o\'er thine urn \xe2\x80\x94 religion\'s holiest shrine \xe2\x80\x94 \nOh give his spirit undefiled \n\nTo blend with thine. \n\n\n\nEXTRACT FROM PROMETHEUS. \n\n\n\nBY JAMES G. PERCIVAL. \n\n\n\nOur thoughts are boundless though our frames are frailj \nOur souls immortal, though our limbs decay ; \n\nThough darkened in this poor life by a veil \nOf suffering, dying matter, we shall play \nIn truth\'s eternal sunbeams ,* on the way \n\nTo Heaven\'s high capitol our car shall roll ; \nThe temple of the power whom all obey, \n\nThat is the mark we tend to, for the soul \n\nCan take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal \n\nI feel it \xe2\x80\x94 though the flesh is weak, I feel \nThe spirit has its energies untamed \n\n\n\n184 PROMETHEUS. \n\nBy all its fatal wanderings ; time may heal \n\nThe wounds which it has suffered ; folly claimed \nToo large a portion of its youth ; ashamed \n\nOf those low pleasures, it would leap and fly, \nAnd soar on wings of lightning, like the famed \n\nElijah, when the chariot rushing by \n\nBore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. \n\nWe are as barks afloat upon the sea \n\nHelmless and oarless, when the light has fled, \n\nThe spirit, whose strong influence can free \nThe drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead, \nCold night of mortal darkness ; from the bed \n\nOf sloth he rouses at her sacred call, \n\nAnd kindling in the blaze around him shed, \n\nRends with strong effort sin\'s debasing thrall, \n\nAnd gives to God, his strength, his heart, his mind, his all. \n\nOur home is not on earth ; although we sleep, \n\nAnd sink in seeming death awhile, yet then \nThe awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap \n\nTo life, and energy, and light, again ; \n\nWe cannot slumber always in the den \nOf sense and selfishness ; the day will break, \n\nEre we for ever leave the haunts of men ; \nEven at the parting hour the soul will wake, \nNor like a senseless brute its unknown journey take. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPROMETHEUS. \n\n\n\nl&O \n\n\n\nHow awful is that hour, when conscience stings \nThe hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears, \n\nDeep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, \nIn one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, \nAnd screaming like a vulture in his ears, \n\nTells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame ; \nHow wild the fury of his soul careers ! \n\nHis swart eye flashes with intensest flame, \n\nAnd like the torture\'s rack the wrestling of his frame. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n186 PR O M E T H E U S . \n\nOur souls have wings ; their flight is like the rush \nOf whirlwinds, and they upward point their way, \n\nLike him who bears the thunder, when the flush \nOf his keen eye feeds on the dazzling ray : \nHe claps his pinions in the blaze of day, \n\nAnd gaining on the loftiest arch his throne, \nDarts his quick vision on his fated prey, \n\nAnd, gathering all his vigour, he is gone, \n\nAnd in an instant grasps his victim as his own. \n\nWe soar as proudly, and as quickly fall, \n\nThis moment in the empyrean, then we sink, \nAnd wrapping in the joys of sense our all, \n\nThe stream that flows from Heaven we cannot drink, \n\nBut we will lie along the flowery brink \nOf pleasure\'s tempting current, till the wave \n\nIs bitter and its banks bare, then we think \nOf what we might have been, and, idly brave, \nWe take a short weak flight, and drop into the grave. \n\n\n\nSONG-. \n\nBY GEORGE P. MORRIS. \n\nWhen other friends are round thee, \n\nAnd other hearts are thine ; \nWhen other bays have crowned thee, \n\nMore fresh and green than mine. \nThen think how sad and lonely \n\nThis wretched heart will be ; \nWhich, while it beats \xe2\x80\x94 beats only, \n\nBeloved one ! for thee. \n\nYet do not think I doubt thee ; \n\nI know thy truth remains, \nI would not live without thee \n\nFor all the world contains. \nThou art the star that guides me \n\nAlong life\'s troubled sea, \nAnd whatever fate betides me, \n\nThis heart still turns to thee. \n\n\n\n\nTO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. \n\n\n\nBY AMELIA B. WELBY. \n\n\n\nWhen shines the star, by thee loved best, \n\nUpon these soft delicious eves, \nLighting the ring-dove to her nest, \n\nWhere trembling stir the darkling leaves ; \nWhen flings the wave its crest of foam \n\nAbove the shadowy-mantled seas, \nA softness o\'er my heart doth come, \n\nLinking thy memory with these ; \n\n\n\nTO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. 189 \n\nFor if, amid those orbs that roll, \n\nThou hast at times a thought of me, \nFor every one that stirs thy soul \n\nA thousand stir my own of thee. \n\nEven now thy dear remembered eyes, \n\nFilled up with floods of radiant light> \nSeem bending from the twilight skies, \n\nOutshining all the stars of night : \nAnd thy young face divinely fair, \n\nLike a bright cloud, seems melting through, \nWhile low sweet whispers fill the air, \n\nMaking my own lips whisper too ; \nFor never does the soft south wind \n\nSteal o\'er the hushed and lonely sea, \nBut it awakens in my mind \n\nA thousand memories of thee. \n\nOh ! could I, while these hours of dreams \n\nAre gathering o\'er the silent hills, \nWhile every breeze a minstrel seems \n\nAnd every leaf a heart that thrills, \nSteal all unseen to some hushed place, \n\nAnd, kneeling \'neath those burning orbs, \nFor ever gaze on thy sweet face \n\nTill seeing every sense absorbs, \n\n\n\n190 TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. \n\nAnd, singling out each blessed even \nThe star that earliest lights the sea, \n\nForget another shines in heaven \n\nWhile shines the one beloved by thee. \n\nLost one ! companion of the blest \n\nThou, who in purer air dost dwell, \nEre froze the life-drops in thy breast, \n\nOr fled thy soul its mystic cell, \nWe passed on earth such hours of bliss \n\nAs none but kindred hearts can know, \nAnd, happy in a world like this, \n\nBut dreamed of that to which we go, \nTill thou wert called in thy young years \n\nTo wander o\'er that shoreless sea, \nWhere, like a mist, time disappears, \n\nMelting into eternity. \n\nI\'m thinking of some sunny hours, \n\nThat shone out goldenly in June, \nWhen birds were singing \'mong the flowers \n\nWith wild sweet voices all in tune, \nWhen o\'er thy locks of paly gold \n\nFlowed thy transparent veil away, - \nTill \'neath each snow-white trembling fold \n\nThe Eden of thy bosom lay ; \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. 191 \n\nAnd sheltered \'neath its dark-fringed lid \nTill raised from thence in girlish glee, \n\nHow modestly thy glance lay hid \nFrom the fond glances bent on thee. \n\nThere are some hours that pass so soon, \n\nOur spell-touched hearts scarce know they end ; \nAnd so it was with that sweet June, \n\nEre thou wert lost, my gentle friend ! \nOh ! how I\'ll watch each flower that closes \n\nThrough autumn\'s soft and breezy reign, \nTill summer-blooms restore the roses, \n\nAnd merry June shall come again ! \nBut, ah ! while float its sunny hours \n\nO\'er fragrant shore and trembling sea, \nMissing thy face among the flowers, \n\nHow my full heart will mourn for thee ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS. \n\n\n\nEY WILLIAM CROSWELL. \n\n\n\n"The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee, the fir tree, the pine tree and \nthe box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and 1 will make the \nplace of my feet glorious." \xe2\x80\x94 Isaiah. \n\nThe thickly woven boughs they wreathe \n\nThrough every hallowed fane, \nA soft reviving odour breathe \n\nOf summer\'s gentle reign ; \nAnd rich the ray of mild green light \n\nWhich, like an emerald\'s glow, \nComes struggling through the latticed height, \n\nUpon the crowds below. \n\nOh let the streams of solemn thought, \n\nWhich in those temples rise, \nFrom deeper sources spring than aught \n\nDependant on the skies. \nThen though the summer\'s glow departs, \n\nAnd winter\'s withering chill \nRests on the cheerless woods, our hearts \n\nShall be unchanging still. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEPARTED. \n\nBY PARK BENJAMIN. \n\nThe departed ! the departed ! \n\nThey visit us in dreams, \nAnd they glide above our memories, \n\nLike shadows over streams ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n"But where the cheerful lights of home \n\nIn constant lustre burn, \nThe departed \xe2\x80\x94 the departed \n\nCan never more return ! \n\nThe good, the brave, the beautiful ! \n\nHow dreamless is their sleep, \nWhere rolls the dirge-like music \n\nOf the ever-tossing deep, \xe2\x80\x94 \nOr where the hurrying night- winds \n\nPale Winter\'s robes have spread \nAbove the narrow palaces, \n\nIn the cities of the dead I \n\n\n\n194 THE DEPARTED. \n\nI look around and feel the awe \n\nOf one who walks alone \xe2\x80\x94 \nAmong the wrecks of former days, \n\nIn mournful ruin strown. \nI start to hear the stirring sounds \n\nAmong the cypress trees ; \nFor the voice of the departed \n\nIs borne upon the breeze. \n\nThat solemn voice ! it mingles with \n\nEach free and careless strain ; \nI scarce can think Earth\'s minstrelsy \n\nWill cheer my heart again. \nThe melody of Summer waves, \n\nThe thrilling notes of birds, \nCan never be so dear to me, \n\nAs their remembered words. \n\nI sometimes dream their pleasant smiles \n\nStill on me sweetly fall ! \nTheir tones of love I faintly hear \n\nMy name in sadness call. \nI know that they are happy, \n\nWith their angel plumage on ; \nBut my heart is very desolate, \n\nTo think that they are gone. \n\n\n\nTHE DEPARTED. 195 \n\nThe departed ! \xe2\x80\x94 the departed ! \n\nThey visit us in dreams, \nAnd they glide above our memories, \n\nLike shadows over streams ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut where the cheerful lights of home \n\nIn constant lustre burn, \nThe departed \xe2\x80\x94 the departed \n\nCan never more return ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. \n\nBY ARTHUR CLEAVELAND COX. \nUpon the bells. Zechariah, 14 : 20. \n\nThe chimes, the chimes of Motherland, \n\nOf England green and old, \nThat out from fane and ivied tower \n\nA thousand years have toll\'d ; \nHow glorious must their music be \n\nAs breaks the hallowed day, \nAnd calleth with a seraph\'s voice \n\nA nation up to pray ! \n\nThose chimes that tell a thousand tales, \n\nSweet tales of olden time ! \nAnd ring a thousand memories \n\nAt vesper, and at prime ; \nAt bridal and at burial, \n\nFor cottager and king \xe2\x80\x94 \nThose chimes \xe2\x80\x94 those glorious Christian chimes, \n\nHow blessedly they ring ! \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nTHE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. 197 \n\nThose chimes, those chimes of Motherland, \n\nUpon a Christmas morn, \nOutbreaking, as the angels did, \n\nFor a Redeemer born ; \nHow merrily they call afar, \n\nTo cot and baron\'s hall, \nWith holly deck\'d and mistletoe, \n\nTo keep the festival ! \n\nThe chimes of England, how they peal \n\nFrom tower and gothic pile, \nWhere hymn and swelling anthem fill \n\nThe dim cathedral aisle ; \nWhere windows bathe the holy light \n\nOn priestly heads that falls, \nAnd stain the florid tracery \n\nAnd banner-dighted walls ! \n\nAnd then, those Easter bells, in Spring I \n\nThose glorious Easter chimes ! \nHow loyally they hail thee round, \n\nOld Queen of holy times ! \nFrom hill to hill, like sentinels, \n\nResponsively they cry, \nAnd sing the rising of the Lord, \n\nFrom vale to mountain high. \n\n\n\n198 THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. \n\nI love ye \xe2\x80\x94 chimes of Motherland, \n\nWith all this soul of mine, \nAnd bless the Lord that I am sprung \n\nOf good old English line ! \nAnd like a son I sing the lay \n\nThat England\'s glory tells ; \nFor she is lovely to the Lord, \n\nFor you, ye Christian bells ! \n\nAnd heir of her ancestral fame, \n\nAnd happy in my birth, \nThee too I love, my Forest-land, \n\nThe joy of all the earth ; \nFor thine thy mother\'s voice shall be, \n\nAnd here \xe2\x80\x94 where God is king, \nWith English chimes, from Christian spires, \n\nThe wilderness shall ring. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nLINES \n\nSuggested by a picture of Washington Allston. \nBY ISAAC 3ic LELLAN. \n\nThe tender Twilight with a crimson cheek \nLeans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind \nHath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down \nTo slumber by the darkened woods \xe2\x80\x94 the herds \nHave left their pastures, where the sward grows green \nAnd lofty by the river\'s sedgy brink, \nAnd slow are winding home. Hark, from afar \nTheir tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade \nAnd forest-openings, with a pleasant sound ; \nWhile answering Echo from the distant hill, \nSends back the music of the herdsman\'s horn. \n\n\n\n, \n\n\n\n200 LINES. \n\nHow tenderly the trembling light yet plays \nO\'er the far-waving foliage ! Day\'s last blush \nStill lingers on the billowy waste of leaves, \nWith a strange beauty \xe2\x80\x94 like the yellow flush \nThat haunts the ocean, when the day goes by. \nMethinks, whene\'er earth\'s wearying troubles pass \nLike winter shadows o\'er the peaceful mind, \n\'Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad, \nWith solemn footsteps, into Nature\'s vast \nAnd happy palaces, and lead a life \nOf peace in some green paradise like this. \n\nThe brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum \nNe\'er startled these green woods : \xe2\x80\x94 the raging sword \nHath never gathered its red harvest here ! \nThe peaceful Summer day hath never closed \nAround this quiet spot, and caught the gleam \nOf War\'s rude pomp : \xe2\x80\x94 the humble dweller here \nHath never left his sickle in the field, \nTo slay his fellow with unholy hand ; \nThe maddening voice of battle, the wild groan, \nThe thrilling murmuring of the dying man, \nAnd the shrill shriek of mortal agony, \nHave never broke its Sabbath solitude. \n\n\n\nPALESTINE. \n\n\n\nBY JOHN G. WHITTIER. \n\n\n\nBlest land of Judea ! thrice hallowed of song, \nWhere the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng ; \nIn the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, \nOn the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee ! \n\nWith the eye of a spirit, I look on that shore, \nWhere pilgrim and prophet have lingered before ; \nWith the glide of a spirit, I traverse the sod \nMade bright by the steps of the angels of God. \n\nBlue sea of the hills ! in my spirit I hear \n\nThy waters, Genasseret, chime on my ear ; \n\nWhere the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, \n\nAnd thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown. \n\nBeyond are Bethulia\'s mountains of green, \nAnd the desolate hills of the wild Godarene ; \n\n\n\n202 PALESTINE. \n\nAnd I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see \nThe gleam of thy waters, oh dark Gallilee I \n\nHark, a sound in the valleys ! where swollen and strong, \nThy river, oh Kishon, is sweeping along ; \nWhere the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, \nAnd thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. \n\nThere, down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, \nAnd Naphtali\'s stag, with his eyeballs of flame, \nAnd the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, \nFor the arm of the Lord was Abinoam\'s son ! \n\nThere sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang \nTo the song which the beautiful Prophetess sang, \nWhen the Princes of Issachar stood by her side, \nAnd the shout of a host in its triumph replied. \n\nLo ! Bethlehem\'s hill-site before me is seen, \nWith the mountains around, and the valleys between ; \nThere rested the shepherds of Judah, and there \nThe song of the angels rose sweet on the air. \n\nAnd Bethany\'s palm-trees in beauty still throw \nTheir shadows at noon on the ruins below ; \nBut where are the sisters who hastened to greet \nThe lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet ! \n\n\n\nPALESTINE. 203 \n\nI tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod ; \nI stand where they stood with the Chosen of God : \nWhere his blessing was heard, and his lessons were \n\ntaught, \nWhere the blind were restored, and the healing was \n\nwrought \n\nOh, here with his flock the sad Wanderer came, \nThese hills he toiled over in grief are the same \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe founts where he drank by the wayside still flow, \nAnd the same airs are blowing which breathed on his brow. \n\nAnd throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, \nBut with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet : \nFor the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, \nAnd the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone ! \n\nBut wherefore this dream of the earthly abode \nOf Humanity clothed in the brightness of God ? \nWere my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, \nIt could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him ! \n\nNot in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when \nIn love and in meekness he moved among men ; \nAnd the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the \n\nsea, \nIn the hush of my spirit would whisper to me ! \n\n\n\n204 PALESTINE. \n\nAnd what if my feet may not tread where He stood, \nNor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee\'s flood, \nNor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear, \nNor my knees press Gethsemane\'s garden of prayer. \n\nYet, Loved of the Father, thy spirit is near, \nTo the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here, \nAnd the voice of thy love is the same even now, \nAs at Bethany\'s tomb, or on Olivet\'s brow, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOh, the outward hath gone ! \xe2\x80\x94 but in glory and power, \nThe spirit surviveth the things of an hour ; \nUnchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame \nOn the heart\'s secret altar is burning the same ! \n\n\n\nTHE APRIL SHOWER. \n\nBY MRS. SEBA SMITH. \n\nThe April rain ! the April rain ! \n\nI hear the pleasant sound, \nNow soft and still, like gentle dew, \n\nNow drenching all the ground. \nPray tell me why an April shower \n\nIs pleasanter to see \nThan falling drops of other rain ? \n\nI\'m sure it is to me. \n\nI wonder if \'tis really so, \n\nOr only Hope, the while, \nThat tells of swelling buds and flowers, \n\nAnd Summer\'s coming smile : \nWhate\'er it is, the April shower \n\nMakes me a child again ; \nI feel a rush of youthful blood, \n\nAs falls the April rain. \n\n\n\n206 THE APRIL SHOWER. \n\nAnd sure, were I a little bulb, \n\nWithin the darksome ground, \nI should love to hear the April rain \n\nSo softly falling round ; \nOr any tiny flower were I, \n\nBy Nature swaddled up, \nHow pleasantly the April shower \n\nWould bathe my hidden cup ! \n\nThe small brown seed that rattled down \n\nOn the cold autumnal earth, \nIs bursting from its cerements forth, \n\nRejoicing in its birth ; \nThe slender spears of pale green grass \n\nAre smiling in the light ; \nThe clover opes its folded leaves, \n\nAs though it felt delight. \n\nThe robin sings on the leafless tree, \n\nAnd upward turns his eye, \nAs if he loved to see the drops \n\nCome filtering down the sky ; \nNo doubt he longs the bright green leaves \n\nAbout his home to see, \nAnd feel the swaying summer winds \n\nPlay in the full-robed tree. \n\n\n\nTHE VOICE OF THE GALE. 207 \n\nThe cottage door is open wide, \n\nAnd cheerful sounds are heard ; \nThe young girl sings at the merry wheel \n\nA song like the wildwood bird ; \nThe creeping child by the old worn sill \n\nPeers out with winking eye, \nAnd his ringlets parts with his chubby hand, \n\nAs the drops come spattering by. \n\nWith bounding heart beneath the sky \n\nThe truant boy is out, \nAnd hoop and ball are darting by, \n\nWith many a merry shout ; \nAy, shout away, ye joyous throng ! \n\nFor yours is the April day ; \nI love to see your spirits dance, \n\nIn your pure and healthful play ! \n\n\n\nTHE VOICE OF THE GALE. \n\nBY THOMAS J. CHARLTON. \n\n\'Tis the voice of the gale : I have heard it, at night, \nSweep the depths of the sea with its terrible might ; \nAnd the sound of its wailing seemed fraught with the cry \nOf thousands who sank mid the waters to die. \n\n\n\n208 THE VOICE OF THE GALE. \n\n\'Tis the voice of the gale : I have heard its deep moan \nThrough the desolate halls of some fabric o\'erthrown ; \nAnd the accents of those who once gladdened its hearth \nSeemed again to return to the place of their birth. \n\n\'Tis the voice of the gale : mid the desolate plain, \nIn the forest\'s dark gloom, I have heard it complain, \nLike the tones of some spirit that hovered in air, \nAnd mourned for the children of sorrow and care. \n\n\'Tis the voice of the gale, which, to fancy\'s fond ear, \nSeems filled with the accents of those ever dear, \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy friends, my companions, my kindred, \xe2\x80\x94 all those \nWho have sunk to the sleep of a lasting repose. \n\nYes ; oft, mid its moanings, we dream they are nigh, \nAnd fancy we hear their soft voices reply : \n\'Tis a vision of bliss, till, by reason o\'erthrown, \nWe hear the rude breath of the tempest alone. \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\n\nTO A WATERFALL. \n\n\n\nBY ELIZABETH F. ELLET. \n\n\n\nWild is your airy sweep, \nBillows that foam from yonder mountain side \xe2\x80\x94 \nDashing with whitened crests and thundering tide \n\nTo seek the distant deep ! \n\n\n\nNow to the verge ye climb, \nNow rush to plunge with emulous haste below ; \nSounding your stormy chorus as ye go \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA never-ending chime ! \n\n\n\n210 TO A WATERFALL. \n\nLeaping from rock to rock, \nUnwearied your eternal course ye hold ; \nThe rainbow tints your eddying waves unfold, \n\nThe hues of sunset mock ! \n\nWhy choose this pathway rude, \nThese cliffs by gray and ancient woods o\'ergrown 1 \nWhy pour your music to the echoes lone \n\nOf this wild solitude ! \n\nThe mead in green array, \nWith silent beauty wooes your loved embrace ; \nWould lead you through soft banks, with devious grace, \n\nAlong a gentler way. \n\nThere, as ye onward roam, \nFresh leaves would bend to greet your waters bright : \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhy scorn the charms that vainly court your sight, \n\nAmid these wilds to foam ? \n\nAlas ! our fate is one \xe2\x80\x94 \nBoth ruled by wayward fancy ! \xe2\x80\x94 All in vain \nI question both ! My thoughts still spurn the chain \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYe \xe2\x80\x94 heedless \xe2\x80\x94 thunder on ! \n\n\n\nTHE MOTHERS OF THE Y7EST \n\nBY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. \n\nThe Mothers of our Forest-Land ! \n\nStout-hearted dames were they ; \nWith nerve to wield the battle-brand, \n\nAnd join the border-fray. \nOur rough land had no braver, \n\nIn its days of blood and strife \xe2\x80\x94 \nAye ready for severest toil, \n\nAye free to peril life. \n\nThe Mothers of our Forest-Land ! \n\nOn old Kan-tuc-kee\'s soil, \nHow shared they, with each dauntless band, \n\nWar\'s tempest and Life\'s toil ! \nThey shrank not from the foeman \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey quailed not in the fight \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut cheered their husbands through the day, \n\nAnd soothed them through the night. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n:\'>?>> \n\n\n\n\n\n\n%* \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Mothers of our Forest-Land ! \n\nTheir bosoms pillowed men I \xe2\x96\xa0 \nAnd proud were they by such to stand, \n\nIn hammock, fort, or glen. \nTo load the sure old rifle \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo run the leaden ball- \nTo watch a battling husband\'s place, \n\nAnd fill it should he fall : \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. 213 \n\nThe Mothers of our Forest-Land ! \n\nSuch were their daily deeds. \nTheir monument ! \xe2\x80\x94 where does it stand ! \n\nTheir epitaph ! \xe2\x80\x94 who reads ] \nNo braver dames had Sparta, \n\nNo nobler matrons Rome \xe2\x80\x94 \nYet who or lauds or honours them, \n\nEv\'n in their own green home ! \n\nThe Mothers of our Forest-Land ! \n\nThey sleep in unknown graves : \nAnd had they borne and nursed a band \n\nOf ingrates, or of slaves, \nThey had not been more neglected ! \n\nBut their graves shall yet be found, \nAnd their monuments dot here and there \n\n"The Dark and Bloody Ground." \n\n\n\nSONG- \n\n\n\nBY WILLIAM C. BRYANT \n\n\n\nDost thou idly ask to hear \n\nAt what gentle seasons \nNymphs relent, when lovers near \n\nPress the tenderest reasons ] \nAh, they give their faith too oft \n\nTo the careless wooer ; \nMaidens\' hearts are always soft ; \n\nWould that men\'s were truer ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n( \n\n\n\nWoo the fair one, when around \n\nEarly birds are singing ; \nWhen, o\'er all the fragrant ground, \n\nEarly herbs are springing : \nWhen the brookside, bank, and grove, \n\nAll with blossoms laden, \nShine with beauty, breathe of love, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWoo the timid maiden. \n\n\n\nSONG. 215 \n\nWoo her when, with rosy blush, \n\nSummer eve is sinking ; \nWhen, on rills that softly gush, \n\nStars are softly winking ; \nWhen, through boughs that knit the bower, \n\nMoonlight gleams are stealing ; \nWoo her, till the gentle hour \n\nWake a gentler feeling. \n\nWoo her, when autumnal dyes \n\nTinge the woody mountain ; \nWhen the dropping foliage lies, \n\nIn the weedy fountain ; \nLet the scene, that tells how fast \n\nYouth is passing over, \nWarn her, ere her bloom is past, \n\nTo secure her lover. \n\nWoo her, when the northwinds call \n\nAt the lattice nightly ; \nWhen, within the cheerful hall, \n\nBlaze the fagots brightly ; \nWhile the wintry tempest round \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nSweeps the landscape hoary, \nSweeter in her ear shall sound \n\nLove\'s delightful story. \n\n\n\nG-0 FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. \n\nBY W. J. PABODIE. \n"The world is too much with us." \xe2\x80\x94 Wordsworth. \n\nGo forth into the fields, \nYe denizens of the pent city\'s mart ! \nGo forth, and know the gladness nature yields \n\nTo the care- wearied heart. \n\nLeave ye the feverish strife, \nThe jostling, eager, self- devoted throng : \nTen thousand voices, waked anew to life, \n\nCall you with sweetest song. \n\nHark ! from each fresh-clad bough, \nOr blissful soaring in the golden air, \nBright birds, with joyous music, bid you now \n\nTo spring\'s loved haunts repair. \n\nThe silvery gleaming rills \nLure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea ; \nOr gaily dancing down the sunny hills, \n\nCall loudly in their glee ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nGO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. 217 \n\nAnd the young, wanton breeze, \nWith breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, \nIn voice low whispering, \'mong the embowering trees, \n\nWoos you to her embrace. \n\nGo \xe2\x80\x94 breathe the air of heaven, \nWhere violets meekly smile upon your way ; \nOr on some pine-crowned summit, tempest riven, \n\nYour wandering footsteps stray. \n\nSeek ye the solemn wood, \nWhose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, \nAnd listen, while the roar of some far flood \n\nThrills the young leaves with fear ! \n\nStand by the tranquil lake, \nSleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye, \nSave when the wild bird\'s wing its surface break \n\nChequering the mirrored sky \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd if within your breast, \nHallowed to Nature\'s touch one chord remain ; \nIf aught save worldly honours find you blest, \n\nOr hope of sordid gain ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA strange delight shall thrill, \nA quiet joy brood o\'er you like a dove ; \n\n\n\n218 \n\n\n\nCAPE C0L0XXA. \n\n\n\nEarth\'s placid beauty shall your bosom iill, \nStirring its depths with love. \n\nO, in the calm, still hours, \nThe holy Sabbath hours, when sleeps the air, \nAnd heaven and earth, decked with her beauteous flowers, \n\nLie hushed in breathless prayer, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPass ye the proud fane by, \nThe vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, \nAnd, \'neath the temple of the uplifted sky, \n\nGo forth, and worship God ! \n\n\n\nCAPE COLONNA. \n\n\n\nBY GEORGE J I ILL. \n\n\'Tis summer\'s eve. The winds are still ; \n\nSo calmly hushed the waters lie, \nSo softly bright, they seem to blend \n\nIn airy distance with the sky. \n\n\n\nC \\TE C0L0NNA. 219 \n\nWhat hues of gorgeous beauty, o\'er \n\nMorea\'s hills and mountains rolled, \nTheir summits veil ! where sinks the sun, \n\nA monarch to his couch of gold. \nFrom them 1 turn ; from isles, along \n\nWhose wild and lofty summits driven, \nThe rosy twilight lingers, till \n\nThey seem to melt and blend with Heaven : \xe2\x80\x94 \nTurn to the ruin, lone and dim, \n\nThat bears the name, and should have crowned \nThe dust of him,* the spirit of \n\nWhose song, though mute, is breathed around. \nMinstrel ! the thrilling summons of \n\nWhose lyre the men of Greece obeyed \xe2\x80\x94 \nSoldier ! whose charge had freed them, ere \n\nHis hand had sheathed her battle-blade ! \nHere should his relics rest, beside \n\nThis time-worn column, gray and rent ; \nHis name, his epitaph ; the stone, \n\nWhereon \'tis graved, his monument. \n\n\n\n* Byron, whose name is inscribed on one of the columns. \nW \n\n\n\nTO A MOONBEAM. \n\nBY MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. \n\nAh, whither art straying, thou spirit of light, \nFrom thy home in the boundless sky ] \n\nWhy lookest thou down from the empire of night, \nWith that silent and sorrowful eye 7 \n\nThou art resting here on the autumn leaf, \nWhere it fell from its throne of pride ; \n\nBut oh, what pictures of joy or grief, \nWhat scenes thou art viewing beside ! \n\nThou art glancing down on the ocean waves, \n\nAs they proudly heave and swell ; \nThou art piercing deep in its coral caves, \n\nWhere the green-haired sea-nymphs dwell ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A MOONBEAM. \n\n\n\n221 \n\n\n\nThou art pouring thy beams on Italia\'s shore, \nAs though it were sweet to be there ; \n\nThou art lighting the prince to his stately couch, \nAnd the monk to his midnight prayer. \n\n\n\n\nThou art casting a fretwork of silver rays \nOver ruin, and palace, and tower ; \n\nThou art gilding the temples of former dayo, \nIn this holy and beautiful hour. \n\n\n\n222 TO A MOONBEAM. \n\nThou art silently roaming through forest and glade, \n\nWhere mortal foot never hath trod ; \nThou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, \n\nWhile the spirit hath gone to its God ! \n\nThou art looking on those I love ! oh, wake \nIn their hearts some remembrance of me, \n\nAnd gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake \nOf the love I am breathing to thee. \n\nAnd perchance thou art casting this mystic spell \n\nOn. the beautiful land of the blest, \nWhere the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell, \n\nWhere the weary have fled to their rest. \n\nOh yes ! with that soft and ethereal beam, \nThou hast looked on the mansions of bliss, \n\nAnd some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world \nHath breathed thee a message to this. \n\n\'Tis a mission of love, for no threatening shade \n\nCan be blent with thy spirit-like hues, \nAnd thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, \n\nAnd while raising it, melts and subdues. \n\nAnd it whispers compassion ; for lo, on thy brow \nIs the sadness of angels enshrined, \n\n\n\nTO A MOONBEAM. 223 \n\nAnd a misty veil, as of purified tears, \nRound thy beautiful form is entwined. \n\nHail, beam of the blessed ! my heart \n\nHas drunk deep of thy magical power, \nAnd each thought and each feeling seems bathed \n\nIn the light of this exquisite hour ! \n\nSweet ray, I have proved thee so fair \n\nIn this dark world of mourning and sin, \nMay I hail thee more bright in that pure region, where \n\nNor sorrow nor death enter in. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLINES TO THE DEAD. \n\nBY MARY E. LEE. \n\n" O la vita ! O la morte ! \nBelle e dolce morir, fu certo allora, \nChe amante in vita, amato in morte." \xe2\x80\x94 Tasso. \n\nThe dead ! the much-loved dead ! \n\nWho doth not yearn to know \nThe secret of their dwelling-place, \n\nAnd to what land they go 1 \nWhat heart but asks, with ceaseless tone, \nFor some sure knowledge of its own? \n\nWe cannot blot them out \nFrom memory\'s written page ; \n\nWe cannot count them strangers, but \nAs birds in prison-cage, \n\nWe beat against the iron bar \n\nThat keeps us from those friends afar. \n\n\n\nLINES TO THE DEAD. 225 \n\nOblivion may not hang \n\nIts curtain o\'er their grave, \nThere is no water we can sip, \n\nLike Lethe\'s lulling wave; \nBut fond affection\'s moaning waiJ \nBreaks from us like the autumn gale. \n\nGrief cannot win them back ; \n\nAnd yet with frequent tear, \nWe question of their hidden lot, \n\nAnd list with throbbing ear, \nFor some low answer that may roll \nThrough the hushed temple of the soul. \n\nWe love them \xe2\x80\x94 love them yet ! \n\nBut is our love returned! \nIs memory\'s hearth now cold and dark \n\nWhere once the heart-fire burned 7 \nNor do the labourers now gone home, \nLook for the weary ones to come 1 \n\nWe wrong them by the thought : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAffections cannot die ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nMan is still man where\'er he goes, \n\nAnd oh ! how strong the tie \nWhich links us, as with fetters fast, \nUnto the future and the past ! \n\nDeath would be dark indeed, \n\nIf, with this mortal shroud, \nWe threw off all the sympathies \n\nThat in our being crowd, \nAnd entered on the spirit-land, \nA stranger, mid a stranger-band. \n\n\n\n226 LINES TO THE DEAD. \n\nFar pleasanter to think \n\nThat each familiar face, \nNow gazes on us as of old, \n\nFrom its mysterious place, \nWith love, that neither death nor change \nHath power to sever or estrange. \n\nOh ! who will dare to say, \n"This is an idle dream 1" \n\nWho that hath given one captive dove \nTo soar by its own stream. \n\nBut fancies that its breathings low, \n\nFloat round them wheresoe\'er they go ? \n\nMother ! couldst thou endure \n\nTo think thyself forgot \nBy Aer, who was thy life, thy air, \n\nThe sunbeam of thy lot 7 \nWouldst thou not live in doubt and fear, \nIf all thy bright hopes perished here? \n\nAnd brother ! sister ! child ! \n\nYe all have loved the light \nOf many a dearly-cherished one, \n\nNow taken from your sight, \nAnd can ye deem that when ye meet, \nHearts will not hold communion sweet 1 \n\nAlas ! if it be so, \n\nThat in the burial-urn \nThe soul must garner up the love, \n\nThat once did in it bum, \nBetter to know not of the worth \nOf true affection on this earth, \n\n\n\nLINES TO THE DEAD. 227 \n\nBetter to live alone, \n\nUnblessing and unblest, \nThan thus to meet and mingle thought, \n\nThen from the immortal breast \nShut out the memory of the past, \nLike day-beams from a forest vast. \n\nOh ! no ; it cannot be ! \n\nYe ! the long-lost of years ! \nMid all the changes of this life, \n\nIts thousand joys and fears, \nWe love to think that round ye move, \nMaking an atmosphere of love. \n\nYe are not dead to us ; \n\nBut as bright stars unseen, \nWe hold that ye are ever near, \n\nThough death intrudes between, \nLike some thin cloud, that veils from sight \nThe countless spangles of the night. \n\nYour influence is still felt \n\nIn many a varied hour ; \nThe dewy morn brings thoughts of you ; \n\nYe give the twilight power; \nAnd when the Sabbath sunshine rests \nOn your white tombs, ye fill our breasts. \n\nNo apathy hath struck \n\nIts ice-bolt through our hearts ; \nYours are among our household names ; \n\nYour memory ne\'er departs ; \nAnd far, far sweetest are the flowers \nYe planted in our favoured bowers. \n\n\n\n228 LINES TO THE DEAO. \n\nFriends ! / would crave like boon \nWhen laid within death\'s vaults; \n\nSpeak of me often, though it be \nOnly to tell my faults: \n\nFor better that some hearts be taught \n\nEv\'n of my follies than of nought. \n\nOh ! yes, remember me \n\nIn gentleness and love: \nLet not the chasm be early filled \n\nThat tracks my last remove. \nBut grant me still that little spot ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nFriends! dearest friends ! forget me noU \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbbpo * * * * \n\n\n\nBY FITZ-GREENE HALLEUK. \n\n\n\nThe world is bright before thee, \n\nIts summer flowers are thine, \nIts calm blue sky is o\'er thee, \n\nThy bosom Pleasure\'s shrine ; \nAnd thine the sunbeam given \n\nTo Nature\'s morning hour, \nPure, warm, as when from heaven \n\nIt burst on Eden\'s bower. \n\nThere is a song of sorrow, \nThe death-dirge of the gay, \n\nThat tells, ere dawn of morrow, \nThese charms may melt away, \n\nThat sun\'s bright beam be shaded, \nThat sky be blue no more, \n\nThe summer flowers be faded, \n\nAnd youth\'s warm promise o\'er. \nx \n\n\n\n230 to **** \n\nBelieve it not \xe2\x80\x94 though lonely \n\nThy evening home may be ; \nThough Beauty\'s bark can only \n\nFloat on a summer sea ; \nThough Time thy bloom is stealing, \n\nThere\'s still beyond his art \nThe wild-flower wreath of feeling, \n\nThe sunbeam of the heart. \n\n\n\n; \n\n\n\nTHE LOST HUNTER. \n\nBY ALFRED B. STREET. \n\nNumbed by the piercing, freezing air, \n\nAnd burthened by his game, \nThe Hunter, struggling with despair, \n\nDragged on his shivering frame ; \nThe rifle he had shouldered late \nWas trailed along, a weary weight, \n\nHis pouch was void of food, \nThe hours were speeding in their flight, \nAnd soon the long, keen, winter night \n\nWould wrap the solitude. \n\nOft did he stoop a listening ear, \nSweep round an anxious eye, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo bark or ax-blow could he hear, \nNo human trace descry. \n\nHis sinuous path, by blazes, wound \n\n\n\n4 \n\n\n\n232 THE LOST HUNTER. \n\nAmong trunks grouped in myriads round ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThrough naked boughs, between \nWhose tangled architecture, fraught \nWith many a shape grotesquely wrought, \nThe hemlock\'s spire was seen. \n\nAn antlered dweller of the wild \n\nHad met his eager gaze, \nAnd far his wandering steps beguiled \n\nWithin an unknown maze ; \nStream, rock, and run-way, he had crossed \nUnheeding, till the marks were lost \n\nBy which he used to roam ; \nAnd now, deep swamp and wild ravine, \nAnd rugged mountain, were between \n\nThe Hunter and his home. \n\nA dusky haze, which slow had crept \n\nOn high, now darkened there, \nAnd a few snow-flakes fluttering swept \n\nAthwart the thick gray air \nFaster and faster, till between \nThe trunks and boughs, a mottled screen \n\nOf glimmering motes was spread, \nThat ticked against each object round \nWith gentle and continuous sound \n\nLike brook o\'er pebbled bed. \n\n\n\nTHE LOST HUNTER. 233 \n\nThe laurel tufts, that drooping hung \n\nClose rolled around their stems, \nAnd the sear beech leaves still that clung, \n\nWere white with powdering gems. \nBut hark ! afar a sullen moan \nSwelled out to louder, deeper tone, \n\nAs surging near it passed, \nAnd bursting with a roar, and shock \nThat made the groaning forest rock, \n\nOn rushed the winter blast. \n\nAs o\'er, it whistled, shrieked, and hissed, \n\nCaught by its swooping wings, \nThe snow was whirled to eddying mist, \n\nBarbed, as it seemed, with stings ; \nAnd now \'twas swept with lightning flight \nAbove the loftiest hemlock\'s height \n\nLike drifting smoke, and now \nIt hid the air with shooting clouds, \nAnd robed the trees with circling shrouds, \n\nThen dashed in heaps below. \n\nHere, plunging in a billowy wreath, \n\nThere, clinging to a limb, \nThe suffering Hunter gasped for breath, \n\nBrain reeled, and eye grew dim ; \n\nAs though to whelm him in despair, \nx* \n\n\n\nTHE LOST HUNTER. \n\nRapidly changed the black\'ning air \n\nTo murkiest gloom of night, \nTill nought was seen around \xe2\x80\x94 below \nBut falling flakes, and mantled snow \nThat gleamed in ghastly white. \n\nAt every blast an icy dart \n\nSeemed through his nerves to fly, \nThe blood was freezing to his heart, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThought whispered he must die. \nThe thundering tempest echoed death, \nHe felt it in his tightened breath ; \n\nSpoil, rifle dropped, and slow \nAs the dread torpor crawling came \nAlong his staggering, stiff \'ning frame, \n\nHe sunk upon the snow. \n\nReason forsook her shattered throne, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe deemed that summer hours \nAgain around him brightly shone \n\nIn sunshine, leaves, and flowers : \nAgain the fresh, green, forest sod, \nRifle in hand, he lightly trod, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe heard the deer\'s low bleat, \nOr couched within the shadowy nook, \nHe drank the crystal of the brook \n\nThat murmured at his feet \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST HUNTER. 235 \n\nIt changed ; \xe2\x80\x94 his cabin roof o\'erspread, \n\nRafter, and wall, and chair, \nGleamed in the crackling fire, that shed \n\nIts warmth, and he was there ; \nHis wife had clasped his hand, and now \nHer gentle kiss was on his brow, \n\nHis child was prattling by, \nThe hound crouched, dozing, near the blaze, \nAnd through the pane\'s frost-pictured haze \n\nHe saw the white drifts fly. \n\nThat passed ; \xe2\x80\x94 before his swimming sight \n\nDoes not a figure bound, \nAnd a soft voice with wild delight \n\nProclaim the lost is found ] \nNo, Hunter, no ! \'tis but the streak \nOf whirling snow ; \xe2\x80\x94 the tempest\'s shriek \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo human aid is near ; \nNever again that form will meet \nThy clasped embrace \xe2\x80\x94 those accents sweet \n\nSpeak music to thine ear. \n\nMorn broke ; \xe2\x80\x94 away the clouds were chased, \n\nThe sky was pure and bright, \nAnd on its blue, the branches traced \n\nTheir webs of glittering white. \nIts ivory roof the hemlock stooped, \n\n\n\n236 THE LOST HUNTER. \n\nThe pine its silvery tassel drooped, \nDown bent the burthened wood, \nAnd scattered round, low points of green \nPeering above the snowy scene \nTold where the thickets stood. \n\nIn a deep hollow, drifted high \n\nA wave-like heap was thrown ; \nDazzlingly in the sunny sky \n\nA diamond blaze it shown ; \nThe little snow-bird chirping sweet \nDotted it o\'er with tripping feet, \n\nUnsullied, smooth, and fair. \nIt seemed like other mounds, where trunk \nAnd rock amid the wreaths were sunk, \n\nBut oh ! the dead was there. \n\nSpring came with wakening breezes bland, \n\nSoft suns and melting rains, \nAnd touched by her Ithuriel wand, \n\nEarth bursts its winter chains. \nIn a deep nook, where moss, and grass \nAnd fern-leaves wove a verdant mass \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSome scattered bones beside, \nA mother kneeling with her child, \nTold by her tears and wailings wild \n\nThat there the lost had died. \n\n\n\nTHE LOST AT SEA \n\nBY J. OTIS ROCKWELL, \n\nWife, who in thy deep demotion \n\nPuttest up a prayer for one, \nSailing on the stormy ocean, \n\nHope no more \xe2\x80\x94 his course is done. \nDream not, when upon thy pillow, \n\nThat he slumbers by thy side ; \nFor his corse beneath the billow \n\nHeaveth with the restless tide. \n\nChildren, who as sweet flowers growing, \n\nLaugh amidst the sorrowing rains, \nKnow ye many clouds are throwing \n\nShadows on your sire\'s remains ] \nWhere the hoarse gray surge is rolling \n\nWith a mountain\'s motion on, \nDream ye that its voice is tolling \n\nFor your father lost and gone 1 \n\n\n\n238 THE LOST AT SEA. \n\nWhen the sun looked on the water, \n\nAs a hero on his grave, \nTinging with the hue of slaughter \n\nEvery blue and leaping wave, \nUnder the majestic ocean, \n\nWhere the giant currents rolled, \nSlept thy sire without emotion \n\nSweetly by a beam of gold. \n\nAnd the violet sunbeams slanted, \n\nWavering through the crystal deep, \nTill their wonted splendours haunted \n\nThose shut eyelids in their sleep. \nSands, like crumbled silver gleaming, \n\nSparkled through his raven hair ; \nBut the sleep that knows no dreaming, \n\nBound him in its silence there. \n\nSo we left him ; and to tell thee \n\nOf our sorrow and thine own, \nOf the wo that then befell thee, \n\nCome we weary and alone. \nThat thine eye is quickly shaded, \n\nThat thy heart blood wildly flows, \nThat thy cheek\'s clear hue is faded, \n\nAre the fruits of these new woes. \n\n\n\nWHAT IS SOLITUDE. 239 \n\nChildren whose meek eyes inquiring \n\nLinger on your mother\'s face, \nKnow ye that she is expiring, \n\nThat ye are an orphan race 1 \nGod be with you on the morrow, \n\nFather, mother \xe2\x80\x94 both no more ; \nOne within a grave of sorrow, \n\nOne upon the ocean\'s floor ! \n\n\n\nWHAT IS SOLITUDE. \n\nBY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. \n\nNot in the shadowy wood, \n\nNot in the crag-hung glen, \nNot where the sleeping echoes brood \n\nIn caves untrod by men ; \nNot by the sea-swept shore \n\nWhere loitering surges break, \nNot on the mountain hoar, \n\nNot by the breezeless lake, \nNot in the desert plain \n\nWhere man hath never stood, \nWhether on isle or main \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNot there is solitude ! \n\n\n\n240 WHAT IS SOLITUDE. \n\nThere are birds in the woodland bowers, \n\nVoices in lonely dells, \nAnd streams that talk to the listening hours \n\nIn earth\'s most secret cells. \nThere is life on the foam-flecked sand, \n\nBy Ocean\'s curling lip, \nAnd life on the still lake\'s strand \n\nMid flowers that o\'er it dip ; \nThere is life in the tossing pines \n\nThat plume the mountain crest, \nAnd life in the courser\'s mane that shines \n\nAs he scours the desert\'s breast. \n\nBut go to the crowded mart, \n\nMid the sordid haunts of men, \nGo there and ask thy heart, \n\nWhat answer makes it then ] \nGo where the wine-cup\'s gleaming, \n\nIn hall or festal grot ; \nWhere love-lit eyes are beaming, \n\nBut Love himself is not ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nGo \xe2\x80\x94 if thou wouldst be lonely \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere the phantom Pleasure\'s wooed, \nAnd own that there \xe2\x80\x94 there only \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMid crowds is Solitude. \n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\nLOOK ON THIS PICTURE. \n\nBY CHARLES SPRAGUE. \n\nO, it is life ! departed days \n\nFling back their brightness while I gaze- \n\n\'Tis Emma\'s self\xe2\x80\x94 this brow so fair, \n\nHalf curtained in this glossy hair, \n\nThese eyes, the very home of love, \n\nThe dark twin arches traced above, \n\nThese red-ripe lips that almost speak, \n\nThe fainter blush of this pure cheek, \n\nThe rose and lily\'s beauteous strife \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt is \xe2\x80\x94 ah no ! \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis all hut life. \ny \n\n\n\n242 LOOK ON THIS PICTURE. \n\n\'Tis all but life \xe2\x80\x94 art could not save \n\nThy graces, Emma, from the grave ; \n\nThy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, \n\nThy love-lit eyes have looked their last ; \n\nMouldering beneath the coffin\'s lid, \n\nAll we adored of thee is hid ; \n\nThy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, \n\nIs throbless in the narrow cell ; \n\nThy gentle voice shall charm no more ; \n\nIts last, last, joyful note is o\'er. \n\nOft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, \nThe requiem of the fair and young ; \nThe theme is old, alas ! how old, \nOf grief that will not be controlled, \nOf sighs that speak a father\'s wo, \nOf pangs that none but mothers know, \nOf friendship with its bursting heart, \nDoomed from the idol-one to part \xe2\x80\x94 \nStill its sad debt must feeling pay, \nTill feeling, too, shall pass away. \n\nO say, why age, and grief, and pain, \nShall long to go, but long in vain ; \nWhy vice is left to mock at time, \nAnd gray in years, grow gray in crime ; \nWhile youth, that every eye makes glad, \n\n\n\nLOOK ON THIS PICTURE. 243 \n\nAnd beauty, all in radiance clad, \nAnd goodness, cheering every heart, \nCome, but come only to depart ; \nSunbeams, to cheer life\'s wintry day, \nSunbeams, to flash, then fade away. \n\n\'Tis darkness all ! black banners wave \n\nRound the cold borders of the grave ; \n\nThere when in agony we bend \n\nO\'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, \n\nOne only comfort then we know \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe, too, shall quit this world of wo ; \n\nWe, too, shall find a quiet place \n\nWith the dear lost ones of our race ; \n\nOur crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, \n\nAnd life\'s sad story find an end. \n\nAnd is this all \xe2\x80\x94 this mournful doom ] \nBeams no glad light beyond the tomb ) \nMark how yon clouds in darkness ride ; \nThey do not quench the orb they hide ; \nStill there it wheels \xe2\x80\x94 the tempest o\'er, \nIn a bright sky to burn once more ; \nSo, far above the clouds of time, \nFaith can behold a world sublime \xe2\x80\x94 \nThere, when the storms of life are past, \nThe light beyond shall break at last. \n\n\n\nSTANZAS. \n\n\n\nBY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. \n\n\n\n11 How great are his signs, and how mighty are his wonders ; His kingdom \nis an everlasting kingdom, and his dominion is from generation to genera \ntion." \xe2\x80\x94 Daniel. \n\nI marked the Spring as she passed along, \n\nWith her eye of light and her lip of song ; \n\nWhile she stole in peace o\'er the green Earth\'s breast, \n\nWhile the streams sprang out from their icy rest : \n\nThe buds bent low to the breeze\'s sigh, \n\nAnd their breath went forth in the scented sky ; \n\nWhen the fields looked fresh in their sweet repose, \n\nAnd the young dews slept on the new-born rose. \n\nI looked upon Summer ; \xe2\x80\x94 the golden sun \nPoured joy over all that he looked upon ; \nHis glance was cast like a gift abroad, \nLike the boundless smile of a present God ! \nThe stream shone glad in his magic ray \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe fleecy clouds o\'er the green hills lay : \nOver rich, dark woodlands their shadows went, \nAs they floated in light through the firmament \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS. 245 \n\nThe scene was changed. It was Autumn\'s hour ; \nA frost had discoloured the summer bower ; \nThe blast wailed sad \'midst the cankered leaves, \nThe reaper stood musing by gathered sheaves ; \nThe mellow pomp of the rainbow woods \nWas stirred by the sound of the rising floods ; \nAnd I knew by the cloud \xe2\x80\x94 by the wild wind\'s strain, \nThat Winter drew near with his storms again ! \n\nI stood by the Ocean ; its waters rolled \n\nIn their changeful beauty of sapphire and gold ; \n\nAnd Day looked down with its radiant smiles, \n\nWhere the blue waves danced round a thousand isles ; \n\n\n\n\n\n\n246 STANZAS. \n\nThe ships went forth on the trackless seas, \nTheir white wings played in the joyous breeze ; \nTheir prows rushed on midst the parted foam, \nWhile the wanderer was wrapt in a dream of Home 1 \n\nThe mountain arose with its lofty brow, \nWhile its shadow lay sleeping in vales below ; \nThe mist like a garland of glory lay, \nWhere its proud heights soared in the air away ; \nThe eagle was there on his tireless wing, \nAnd his shriek went up like an offering ; \nAnd he seemed, in his sunward flight, to raise \nA chant of thanksgiving \xe2\x80\x94 a hymn of praise ! \n\nI looked on the arch of the midnight skies, \nWith its blue and unsearchable mysteries : \nThe Moon, midst an eloquent multitude \nOf unnumbered stars, her career pursued : \nA charm of sleep on the city fell, \nAll sounds lay hushed in that brooding spell ; \nBy babbling brooks were the buds at rest, \nAnd the wild-bird dreamed on his downy nest. \n\nI stood where the deepening tempest passed ; \nThe strong trees groaned in the sounding blast ; \nThe murmuring deep with its wrecks rolled on ; \nThe clouds o\'ershadowed the mighty sun : \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nTHE MERRIMACK. a \n\nThe low reeds bent by the streamlet\'s side, \nAnd hills to the thunder-peal replied ; \nThe lightning burst forth on its fearful way, \nWhile the heavens were lit in its red array ! \n\nAnd hath man the power, with his pride and his skill, \nTo arouse all Nature with storms at will % . \nHath he power to colour the summer cloud \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo allay the tempest when the hills are bowed 1 \nCan he waken the Spring with her festal wreath] \nCan the sun grow dim by his lightest breath ! \nWill he come again, when death\'s vale is trod ? \nWho then shall dare murmur " There is no God /" \n\n\n\nTHE MEHHIMACK. \n\nBY JOHN a. WHITTIER. \n\nStream of my fathers ! sweetly still \nThe sunset rays thy valley fill ; \nPoured slantwise down the long defile, \nWave, wood, and spire beneath them smile, \nI see the winding Powow fold \nThe green hill in its belt of gold, \nAnd following down its wavy line, \nIts sparkling waters blend with thine. \n\n\n\n\nThere\'s not a tree uppn thy side, \nNor rock, which thy returning tide \nAs yet hath left abrupt arid stark \nAbove thy evening water-mark ; \nNo calm cove with its rocky hem, \nNo isle whose emerald swells begem \nThy broad, smooth current ; not a sail \nBowed to the freshening ocean gale ; \nNo small boat with its busy oars, \nNor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; \nNor farm-house with its maple shade, \nOr rigid poplar colonnade, \nBut lies distinct and full in sight, \nBeneath this gush of sunset light \n\n\n\nTHE MERRIMACK. 249 \n\nCenturies ago, that harbour-bar, \nStretching its length of foam afar, \nAnd Salisbury\'s beach of shining sand, \nAnd yonder island\'s wave-smoothed strand, \nSaw the adventurer\'s tiny sail \nFlit, stooping from the eastern gale ; \nAnd o\'er these woods and waters broke \nThe cheer from Britain\'s hearts of oak, \nAs brightly on the voyager\'s eye, \nWeary of forest, sea, and sky, \nBreaking the dull continuous wood, \nThe Merrimack rolled down his flood ; \nMingling that clear pellucid brook \nWhich channels vast Agioochook \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen spring-time\'s sun and shower unlock \nThe frozen fountains of the rock, \nAnd more abundant waters given \nFrom that pure lake, \xe2\x96\xa0 The Smile of Heaven,\' \nTributes from vale and mountain side \xe2\x80\x94 \nWith ocean\'s dark, eternal tide ! \n\nOn yonder rocky cape, which braves \nThe stormy challenge of the waves, \nMidst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, \nThe hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, \nPlanting upon the topmost crag \nThe staff of England\'s battle-flag ; \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\n250 THE MERRIMACK. \n\nAnd, while from out its heavy fold \nSt. George\'s crimson cross unrolled, \nMidst roll of drum and trumpet blare, \nAnd weapons brandishing in air, \nHe gave to that lone promontory \nThe sweetest name in all his story ; \nOf her \xe2\x80\x94 the flower of Islam\'s daughters, \nWhose harems look on Stamboul\'s waters\xe2\x80\x94 \nWho, when the chance of war had bound \nThe Moslem chain his limbs around, \nWreathed o\'er with silk that iron chain, \nSoothed with her smiles his hours of pain, \nAnd fondly to her youthful slave \nA dearer gift than freedom gave. \n\nBut look ! \xe2\x80\x94 the yellow light no more \nStreams down on wave and verdant shore ; \nAnd clearly on the calm air swells \nThe distant voice of twilight bells. \nFrom Ocean\'s bosom, white and thin \nThe mists come slowly rolling in ; \nHills, woods, the river\'s rocky rim, \nAmidst the sea-like vapour swim, \nWhile yonder lonely coast-light set \nWithin its wave-washed minaret, \nHalf quenched, a beamless star and pale, \nShines dimly through its cloudy veil ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERRIMACK. 251 \n\nVale of my fathers ! \xe2\x80\x94 I have stood \nWhere Hudson rolled his lordly flood ; \nSeen sunrise rest and sunset fade \nAlong his frowning Palisade ; \nLooked down the Appalachian peak \nOn Juniata\'s silver streak ; \nHave seen along his valley gleam \nThe Mohawk\'s softly-winding stream ; \nThe setting sun, his axle red \nQuench darkly in Potomac\'s bed ; \nAnd autumn\'s rainbow-tinted banner \nHang lightly o\'er the Susquehanna ; \nYet, wheresoe\'er his step might be, \nThy wandering child looked back to thee ! \nHeard in his dreams thy river\'s sound \nOf murmuring on its pebbly bound, \nThe unforgotten swell and roar \nOf waves on thy familiar shore ; \nAnd seen amidst the curtained gloom \nAnd quiet of my lonely room, \nThy sunset scenes before me pass ; \nAs, in Agrippa\'s magic glass, \nThe loved and lost arose to view, \nRemembered groves in greenness grew ; \nAnd while the gazer leaned to trace. \nMore near, some old familiar face, \nHe wept to find the vision rlown \xe2\x80\x94 \nA phantom and a dream alone ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nAUTUMN. \n\n\n\nBY R. C. WATERSTON. \n\n\n\nUpon a leaf-strewn walk, \nI wander on amid the sparkling dews ; \nWhere Autumn hangs, upon each frost-gemmed stalk, \n\nHer gold and purple hues ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere the tall fox-gloves shake \nTheir loose bells to the wind, and each sweet flower, \nBows down its perfumed blossoms to partake \n\nThe influence of the hour ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere the cloud-shadows pass \nWith noiseless speed by lonely lake and rill, \nChasing each other o\'er the low, crisped grass, \n\nAnd up the distant hill ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nWhere the clear stream steals on \nUpon its silent path, as it were sad \nTo find each downward-gazing flower has gone, \n\nThat made it once so glad. \n\n\n\nAUTUMN. 253 \n\nI number it in days, \nSince last I roamed through this secluded dell ; \nSeeking a shelter from the summer rays, \n\nWhere flowers and wild-birds dwell. \n\nWhile gemmed with dew-drops bright, \nGreen leaves and silken buds were dancing there, \nI moved my lips in murmurs of delight, \n\n"And blessed them, unaware." \n\nHow changed each sylvan scene ! \nWhere is the warbling bird! the sun\'s clear ray] \nThe waving brier-rose 1 and foliage green, \n\nThat canopied my way \'? \n\nWhere is the balmy breeze \nThat fanned so late my brow 1 the sweet south-west, \nThat, whispering music to the listening trees, \n\nMy raptured spirit blest ? \n\nWhere are the notes of spring ? \nYet the brown bee still hums his quiet tune, \nAnd the low shiver of the insect\'s wing, \n\nDisturbs the hush of noon. \n\nThe thin, transparent leaves, \nLike flakes of amber, quiver in the light, \n\n\n\n254 \n\n\n\nSONG OF THE FLOWER SPIRIT. \n\n\n\nWhile autumn round her silver fret-work weaves \nIn glittering hoar-frost white. \n\nOh, Autumn, thou art blest ! \nMy bosom heaves with breathless rapture here : \nI love thee well, season of mournful rest ! \n\nSweet Sabbath of the year ! \n\n\n\nSONG- OF THE FLOWER SPIRIT. \n\nBY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. \n\nI am the spirit that dwells in the flower, \n\nMine is the exquisite music that flies, \nWhen silence and moonlight are dressing each bower, \n\nThat blooms in the favour of tropical skies. \nI woo the young bird, with melody glowing, \n\nTo leap forth in sunlight and warble his strain ; \nAnd mine is the odour, in turn, that bestowing, \n\nThe warbler is paid for his music again. \n\n\n\nSorrow comes never where I am abiding, \n\nThe tempests are strangers, and far from us rove ; \n\nI woo the zephyrs too hurriedly riding, \nAnd gently they linger, and tell us of love. \n\n\n\nTHE BOE-0 LINKUM. \n\n\n\n255 \n\n\n\nThey pause, and we glow in their winning embraces ; \n\nThey drink our warm breath, rich with odour and song; \nThen, hurry away to their desolate places, \n\nAnd look for us hourly, and mourn for us long. \n\nWe were born of the dews, and our destiny found us, \n\nEmbraced by a sunbeam, all budding and bright ; \nOn its wing, came from heaven, the colour that crown\'d us, \n\nAnd the odour that makes us a living delight. \nAnd when the warm glories of summer stream on us, \n\nOur winglets of silk we unfold to the air ; \nLeaping upward in joy to the spirit that won us, \n\nAnd made us the tenants of dwellings so fair. \n\n\n\nTHE BOB-O\'LINKUM. \n\nBY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. \n\nThou vocal sprite, \xe2\x80\x94 thou feathered troubadour ! \n\nIn pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, \nCom\'st thou to dorT thy russet suit once more, \n\nAnd play, in foppish trim, the masking stranger 1 \nPhilosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature ; \n\nBut, wise as all of us, perforce, must think \'em, \nThe school-boy best has fixed thy nomenclature, \n\nAnd poets, too, must call thee Bob-O\'Linkum ! \n\n\n\n256 the bob-o\'linkom. \n\nSay ! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted, \n\nSo glad to skim our laughing meadows over, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWith our gay orchards here so much delighted. \n\nIt makes thee musical, thou airy rover] \nOr are those buoyant notes the pilfered treasure \n\nOf fairy isles, which thou hast learned to ravish \nOf all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, \n\nAnd, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish ] \n\nThey tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks, \n\nWherever o\'er the land thy pathway ranges ; \nAnd even in a brace of wandering weeks, \n\nThey say, alike thy song and plumage changes. \nHere both are gay ; and when the buds put forth, \n\nAnd leafy June is shading rock and river, \nThou art unmatched, blithe warbler of the North, \n\nWhen through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver. \n\nJoyous, yet tender, \xe2\x80\x94 was that gush of song \n\nLearned from the brooks, where mid its wild flowers, \nsmiling, \nThe silent prairie listens all day long, \n\nThe only captive to such sweet beguiling] \nOr didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls \n\nAnd columned isles of western groves symphonious, \nLearn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals, \n\nTo make our flowering pastures here harmonious ] \n\n\n\n--V dtife \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCaught\'st thou thy carol from Ottawa maid, \n\nWhere, through the liquid fields of wild-rice plashing \nBrushing the ears from off the burdened blade, \n\nHer birch canoe o\'er some lone lake is flashing 7 \nOr did the reeds of some savannah south \n\nDetain thee, while thy northern flight pursuing, \nTo place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, \n\nThe spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing 1 \n\n\n\n259 \n\n\n\nMY MOTHER S GRAVE. \n\n\n\nUnthrifty prodigal ! \xe2\x80\x94 is no thought of ill \n\nThy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever 1 \nOr doth each pulse in choiring cadence still \n\nThrob on in music till at rest for ever ] \nYet now, in wildered maze of concord floating, \n\n\'Twould seem, that glorious hymning to prolong, \nOld Time, in hearing thee, might fall a-doting, \n\nAnd pause to listen to thy rapturous song ! \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nMY MOTHER\'S GRAVE \n\n\n\nBY JAMES ALDRICH. \n\n\n\nIn beauty lingers on the hills \n\nThe death-smile of the dying day ; \nAnd twilight in my heart instils \n\nThe softness of its rosy ray \nI watch the river\'s peaceful flow, \n\nHere, standing by my mother\'s grave, \nAnd feel my dreams of glory go, \n\nLike weeds upon its sluggish wave. \n\n\n\nmy mother\'s grave. 259 \n\nGod gives us ministers of love, \n\nWhich we regard not, being near ; \nDeath takes them from us, then we feel \n\nThat angels have been with us here I \nAs mother, sister, friend, or wife, \n\nThey guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain , \nAnd when the grave has closed between \n\nOur hearts and theirs, we love \xe2\x80\x94 in vain ! \n\nWould, mother ! thou couldst hear me tell \n\nHow oft, amid my brief career, \nFor sins and follies loved too well, \n\nHath fali\'n the free repentant tear. \nAnd, in the waywardness of youth, \n\nHow better thoughts have given to me \nContempt for error, love for truth, \n\nMid sweet remembrances of thee. \n\nThe harvest of my youth is done, \n\nAnd manhood, come with all its cares, \nFinds, garnered up within my heart, \n\nFor every flower a thousand tares. \nDear mother ! couldst thou know my thoughts, \n\nWhilst bending o\'er this holy shrine, \nThe depth of feeling in my breast, \n\nThou wouldst not blush to call me thine ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOVE\'S ERRAND. \n\nBY PARK BENJAMIN. \n\nnder. cover of the night, \nFeathered darling, take your flight, \nLest some cruel archer fling \nArrow at your tender wing, \nAnd your white unspotted side \nBe with crimson colour dyed : \nFor with men who know not love \nYou and I are living, Dove. \n\n\n\nNow I bind a perfumed letter \nRound your neck with silken fetter ; \nBear it safely, bear it well, \nOver mountain, lake, and dell. \n\n\n\nthe dove\'s errand. 261 \n\nWhile the darkness is profound \nYou may fly along the ground, \nBut when Morning\'s herald sings, \nMount ye on sublimer wings ! \nHigh in Heaven pursue your way \n\'Till the fading light of day, \nFrom the palace of the west, \nTints with fleck\'ring gold your breast, \nShielded from the gaze of men, \nYou may stoop to Earth again. \n\nStay, then, feathered darling, stay \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPause, and look along your way \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWell I know how fast you fly, \n\nAnd the keenness of your eye. \n\nBy the time the second eve I \n\nComes, your journey you\'ll achieve, \n\nAnd above a gentle vale \n\nWill on easy pinion sail. \n\nIn that vale with dwellings strown \n\nOne is standing all alone. \n\nWhite it rises \'mid the leaves, \n\nWoodbines clamber o\'er its eaves. \n\nAnd the honeysuckle falls, \n\nPendant, on its silent walls. \n\n\'Tis a cottage, small and fair, \n\nAs a cloud in summer air. \n\n\n\nTHE DOVE S ERRAND. \n\n\n\nBy a lattice, wreathed with flowers, \nSuch as link, the dancing hours, \nSitting in the twilight shade, \nEnvied dove, behold a maid ! \nLocks escaped from sunny band, \nCheeks reclined on snowy hand, \nLooking sadly to the sky, \nShe will meet your searching eye. \nFear not, doubt not, timid Dove, \nYou have found the home of love ! \nShe will fold you to her breast \xe2\x80\x94 \nSeraphs have not purer rest ; \nShe your weary plumes will kiss \xe2\x80\x94 \nSeraphs have not sweeter bliss. \nTremble not, my Dove, nor start, \nShould you feel her throbbing heart ; \nJoy has made her bright eye dim \xe2\x80\x94 \nWell she knows you came from him, \nHim she loves. Oh, luckless star ! \nHe from her must dwell afar. \n\nFrom your neck her fingers fine \nWill the silken string untwine; \nReading then the words I trace, \nBlushes will suffuse her face ; \nTo her lips the lines she\'ll press, \nAnd again my dove caress. \n\n\n\nj \n\n\n\nthe dove\'s errand. 268 \n\nMine, yes, mine \xe2\x80\x94 oh, would that I \nCould on rapid pinions fly \xe2\x80\x94 \nThen I should not send you, dove, \nOn an errand to my love ; \nFor Fd brave the sharpest gale, \nAnd along the tempest sail ; \nCaring not for danger near, \nHurrying heedless, void of fear, \nBut to hear one tender word, \nBreathed for me, my happy bird ! \n\nAt the early dawn of day, \nShe will send you on your way, \nTwining with another fetter \nRound your neck another letter. \nSpeed ye, then, oh, swiftly speed, \nLike a prisoner newly freed ; \nO\'er the mountain, o\'er the vale, \nHomeward, homeward, swiftly sail ! \nNever, never poise a plume, \nThough beneath you Edens bloom ; \nNever, never think of rest, \n\'Till Night\'s shadow turns your breast \nFrom pure white to mottled gray, \nAnd the stars are round your way \xe2\x80\x94 \nLove\'s bright beacons, they will shine, \nDove, to show your home and mine ! \n\n\n\nLEILA. \n\n\n\nBY GEORGE HILL. \n\n\n\nWhen first you look upon her face \n\nYou little note beside \n\nThe timidness, that still betrays \n\nThe beauties it would hide : \n\nBut, one by one, they look out from \n\nHer blushes and her eyes ; \n\nAnd still the last, the loveliest \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLike stars from twilight skies. \n\n\n\nAnd thoughts go sporting through her mind, \n\nLike children among flowers ; \n\nAnd deeds of gentle goodness are \n\nThe measure of her hours. \n\nIn soul or face, she bears no trace \n\nOf one from Eden driven ; \n\nBut, like the rainbow, seems, though born \n\nOf earth, a part of Heaven. \n\n\n\nTHE TRAILING- ARBUTUS. \n\nBY SARAH H. WHITMAN. \n\nThere\'s a flower that grows by the greenwood tree, \n\nIn its desolate beauty more dear to me, \n\nThan all that bask in the noontide beam, \n\nThrough the long, bright summer by fount and stream. \n\nLike a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow\'s wing, \n\nIts timid buds from the cold moss spring, \n\nTheir delicate hues like the pink sea-shell, \n\nOr the shaded blush of the hyacinth\'s bell, \n\nTheir breath more sweet than the faint perfume \n\nThat breathes from the bridal orange-bloom. \n\nIt is not found by the garden wall, \n\nIt wreathes no brow in the festive hall, \n\nBut dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood, \n\nAnd shines like a star in the solitude. \n\nNever did numbers its name prolong, \xc2\xa3 \n\nAa \n\n\n\n266 \n\n\n\nTHE TRAILING ARBUTUS. \n\n\n\nNe\'er hath it floated on wings of song, \n\nBard and minstrel have passed it by, \n\nAnd left it in silence and shade to die. \n\nBut with joy to its cradle the wild-bees come \n\nAnd praise its beauty with drony hum, \n\nAnd children love in the season of spring \n\nTo watch for its early blossoming. \n\nIn the dewy morn of an April day, \n\nWhen the traveller lingers along the way, \n\nWhen the sod is sprinkled with tender green, \n\nWhere the rivulets water the earth unseen, \n\nWhen the floating fringe on the maple\'s crest \n\nRivals the tulip\'s crimson vest, \n\nAnd the budding leaves of the birch-tree throw \n\nA trembling shade on the turf below, \n\nWhen my flower awakes from its dreamy rest \n\nAnd yields its lips to the sweet south-west, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen, in those beautiful days of spring, \n\nWith hearts as light as the wild-bird\'s wing, \n\nFlinging their tasks and their toys aside, \n\nGay little groups through the wood-paths glide, \n\nPeeping and peering among the trees, \n\nAs they scent its breath on the passing breeze, \n\nHunting about among lichens gray, \n\nAnd the tangled mosses beside the way, \n\nTill they catch the glance of its quiet eye, \n\nLike light that bftaks through a cloudy sky. \n\n\n\nTHE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 267 \n\nFor me, sweet blossom, thy tendrils cling \n\nStill round my heart as in childhood\'s spring, \n\nAnd thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air, \n\nWakes all the music of memory there. \n\nThou recallest the time when, a fearless child, \n\nI roved all day through the wood-paths wild, \n\nSeeking thy blossoms by bank and brae \n\nWherever the snow-drifts had melted away. \n\nNow, as I linger mid crowds alone, \n\nHaunted by echoes of music flown, \n\nWhen the shadows deepen around my way, \n\nAnd the light of reason but leads astray, \n\nWhen affections, nurtured with fondest care \n\nBy the trusting heart, become traitors there ; \n\nWhen weary of all that the world bestows, \n\nI turn to nature for calm repose, \n\nHow fain my spirit in some far glen, \n\nWould fold her wings mid thy flowers again ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HUNTER\'S VISION. \n\nBY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. \n\nUpon a rock that, high and sheer, \nRose from the mountain\'s br.east, \n\nA weary hunter of the deer, \nHad sat him down to rest, \n\nAnd bared to the soft summer air, \n\nHis hot red brow and sweaty hair. \n\nAll dim in haze the mountains lay, \nWith dimmer vales between ; \n\nAnd rivers glimmered on their way, \nBy forests, faintly seen ; \n\nWhile ever rose a murmuring sound, \n\nFrom brooks below and bees around. \n\n\n\nTHE HUNTER S VISION. \n\nHe listened, till he seemed to hear \n\nA strain, so soft and low, \nThat whether in the mind or ear \n\nThe listener scarce might know. \nWith such a tone so sweet and mild, \nThe watching mother lulls her child. \n\nThou weary huntsman, thus it said, \n\nThou faint with toil and heat, \nThe pleasant land of rest is spread \n\nBefore thy very feet, \nAnd those whom thou wouldst gladly see, \nAre waiting there to welcome thee. \n\nHe looked, and \'twixt the earth and sky, \n\nAmid the noontide haze, \nA shadowy region met his eye, \n\nAnd grew beneath his gaze, \nAs if the vapors of the air \nHad gathered into shapes so fair. \n\nGroves freshened as he looked, and flowers \n\nShowed bright on rocky bank, \nAnd fountains welled beneath the bowers, \n\nWhere deer and pheasant drank. \nHe saw the glittering streams, he heard \nThe rustling bough and twittering bird. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n270 the hunter\'s vision. \n\nAnd friends \xe2\x80\x94 the dead \xe2\x80\x94 in boyhood dear, \nThere lived and walked again, \n\nAnd there was one who many a year \nWithin her grave had lain, \n\nA fair young girl, the hamlet\'s pride \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis heart was breaking when she died : \n\nBounding, as was her wont, she came \nRight towards his resting-place, \n\nAnd stretched her hand and called his name, \nWith that sweet smiling face. \n\nForward, with fixed and eager eyes, \n\nThe hunter leaned in act to rise : \n\nForward he leaned, and headlong down \nPlunged from that craggy wall, \n\nHe saw the rocks, steep, stern and brown, \nAn instant, in his fall ; \n\nA frightful instant \xe2\x80\x94 and no more, \n\nThe dream and life at once were o\'er. \n\n\n\nTO THE MOCKINa BIRD. \n\nBY ALBERT PIKE. \n\nThou glorious mocker of the world ! I hear \nThy many voices ringing through the glooms \nOf these green solitudes \xe2\x80\x94 and all the clear, \nBright joyance of their song enthralls the ear, \nAnd floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs \nOf vanished nations rolls thy music tide. \nNo light from history\'s starlike page illumes \nThe memory of those nations \xe2\x80\x94 they have died. \nNone cares for them but thou \xe2\x80\x94 and thou mayst sing, \nPerhaps, o\'er me \xe2\x80\x94 as now thy song doth ring \nOver their bones by whom thou once wast deified. \n\nThou scorner of all cities ! Thou dost leave \n\nThe world\'s turmoil and never-ceasing, din, \n\nWhere one from other\'s no existence weaves, \n\nWhere the old sighs, the young turns gray and- grieves, \n\nWhere misery gnaws the maiden\'s heart within : \n\n\n\n272 TO THE MOCKING. BIRD. \n\nAnd thou dost flee into the broad green woods, \nAnd with thy soul of music thou dost win \nTheir heart to harmony \xe2\x80\x94 no jar intrudes \nUpon thy sounding melody. Oh, where, \nAmid the sweet musicians of the air, \nIs one so dear as thee to these old solitudes ! \n\nHa ! what a burst was that ! the ^Eolian strain \nGoes floating through the tangled passages \nOf the lone woods \xe2\x80\x94 and now it comes again \xe2\x80\x94 \nA multitudinous melody \xe2\x80\x94 like a rain \nOf glossy music under echoing trees, \nOver a ringing lake ; it wraps the soul \nWith a bright harmony of happiness \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven as a gem is wrapped, when round it roll \nTheir waves of brilliant flame \xe2\x80\x94 till we become, \nEv\'n with the excess of our deep pleasure, dumb, \nAnd pant like some swift runner clinging to the goal. \n\nI cannot love the man who doth not love, \n(Even as men love light,) the song of birds : \nFor the first visions that my boy-heart wove, \nTo fill its sleep with, were, that I did rove \nAmid the woods \xe2\x80\x94 what time the snowy herds \nOf morning cloud fled from the rising sun, \nInto the depths of heaven\'s heart ; as words \nThat from the poet\'s tongue do fall upon \n\n\n\nTO THE MOCKING BIRD. 273 \n\nAnd vanish in the human heart ; and then \nI revelled in those songs, and sorrowed, when \nWith noon-heat overwrought, the music\'s burst was done. \n\nI would, sweet bird ! that I might live with thee, \nAmid the eloquent grandeur of the shades, \nAlone with nature \xe2\x80\x94 but it may not be ; \nI have to struggle with the tumbling sea \nOf human life, until existence fades \nInto death\'s darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar \nThro\' the thick woods and shadow-chequered glades, \nWhile nought of sorrow casts a dimness o\'er \nThe brilliance of thy heart \xe2\x80\x94 but I must wear, \nAs now, my garmenting of pain and care \xe2\x80\x94 \nAs penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. \n\nYet why complain? \xe2\x80\x94 What though fond hopes deferred \n\nHave overshadowed Youth\'s green paths with gloom ! \n\nStiir, joy\'s rich music is not all unheard, \xe2\x80\x94 \' \n\nThere is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird ! \n\nTo welcome me, within my humble home ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere is an eye with love\'s devotion bright, \n\nThe darkness of existence to illume ! \n\nThen why complain 1 \xe2\x80\x94 When death shall cast his blight \n\nOver the spirit, then my bones shall rest \n\nBeneath these trees \xe2\x80\x94 and from thy swelling breast, \n\nO\'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light. \n\n\n\nTO A SHOWER. \n\nBY JAMES WILLIAM MILLER. \n\nThe pleasant rain ! \xe2\x80\x94 the pleasant rain ! \n\nBy fits it plashing falls \nOn twangling leaf and dimpling pool \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow sweet its warning calls ! \nThey know it \xe2\x80\x94 all the bosomy vales, \n\nHigh slopes, and verdant meads ; \nThe queenly elms and princely oaks \n\nBow down their grateful heads. \n\nThe withering grass, and fading flowers, \n\nAnd drooping shrubs look gay ; \nThe bubbly brook, with gladlier song, \n\nHies on its endless way ; \nAll things of earth \xe2\x80\x94 the grateful things ! \n\nPut on their robes of cheer, \nThey hear the sound of the warning burst, \n\nAnd know the rain -is near. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO A SHOWER. 275 \n\nIt comes ! it comes ! the pleasant rain ! \n\nI drink its cooler breath, \nIt is rich with sighs of fainting flowers \n\nAnd roses\' fragrant death ; \nIt hath kissed the tomb of the lily pale, \n\nThe beds where violets die, \nAnd it bears their life on its living wings\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI feel it wandering by. \n\nAnd yet it comes ! the lightning\'s flash \n\nHath torn the lowering cloud, \nWith a distant roar, and a nearer crash, \n\nOut bursts the thunder loud. \nIt comes with the rush of a god\'s descent \n\nOn the hushed and trembling earth, \nTo visit the shrines of the hallowed groves \n\nWhere a poet\'s soul had birth. \n\nWith a rush, as of a thousand steeds, \n\nIs the mighty god\'s descent ; \nBeneath the weight of his passing tread, \n\nThe conscious groves are bent. \nHis heavy tread \xe2\x80\x94 it is lighter now \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd yet it passeth on ; \nAnd now it is up, with a sudden lift \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe pleasant rain hath gone. \n\n\n\n276 TO A SHOWER. \n\nThe pleasant rain ! \xe2\x80\x94 the pleasant rain ! \n\nIt hath passed above the earth, \nI see the smile of the opening cloud, \n\nLike the parted lips of mirth. \nThe golden joy is spreading wide \n\nAlong the blushing west, \nAnd the happy earth gives. back her smiles, \n\nLike the glow of a grateful breast \n\nAs a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, \n\nThat knoweth all its need, \nSo came the good of the pleasant rain, \n\nO\'er hill and verdant mead. \nIt shall breathe this truth on the human ear, \n\nIn hall and cotter\'s home, \nThat to bring the gift of a bounteous heaven \n\nThe pleasant rain hath come. \n\n\n\nFLOY^ERS. \n\n\n\nBY HENRY PICKERING. \n\n\n\nLa vue d\'une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flatte mes sens a un point \ninexprimable : elle reveilLe avec volupte le sentiment de mon existence. \n\nMme. Roland. \n\nThe impatient Morn, \nFlushed with the vernal gale, calls forth, " Arise ! \nTo trace the hills, the meads, where thousand dyes \n\nThe ground adorn, \nWhile the dew sparkles yet within the violet\'s eyes :" \n\nAnd when the day \nIn golden slumber sinks, with accent sweet \nMild Evening comes to lure the willing feet \n\nWith her to stray, \nWhere\'er the bashful flowers the observant eye may greet \n\nNear the moist brink \nOf music-loving streams they ever keep, \nAnd often in the lucid fountains peep ; \n\nOft, laughing, drink \nOf the mad torrent\'s spray, perched near the thundering \nsteep. \n\nAnd every where \nAlong the plashy marge, and shallow bed \n\n\n\n278 \n\n\n\nFLOWERS. \n\n\n\nOf the still waters, they innumerous spread ; \n\nRocked gently there, \nThe beautiful white lily pillows its bright head. \n\nWithin the dell, \nWithin the rocky clefts they love to hide ; \nAnd hang adventurous on the steep hill-side ; \n\nOr rugged fell, \nWhere the young eagle waves his wings in youthful pride. \n\nIn the green sea \nOf forest leaves, where nature wanton plays, \nThey humbler bloom ; though through the verdant maze \n\nThe tulip-tree \nIts golden chalice oft triumphantly displays : \n\nAnd, of pure white, \nEmbedded mid its glossy leaves on high, \nThere the superb magnolia lures the eye ; \n\nWhile, waving light, \nThe locust\'s airy tassels scent the ambient sky. \n\nBut oh ! ye bowers \xe2\x80\x94 \nYe valleys where the spring perpetv.al reigns, \nAnd myriad blossoms o\'er the puiple plains \n\nExuberant showers \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow fancy revels in your lovelier domains ! \n\n\n\nHEBREW MELODY. 279 \n\nAll love the light ; \nYet, in ethereal beauty, too, arrayed, \nWhat flowers unnumbered spring within the shade, \n\nTill comes a blight \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nComes unaware \xe2\x80\x94 and then incontinent they fade ! \n\nAnd thus they bloom, \nAnd thus their lives ambrosial breathe away ; \nThus nourish too the lovely and the gay : \n\nAnd the same doom \nYouth, beauty, flower, alike consigns to swift decay. \n\n\n\nHEBREW MELODY. \n\nBY PROSPER M. WETMORE. \n\n" Judah mourneth, and the gates thereof languish ; they are black unto Uifl \nground; and the cry of Jerusalem is gone up." \xe2\x80\x94 Jeremiah. \n\nOh, Judah ! thy dwellings are sad \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThy children are weeping around, \nIn sackcloth their bosoms are clad \n\nAs they look on the famishing ground : \n\n\n\n280 HEBREW MELODY. \n\nIn the deserts they make them a home, \nAnd the mountains awake to their cry \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor the frown of Jehovah hath come, \nAnd his anger is red in the sky ! \n\nThy tender ones throng at the brink, \n\nBut the waters are gone from the well ; \nThey gaze on the rock, and then think \n\nOf the gash of the stream from its cell \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow they came to its margin before, \n\nAnd drank in their innocent mirth : \nAway ! it is sealed \xe2\x80\x94 and no more \n\nShall the fountain give freshness to earth. \n\nThe hearts of the mighty are bowed, \n\nAnd the lowly are haggard with care \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe voices of mothers are loud, \n\nAs they shriek the wild note of despair. \nOh, Jerusalem ! mourn through thy halls, \n\nAnd bend to the dust in thy shame ; \nThe doom that thy spirit appals, \n\nIs famine \xe2\x80\x94 the sword \xe2\x80\x94 and the flame ! \n\n\n\n\nTHE STEAMBOAT \n\n\n\nBY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. \n\n\n\nSee how yon naming herald treads \n\nThe ridged and rolling waves, \nAs crashing o\'er their crested heads, \n\nShe bows her surly slaves ! \nWith foam before and fire behind, \n\nShe rends the clinging sea, \nThat flies before the roaring wind, \n\nBeneath her hissing lee. \n\n\n\n282 THE STEAMBOAT. \n\nThe morning spray, like sea-born flowers, \n\nWith heaped and glistening bells \nFalls round her fast, in ringing showers, \n\nWith every wave that swells ; \nAnd flaming o\'er the midnight deep, \n\nIn lurid fringes thrown, \nThe living gems of ocean sweep \n\nAlong her flashing zone. \n\nWith clashing wheel, and lifting keel, \n\nAnd smoking torch on high, \nWhen winds are loud, and billows reel, \n\nShe thunders foaming by ! \nWhen seas are silent and serene, \n\nWith even beam she glides, \nThe sunshine glimmering through the green \n\nThat skirts her gleaming sides. \n\nNow, like a wild nymph, far apart \n\nShe veils her shadowy form, \nThe beating of her restless heart \n\nStill sounding through the storm ; \nNow answers, like a courtly dame, \n\xe2\x80\xa2 The reddening surges o\'er, \nWith flying scarf of spangled flame, \n\nThe Pharos of the shore. \n\n\n\nTHE STEAMBOAT. 283 \n\nTo-night yon pilot shall not sleep, \n\nWho trims his narrowed sail ; \nTo-night yon frigate scarce shall keep \n\nHer broad breast to the gale ; \nAnd many a foresail, scooped and strained, \n\nShall break from yard and stay, \nBefore this smoky wreath has stained \n\nThe rising mist of day. \n\nHark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, \n\nI see yon quivering mast ; \nThe black throat of the hunted cloud \n\nIs panting forth the blast ! \nAn hour, and whirled like winnowing chaff, \n\nThe giant surge shall fling \nHis tresses o\'er yon pennon staff, \n\nWhite as the sea-bird\'s wing ! \n\nYet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ; \n\nNor wind nor wave shall tire \nThose fleshless arms, whose pulses leap \n\nWith floods of living fire ; \nSleep on \xe2\x80\x94 and when the morning light \n\nStreams o\'er the shining bay, \nO think of those for whom the night \n\nShall never wake in day ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CLOSING- YEAR. \n\nBY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. \n\n\'Tis midnight\'s holy hour \xe2\x80\x94 and silence now \nIs brooding like a gentle Spirit o\'er \nThe still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds \nThe bell\'s deep tones are swelling \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis the knell \nOf the departed year. No funeral train \nIs sweeping past \xe2\x80\x94 yet, on the stream and wood, \nWith melancholy light, the moonbeams rest \nLike a pale, spotless shroud \xe2\x80\x94 the air is stirred \n\n\n\n\nTHE CLOSING YEAR, 285 \n\nAs by a mourner\'s sigh \xe2\x80\x94 and on yon cloud. \n\nThat floats so still and placidly through heaven, \n\nThe Spirits of the Seasons seem to stand, \n\nYoung Spring, bright Summer, Autumn\'s solemn form, \n\nAnd Winter with his aged locks, and breathe, \n\nIn mournful cadences that come abroad \n\nLike the far wind-harp\'s wild and touching wail, \n\nA melancholy dirge o\'er the dead year \n\nGone from the Earth for ever. \n\n\'Tis a time \nFor memory and for tears. Within the deep \nStill chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, \nWhose tones are like the wizard voice of Time \nHeard from the tomb of Ages, points its cold \nAnd solemn finger to the beautiful \nAnd holy visions, that have passed away \nAnd left no shadow of their loveliness \nOn the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts \nThe coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, \nAnd, bending mournfully above the pale \nSweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers \nO\'er what has passed to nothingness. The year \nHas gone, and, with it, many a glortous throng \nOf happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, \nIts shadow in each heart. In its swift course, - \nIt waved its sceptre o\'er the beautiful \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n286 THE CLOSING YEAR. \n\nAnd they are not. It laid its pallid hand \nUpon the strong man \xe2\x80\x94 and the haughty form \nIs fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. \nIt trod the hall of revelry, where thronged \nThe bright and joyous \xe2\x80\x94 and the tearful wail \nOf stricken ones is heard where erst the song \nAnd reckless shout resounded. It passed o\'er \nThe battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield \nFlashed in the light of mid-day \xe2\x80\x94 and the strength \nOf serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, \nGreen from the soil of carnage, waves above \nThe crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came \nAnd faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; \nYet, ere it melted in the viewless air, \nIt heralded its millions to their home \nIn the dim land of dreams. \n\nRemorseless Time \xe2\x80\x94 \nFierce Spirit of the Glass and Scythe \xe2\x80\x94 what power \nCan stay him in his silent course, or melt \nHis iron heart to pity ! On, still on, \nHe presses, and for ever. The proud bird, \nThe condor of the Andes, that can soar \nThrough heaven\'s unfathomable depths, or brave \nThe fury of the northern hurricane, \nAnd bathe his plumage in the thunder\'s home, \nFurls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down \n\n\n\nTHE CLOSING YEAR. 287 \n\nTo rest upon his mountain crag \xe2\x80\x94 but Time \nKnows not the weight of sleep or weariness, \nAnd Night\'s deep darkness has no chain to bind \nHis rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep \nO\'er Earth, like troubled visions o\'er the breast \nOf dreaming sorrow \xe2\x80\x94 Cities rise and sink \nLike bubbles on the water \xe2\x80\x94 Fiery isles \nSpring blazing from the Ocean, and go back \nTo their mysterious caverns \xe2\x80\x94 Mountains rear \nTo heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow \nTheir tall heads to the plain \xe2\x80\x94 New Empires rise, \nGathering the strength of hoary centuries, \nAnd rush down like the Alpine avalanche, \nStartling the nations \xe2\x80\x94 And the very stars, \nYon bright and burning blazonry of God, \nGlitter a while in their eternal depths, \nAnd, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, \nShoot from their glorious spheres and pass away \nTo darkle in the trackless void \xe2\x80\x94 Yet Time, \nTime the Tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, \nDark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not \nAmid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, \nTo sit and muse, like other conquerors, \nUpon the fearful ruin he has wrought. \n\n\n\nAMBITION. \n\n\n\nBY JOHN NEAL. \n\n\n\nI loved to hear the war-horn cry, \n\nAnd panted at the drum\'s deep roll ; \nAnd held my breath, when \xe2\x80\x94 naming high- \nI saw our starry banners fly, \nAs challenging the haughty sky, \n\nThey went like battle o\'er my soul : \nFor I was so ambitious then, \nI burned to be the slave \xe2\x80\x94 of men. \n\nI stood and saw the morning light, \n\nA standard swaying far and free ; \nAnd loved it like the conqu\'ring night \nOf angels floating wide and bright \n\n\n\nAMBITION. 289 \n\nAbove the stars, above the fight \n\nWhere nations warred for liberty ; \nAnd thought I heard the battle-cry \nOf trumpets in the hollow sky. \n\nI sailed upon the dark-blue deep : \n\nAnd shouted to the eaglet soaring ; \nAnd hung me from a rocking steep, \nWhen all but spirits were asleep ; \nAnd oh, my very soul would leap \n\nTo hear the gallant waters roaring ; \nFor every sound and shape of strife \nTo me, was but the breath of life. \n\nBut, I am strangely altered now \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI love no more the bugle\'s voice \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nThe rushing wave \xe2\x80\x94 the plunging prow\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe mountain with his clouded brow \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe thunder when his blue skies bow, \nAnd all the sons of God rejoice \xe2\x80\x94 \nI love to dream of tears and sighs \nAnd shadowy hair and half-shut eyes. \n\n\n\nTHE TWO VOICES. \n\n\n\nBY a. W. PATTEN. \n\n\n\nTwo voices swelled athwart the lea : \nI listened while they sang ; \n\nOne soft as lute on summer sea \xe2\x80\x94 \nOne like the trumpet\'s clang. \n\nFIRST VOICE. \n\n" Daughter, rest ! \xe2\x80\x94 no cloud of sorrow \n\nDews thy brow with tears of pain ; \nSleep to-night \xe2\x80\x94 the dawning morrow \n\nSoon for thee will smile again. \nStarlight sleeps upon the water \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSunlight slumbers in the west ; \nClose thine eyelids, gentle daughter, \n\nNature\'s voices whisper \xe2\x80\x94 rest ! \n\n" Daughter, rest ! \xe2\x80\x94 I smooth thy pillow \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLay thy head upon it, sweet ; \nHere doth never roar the billow, \n\nHere the drum may never beat. \nLight of war will ne\'er come o\'er thee \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSound of conflict rend thy breast ; \nBut thy Father\'s lips before thee, \n\nIn thy dream shall murmur \xe2\x80\x94 rest ! \n\n\n\nTHE TWO VOICES. 291 \n\n" Daughter, rest ! \xe2\x80\x94 no thorn shall wound thee \n\nMid thy dream of roses wild, \nMother\'s arm is clasped around thee \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMother rocks her widowed child. \nSleep ! \xe2\x80\x94 the weary herd is folded, \n\nDrowsy birds have sought their nest ; \nHush ! \xe2\x80\x94 the song which father moulded \n\nDies in silence \xe2\x80\x94 daughter, rest !" \n\nTwo voices swelled athwart the lea : \n\nI listened while they sang ; \nOne soft as lute upon the sea \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne like the trumpet\'s clang. \n\nSECOND VOICE. \n\n"Forward ! \xe2\x80\x94 mid the battle\'s hum \nRoughly rolls the daring drum. \nVictory, with hurried breath, \nCalls ye, from her mouths of death : \nWar, with hand of crimson stain, \nWaves ye to the front again. \nOnward ! ere the field is won \xe2\x80\x94 \nOnward ! ere the fight is done ! \n\n" Forward ! \xe2\x80\x94 raise the banner high ! \nToss its spangles to the sky, \nLet its eagle, reeking red, \nFloat above the foeman\'s head; \n\n\n\n292 WHERE LIVES THE SOUL OF POETRY \n\nLet its stripes of red and white \nBlind again his dazzled sight. \nOnward ! ere the field is won \xe2\x80\x94 \nForward ! ere the fight is done ! \n\n" Forward to the front again ! \nUrge the steed and loose the rein ; \nSpur amid the rattling peal ! \nCharge amid the storm of steel ! \nO\'er the stream, and from the glen, \nCowards watch the strife of men. \nOnward ! ere the field is won \xe2\x80\x94 \nOnward ! ere the fight is done !" \n\n\n\nWHERE LIVES THE SOUL OF POETRY \n\nBY W. H. C. HOSMER. \n\nWhere lives the soul of poetry ] It dwells \nIn the lone desert, where no fountain wells ; \nSpeaks in the Kamsin\'s blast, dread foe of man, \nThat overthrows the luckless caravan, \nAnd in a tomb, unknown to friendship, hides \nThe toiling camels and their Arab guides ; \nDwells in the boiling maelstroom, deep and dark, \n\n\n\nWHERE LIVES THE SOUL OF POETRY. 293 \n\nThat roars a dismal warning to the bark, \nAnd lingers where volcanic mountains throw \nA burning deluge on the vale below. \n\nWhere lives the soul of poetry ? Dark caves \nWorn by the foamy buffeting of waves ; \nThe blue abysses of the moaning sea, \nWhere coral insects fashion dome and tree, \nAnd mermaids chant, by mortal eye unseen, \nAnd comb in sparry halls their tresses green ; \nThe broad savanna, where the bison strays, \nAnd come in herds the fallow deer to graze ; \nThe mossy forest, far from haunts of men, \nWhere the wild wolf prepares his savage den ; \nThe giant Andes, round whose frosty peaks \nThe tempest hovers and the condor shrieks. \n\nCold, cheerless Greenland, where the ice-berg hoar \n\nStrikes with a deafening crash the barren shore, \n\nWhile roves the white fox, and the polar bear, \n\nIn quest of prey, forsakes his icy lair ; \n\nBright tropic bowers, within whose depths of green, \n\nThe pard and savage tiger lurk unseen, \n\nWhere the fierce scales of deadly reptiles shine, \n\nWhile round the trunks of giant palms they twine ; \n\nThe spicy groves of Araby the blest, \n\nIn fadeless robes of bloom and verdure drest ; \n\n\n\n\n\n\n294 WHERE LIVES THE SOUL OF POETRY. \n\nWhere birds of gorgeous plumage perch and sing, \nIn varied strains, or wander on the wing ; \nRomantic Persia, where the dulcet lay \nOf the glad Peri never dies away, \nWhere the light pinions of the wooing wind \nFan the young leaves of date or tamarind, \nWhile nightingales amid the branches throng, \nAnd own the presence of the soul of song. \n\nThe rich warm hues that flush the western cloud, \nWhen yellow twilight weaves her glorious shroud ; \nThe babbling cascade that descends in foam, \nAnd flashes beauty from its rocky home ; \nThe mingling tones of laughing earth and air, \nWhen Morn braids purple in her golden hair ; \nThe dance of leaves, the lulling fall of rain, \nThe river on its journey to the main ; \nThe quiet lakes that spread their sheets of blue, \nA sweet enchantment lending to the view. \nThe fierce tornado, parent of dismay, \nUprooting sylvan giants in his way ; \nThe lulling winds of summer, or the blast \nThat howls a requiem when the leaf is cast ; \nThe pearly moonshine of an autumn night, \nWhen glen and glade are bathed in spectral light ; \nThe lawn of spring, with varied flowers inwrought, \nAre the pure nurses of poetic thought. \n\n\n\nSUNSET. \n\n\n\nBY DOCTOR WARD. \n\n\n\nThe west ! the west ! turn to the lighted west ! \nWhat crimson wonders break upon us there ! \nThe drooping sun, slow sinking to his rest, \nPaints the red hectic on the cheek of air \xe2\x80\x94 \nStamp of destruction \xe2\x80\x94 herald of decay, \nWhose feverish bloom proclaims the death of day. \n\nThere\'s holiday above, and all the clouds, \nIn gala robes, the sunbeams sport among ; \nFestoon upon festoon entwining, crowds, \n\'Till all the drapery of heaven is hung \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd far away the ruddy masses break \nIn ridgy waves, like some illumined lake. \n\n\n\n296 SUNSET. \n\nGaze upward ! from the zenith\'s giddy crown \nDown to the sunny centre, fold on fold \nGlows in gradation, as the eye goes down, \nOf purple, crimson, scarlet, orange, gold \xe2\x80\x94 \nIntensest gold ! \xe2\x80\x94 Where blinding to the sight, \nThe molten sun swims in a sea of light ! \n\nNot in the West alone, the bloom is spread \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe envious East is burning at the sight ; \nMen\'s faces glare with the unnatural red, \nAnd twinkling waves rejoice with living light \xe2\x80\x94 \nFortress, and spire, and Hudson\'s glancing stream, \nTo the broad blaze flash back an answering beam. \n\nFrail flower of beauty ! how thy hues go down ! \n\nEv\'n as I gaze they melt in air away \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe gold grows crimson, and the crimson brown, \n\nTill tint by tint, relapses into gray ! \n\nOf Beauty\'s daughters such the fearful doom \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch the brief triumph, and the lasting gloom. \n\n\n\nWEEHAWKEN. \n\n\n\nBY ROBERT C. SANDS. \n\n\n\nEve o\'er our path is stealing fast ; \nYon quivering splendours are the last \nThe sun will fling, to tremble o\'er \nThe waves that kiss the opposing shore ; \nHis latest glories fringe the height \nBehind us, with their golden light \n\nThe mountain\'s mirrored outline fades \nAmid the fast extending shades ; \nIts shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, \nTowers, as the gloom steals o\'er the tide ; \nFor the great stream a bulwark meet \nThat leaves its rock-encumbered feet \n\nRiver and Mountain ! though to song \nNot yet, perchance, your names belong ; \nThose who have loved your evening hues, \nWill ask not the recording Muse, \nWhat antique tales she can relate, \nYour banks and steeps to consecrate. \n\nDd \n\n\n\n298 WEEHAWKEN. \n\nYet should the stranger ask, what lore \nOf by-gone days, this winding shore, \nYon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, \nIf vocal made by Fancy\'s spell, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe varying legend might rehearse \nFit themes for high, romantic verse. \n\nO\'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod \nOft hath the stalworth warrior trod ; \nOr peered, with hunter\'s gaze, to mark \nThe progress of the glancing bark. \nSpoils, strangely won on distant waves, \nHave lurked in yon obstructed caves. \n\nWhen the great strife for Freedom rose \nHere scouted oft her friends and foes, \nAlternate, through the changeful war, \nAnd beacon-fires flashed bright and far ; \nAnd here, when Freedom\'s strife was won, \nFell, in sad feud, her favoured son ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer son, \xe2\x80\x94 the second of the band, \nThe Romans of the rescued land. \nWhere round yon cape the banks ascend, \nLong shall the pilgrim\'s footsteps bend ; \nThere, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, \nThere, tears shall dim the patriot\'s eye. \n\n\n\n\nA MORNING INVOCATION. 299 \n\nThere last he stood. Before his sight \nFlowed the fair river, free and bright ; \nThe rising Mart and Isles and Bay, \nBefore him in their glory lav, \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nScenes of his love and of his fame, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe instant ere the death-shot came. \n\n\n\nA MORNING INVOCATION \n\nBY EPES SARGENT. \n\nWake, slumberer ! Summer\'s golden hours \nAre speeding fast away ; \n\nThe sun has waked the opening flowers, \nTo greet the new-born day. \n\nThe deer leaps from his leafy haunt ; \nFair gleams the breezy lake ; \n\nThe birds their matin carols chant- \nAll Nature cries, awake ! \n\n\n\n300 A MOENINfr INVOCATION. \n\nOh ! lose not in unconscious ease \n\nAn hour so heavenly fair ; \nCome forth, while yet the glittering trees \n\nWave in the purple air ; \nWhile yet a dewy freshness fills \n\nThe morning\'s fragrant gale ; \nWhile o\'er the woods and up the hills, \n\nThe mist rolls from the vale. \n\nAwake ! too soon, alas ! too soon, \n\nThe glory must decay ; \nAnd, in the fervid eye of noon, \n\nThe freshness fade away. \nThen seize the hour so swift of flight, \n\nIts early bloom partake : \nBy all that\'s beautiful and bright, \n\nI call on thee \xe2\x80\x94 awake ! \n\n\n\nLIGrHT. \n\nBY WILLIAM PITT PALMER. \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 Blight effluence of bright essence increate ! \nBefore the sun, before the heavens, thou wert." \xe2\x80\x94 Milton. \n\nFrom the quickened womb of the primal gloom \n\nThe sun rolled black and bare, \nTill I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast, \n\nOf the threads of my golden hair ; \nAnd when the broad tent of the firmament \n\nArose on its airy spars, \nI pencilled the hue of its matchless blue, \n\nAnd spangled it round with stars. \n\nI painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, \n\nAnd their leaves of living green, \nAnd mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes \n\nOf Eden\'s virgin queen ; \nAnd when the fiend\'s art on her trustful heart \n\nHad fastened its mortal spell, \nIn the silvery sphere of the first-born tear \n\nTo the trembling earth I fell. \n\n\n\n302 LIGHT. \n\nWhen the waves that burst o\'er a world accursed \n\nTheir work of wrath had sped, \nAnd the Ark\'s lone few, the tried and true, \n\nCame forth among the dead ; \nWith the wondrous gleams of my braided beams, \n\nI bade their terrors cease, \nAs I wrote on the roll of the storm\'s dark scroll \n\nGod\'s covenant of peace. \n\nLike a pall at rest on a pulseless breast, \n\nNight\'s funeral shadow slept, \nWhere shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains \n\nTheir lonely vigils kept ; \nWhen I flashed on their sight the heralds bright \n\nOf heaven\'s redeeming plan, \nAs they chanted the morn of a Saviour born \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJoy, joy to the outcast Man ! \n\nEqual favour I show to the lofty and low, \n\nOn the just and unjust I descend ; \nE\'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and \ntears, \n\nFeel my smile the blest smile of a friend : \nNay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, \n\nAs the rose in the garden of kings ; \nAt the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, \n\nAnd lo ! the gay butterfly\'s wings ! \n\n\n\nLIGHT. 303 \n\nThe desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, \n\nConceals all the pride of her charms, \nTill I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from her \nbowers, \n\nAnd lead the young Day to her arms ; \nAnd when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover, \n\nAnd sinks to her balmy repose, \nI wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fanned west, \n\nIn curtains of amber and rose. \n\nFrom my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, \n\nI gaze with unslumbering eye, \nWhen the cynosure star of the mariner \n\nIs blotted from the sky ; \nAnd guided by me through the merciless sea, \n\nThough sped by the hurricane\'s wings, \nHis compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark, \n\nTo the haven-home safely he brings. \n\nI waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, \n\nThe birds in their chambers of green, \nAnd mountain and plain glow with beauty again, \n\nAs they bask in my matinal sheen. \nO if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, \n\nThough fitful and fleeting the while, \nWhat glories must rest on the home of the blest, \n\nEver bright with the Deity\'s smile ! \n\n\n\nTHE LEAF. \n\n\n\nBY SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. \n\n\n\nIt came with spring\'s soft sun and showers, \nMid bursting buds and blushing flowers ; \nIt flourished on the same light stem, \nIt drank the same clear dews with them. \nThe crimson tints of summer morn, \nThat gilded one, did each adorn. \nThe breeze, that whispered light and brief \nTo bud or blossom, kissed the leaf; \nWhen o\'er the leaf the tempest flew, \nThe bud and blossom trembled too. \n\nBut its companions passed away, \nAnd left the leaf to lone decay. \nThe gentle gales of spring went by, \nThe fruits and flowers of summer die. \nThe autumn winds swept o\'er the hill, \nAnd winter\'s breath came cold and chill. \nThe leaf now yielded to the blast, \nAnd on the rushing stream was cast \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEAF. \n\n\n\n305 \n\n\n\nFar, far it glided to the sea, \nAnd whirled and eddied wearily, \nTill suddenly it sank to rest, \nAnd slumbered in the ocean\'s breast \n\n\n\nThus life begins \xe2\x80\x94 its morning hours, \nBright as the birth-day of the flowers ; \nThus passes like the leaves away, \nAs withered and as lost as they. \nBeneath the parent roof we meet \nIn joyous groups, and gaily greet \nThe golden beams of love and light, \nThat kindle to the youthful sight. \nBut soon we part, and one by one, \nLike leaves and flowers, the group is gone. \nOne gentle spirit seeks the tomb, \nHis brow yet fresh with childhood\'s bloom. \nAnother treads the paths of fame, \nAnd barters peace to win a name. \nAnother still tempts fortune\'s wave, \nAnd seeking wealth, secures a grave. \nThe last grasps yet the brittle thread \xe2\x80\x94 \nThough fiiends are gone and joy is dead, \nStill dares the dark and fretful tide, \nAnd clutches at its power and pride, \nTill suddenly the waters sever, \nAnd like the leaf he sinks for ever. \n\n\n\nEXTRACT FROM THE JUDGMENT. \n\nBY JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. \n\nThen on the mount, amidst these glorious shapes, \nWho reverent stood, with looks of sacred awe, \nI saw Emmanuel seated on his throne. \nHis robe, methought, was whiter than the light ; \nUpon his breast the Heavenly Urim glowed \nBright as the sun, and round such lightnings flashed, \nNo eye could meet the mystic symbol\'s blaze. \nIrradiant the eternal sceptre shone \nWhich wont to glitter in his Father\'s hand : \nResplendent in his face the Godhead beamed, \nJustice and mercy, majesty and grace, \nDivinely mingling. Celestial glories played \nAround with beamy lustre ; from his eye \nDominion looked ; upon his brow was stamped \nCreative Power. Yet over all the touch \nOf gracious pity dwelt, which, erst, amidst \nDissolving nature\'s anguish breathed a prayer \nFor guilty man. Redundant down his neck \nHis locks rolled graceful, as they waved, of old, \nUpon the mournful breeze of Calvary. \n\n\n\nTHE JUDGMENT. 307 \n\nHis throne of heavenly substance seemed composed, \nWhose pearly essence, like the eastern shell, \nOr changeful opal, shed a silvery light \nClear as the moon it looked through ambient clouds \nOf snowy lustre waving round its base, \nThat, like a zodiac, thick with emblems set, \nFlashed wondrous beams, of unknown character, \nFrom many a burning stone of lustre rare, \nStained like the bow whose mingling splendour streamed \nConfusion bright upon the dazzled eye. \nAbove him hung a canopy whose skirts \nThe mount o\'ershadowed like an evening cloud. \nClouds were his curtains : not like their dim types \nOf blue and purple round the tabernacle, \nThat waving vision of the lonely wild, \nBy pious Israel wrought with cherubims ; \nVeiling the mysteries of old renown, \nTable, and altar, ark, and mercy-seat, \nWhere, \'twixt the shadow of cherubic wings, \nIn lustre visible Jehovah shone. \n\nIn honour chief, upon the Lord\'s right hand \nHis station Michael held : the dreadful sword \nThat from a starry baldric hung, proclaimed \nThe Hierarch. Terrible, on his brow \nBlazed the Archangel crown, and from his eye- \nThick sparkles flashed. Like regal banners, waved \n\n\n\n308 THE JUDGMENT. \n\nBack from his giant shoulders his broad vans, \n\nBedropt with gold, and, turning to the sun, \n\nShone gorgeous as the multitudinous stars, \n\nOr some illumined city seen by night, \n\nWhen her wide streets pour noon, and echoing through \n\nHer thronging thousands mirth and music ring. \n\nOpposed to him, I saw an Angel stand \nIn sable vesture, with the Books of Life. \nBlack was his mantle, and his changeful wings \nGlossed like the raven\'s ; thoughtful seemed his mien, \nSedate and calm, and deep upon his brow \nHad Meditation set her seal : his eyes \nLooked things unearthly, thoughts unutterable, \nOr uttered only with an Angel\'s tongue. \nRenowned was he among the Seraphim \nFor depth of prescience, and sublimest lore ; \nSkilled in the mysteries of the Eternal, \nProfoundly versed in those old records where, \nFrom everlasting ages, live God\'s deeds ; \nHe knew the hour when yonder shining worlds, \nThat roll around us, into being sprang ; \nTheir system, laws, connection ; all he knew \nBut the dread moment when they cease to be. \nNone judged like him. the ways of God to man, \nOr so had pondered ; his excursive thoughts \nHad visited the depths of Night and Chaos, \nGathering the treasures of the hoary deep. \n\n\n\nTHE DYING BOY. \n\n\n\nBY J. H. BRIGHT. \n\n\n\nIt must be sweet, in childhood, to give back \n\nThe spirit to its Maker ; ere the heart \n\nHas grown familiar with the paths of sin, \n\nAnd sown, to garner up its bitter fruits. \n\nI knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod \n\nUpon the blossoms of some seven springs, \n\nAnd when the eighth came round, and called him out \n\nTo revel in its light, he turned away, \n\nAnd sought his chamber, to lie down and die. \n\n\'Twas night ; he summoned his accustomed friends, \n\nAnd, in this wise, bestowed his last bequest. \n\nEe \n\n\n\n310 THE DYING BOY. \n\n" Mother, I\'m dying now ! \nThere is deep suffocation in my breast, \nAs if some heavy hand my bosom pressed, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd on my brow \n\n" I feel the cold sweat stand ; \nMy lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath \nComes feebly up. Oh, tell me ! is this death ] \nMother, your hand ! \n\n" Here, lay it on my wrist, \nAnd place the other thus, beneath my head, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead, \nShall I be missed ] \n\n" Never, beside your knee, \nShall I kneel down again at night to pray, \nNor with the morning wake and sing the lay \nYou taught to me ! \n\n" Oh ! at the time of prayer, \nWhen you look round and see a vacant seat, \nYou will not wait then for my coming feet ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nYou\'ll miss me there !" \n\n" Father, I\'m going home ! \nTo the good home you spoke of \xe2\x80\x94 that blest land \n\n\n\nTHE DYING BOY. 311 \n\nWhere it is one bright summer always, and \nDeath does not come !" \n\n" Brother, the little spot \nI used to call my garden, where long hours \nWe stayed to watch the budding things and flowers, \nForget it not ! \n\n" Plant there some box or pine ; \nSomething that lives in winter, and will be \nA verdant offering to my memory, \nAnd call it mine I" \n\n" Sister, my young rose tree \nThat all the spring has been my pleasant care, \nJust putting forth its leaves so green and fair, \nI give to thee. \n\n"And when its roses bloom, \n1 shall be gone away \xe2\x80\x94 my short life done ; \nBut will you not bestow a single one \nUpon my tomb]" \n\n" Now, mother, sing the tune \nYou sang last night ; I\'m weary and must sleep \xe2\x80\x94 \nWho was it called my name 1 \xe2\x80\x94 Nay, do not weep, \nYou\'ll all come soon !" \n\n\n\nSTANZAS \n\n\n\nBY EDWARD SANFORD. \n\n\n\nThe world is smiling ; the glad earth \n\nSmiles on her gaudy children\'s dress ; \nThe noisy winds laugh out in mirth, \n\nAnd the breezes titter in playfulness ; \nThe old sea smiles on the close embrace \n\nOf his fondling waves, as they mingling meet ; \nAnd the young streams laugh in their onward race, \n\nAnd their tiny shout, like a child\'s, is sweet : \nSmiles from the earth, and from the sea, \nAnd yet not one sweet smile from thee ] \n\nThe warm sun smiles on the earth with pride ; \n\nAnd the chaste moon smiles through her vapoury veil. \nLike the love-lit glance of a curtained bride, \n\nWhile, like eyes that are bright at a lover\'s tale, \nFrom Heaven\'s high casement downward peeping, \n\nThe bright stars wink at the pranks of earth, \nUndimmed, like mortal orbs, by weeping, \n\nThey chant the hymn of creation\'s birth. \nThe skies on high are rife with glee \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd yet not one sweet smile from thee ) \n\n\n\nthe chieftain\'s daughter. 313 \n\nThe heaven-kissed mountains smile on high \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe stream-clasped valleys smile below \xe2\x80\x94 \nSmiles from the rock, the grove, the sky, \n\nThe lake\'s glassed deep, the river\'s flow. \nThere dwells a smile on the face of flowers, \n\nThere\'s joy in the play of the dallying leaves ; \nIn this beautiful breathing world of ours \n\nThere\'s nought, save man, that pines and grieves. \nAy ! even a smile is forced from me ; \nAnd yet not one sweet smile from thee } \n\n\n\nTHE CHIEFTAIN\'S DAUGHTER. \n\nPocahontas. \nBY GEORGE P. MORRIS. \n\nUpon the barren sand \n\nA single captive stood, \nAround him came, with bow and brand, \n\nThe red-men of the wood. \nLike him of old, his doom he hears, \n\nRock-bound on ocean\'s rim : \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe chieftain\'s daughter knelt in tears, \n\nAnd breathed a prayer for him. \n\nEe\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n314 the chieftain\'s daughter. \n\nAbove his head in air, \n\nThe savage war-club swung ; \nThe frantic girl, in wild despair, \n\nHer arms about him flung. \nThen shook the warriors of the shade, \n\nLike leaves on aspen-limb, \nSubdued by that heroic maid \n\nWho breathed a prayer for him. \n\n"Unbind him !" gasped the chief, \n\n"It is your king\'s decree !" \nHe kissed away her tears of grief, \n\nAnd set the captive free. \n\'Tis ever thus, when, in life\'s storm, \n\nHope\'s star to man grows dim, \nAn angel kneels in woman\'s form, \n\nAnd breathes a prayer for him. \n\n\n\nHAMPTON BEACH. \n\n\n\nBY GEORGE LUNT. \n\n\n\n{; mare, o litus, verum secretumque Museum, quam multa dictatis,- \nquam multa invenitis !"\xe2\x80\x94 Pliny. \n\nAgain upon the sounding shore, \nAnd oh how blest, again alone ! \nI could not bear to hear thy roar, \nThy deep, thy long majestic tone ; \nI could not bear to think that one \nCould view with me thy swelling might, \nAnd like a very stock or stone, \nTurn coldly from the glorious sight, \nAnd seek the idle world, to hate and fear and fight \n\nThou art the same, eternal sea ! \nThe earth hath many shapes and forms, \nOf hill and valley, flower and tree ; \nFields that the fervid noontide warms, \nOr winter\'s rugged grasp deforms, \nOr bright with autumn\'s golden store ; \nThou coverest up thy face with storms, \nOr smil\'st serene, \xe2\x80\x94 but still thy roar \nAnd dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore. \n\n\n\n316 HAMPTON BEACH. \n\nI see thy heaving waters roll, \nI hear thy stern uplifted voice, \nAnd trumpet-like upon my soul \nFalls the deep music of that noise \nWherewith thou dost thyself rejoice ; \nThe ships, that on thy bosom play, \nThou dashest them about like toys, \nAnd stranded navies are thy prey, \nStrown on thy rock-bound coast, torn by the whirling spray \n\nAs summer twilight soft and calm, \nOr when in stormy grandeur drest, \nPeals up to heaven the eternal psalm, \nThat swells within thy boundless breast ; \nThy curling waters have no rest, \nBut day and night, the ceaseless throng \nOf waves that wait thy high behest, \nSpeak out in utterance deep and strong, \nAnd loud the craggy beach howls back their savage song. \n\nTerrible art thou in thy wrath, \xe2\x80\x94 \nTerrible in thine hour of glee, \nWhen the strong winds, upon their path, \nBound o\'er thy breast tumultuously, \nAnd shout their chorus loud and free \nTo the sad sea-bird\'s mournful wail, \nAs heaving with the heaving sea, \n\n\n\nHAMPTON BEACH. \n\n\n\n317 \n\n\n\nThe broken mast and shattered sail \nTell of thy cruel strength the lamentable tale. \n\nAy, \'tis indeed a glorious sight \nTo gaze upon thine ample face ; \nAn awful joy, \xe2\x80\x94 a deep delight ! \nI see thy laughing waves embrace \nEach other in their frolic race ; \nI sit above the flashing spray, \nThat foams around this rocky base, \nAnd, as the bright blue waters play, \nFeel that my thoughts, my life, perchance are vain as they. \n\nThis is thy lesson, mighty sea ! \nMan calls the dimpled earth his own, \nThe flowery vale, the golden lea ; \nAnd on the wild gray mountain-stone \nClaims nature\'s temple for his throne ! \nBut where thy many voices sing \nTheir endless song, the deep, deep tone \nCalls back his spirit\'s airy wing, \nHe shrinks into himself, where God alone is king ! \n\n\n\nWOMAN. \n\nWritten ir. the Album of an unknown Lady. \nBY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. \n\nLady, although we have not met, \nAnd may not meet, beneath the sky ; \n\nAnd whether thine are eyes of jet, \n\nGray, or dark blue, or violet, \nOr hazel \xe2\x80\x94 heaven knows, not I ; \n\nWhether around thy cheek of rose \n\nA maiden\'s glowing locks are curled, \nAnd to some thousand kneeling beaux, \nThy frown is cold as winter\'s snows, \nThy smile is worth a world ; \n\n\n\nWOMAN. 319 \n\nOr whether, past youth\'s joyous strife, \n\nThe calm of thought is on thy brow, \nAnd thou art in thy noon of life, \nLoving, and loved, a happy wife, \n\nAnd happier mother now, \n\nI know not \xe2\x80\x94 but whate\'er thou art, \nWhoe\'er thou art, were mine the spell, \n\nTo call Fate\'s joys, or blunt his dart, \n\nThere should not be one hand or heart \nBut served or wished thee well. \n\nFor thou art Woman \xe2\x80\x94 with that word \nLife\'s dearest hopes and memories come, \n\nTruth, Beauty, Love \xe2\x80\x94 in her adored, \n\nAnd earth\'s lost Paradise restored \nIn the green bower of home. \n\nWhat is man\'s love ] His vows are broke \nEven while his parting kiss is warm,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut woman\'s love all change will mock, \n\nAnd, like the ivy round the oak, \nCling closest in the storm. \n\nAnd well the Poet at her shrine \n\nMay bend and worship while he wooes ; \nTo him she is a thing divine, \n\n\n\n320 WOMAN. \n\nThe inspiration of his line, \nHis loved one, and his Muse. \n\nIf to his song the echo rings \n\nOf Fame \xe2\x80\x94 \'tis Woman\'s voice he hears ; \nIf ever from his lyre\'s proud strings \nFlow sounds, like rush of angel wings, \n\'Tis that she listens while he sings, \n\nWith blended smiles and tears : \n\nSmiles, \xe2\x80\x94 tears, \xe2\x80\x94 whose blest and blessing power, \n\nLike sun and dew o\'er summer\'s tree, \nAlone keeps green through Time\'s long hour. \nThat frailer thing than leaf or nower \nA Poet\'s immortality. \n\n\n\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper process \nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide \nTreatment Date: Sept. 2009 \n\nPreservationTechnologies \n\nA WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION \n\n111 Thomson Park Dnve \nCranberry Township, PA 16066 \n(724)779-2111 \n\n\n\n\\S\xc2\xa7gS^^ \n\n\n\n\nWVw\\vWVw^^ \n\n\n\n\n^^^fcC^II^^ \n\n\n^\\^^^^^^^K^^VCV^^^\\^^^^^^^\\^^^^0^ \n\n\n\n\nV^v^^xV \n\n\n^^^^^^^ ^vxx\\\\V ^^^^^^^^. 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