\\\%M ■ 1 1 & :%^-'^ 1 ^H •^■-- » V ■ ■ ■ l I ■ U!v Co H _^_ ?r;«?fr^ ^mmm»x^m l£H. & F. J. IILNTINGTGN\J| Publishers, gBooksellers and Stationers,? DIRECTLY WEST of the State Efbuse, HARTFORD. FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY / /- M^f^^L^ ^d^c J/'Afj'g^ 6 the J of p* NOV 17 1934 ^> AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK POETRY, WITH OCCASIONAL NOTES. BY GEORGE B. CHEEVER BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY CARTER, HENDEE AND BABCOCK BALTIMORE: CHARLES CARTER. 183J. DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT : District Clerk's Office. Be it remembered, That on the seventh day of January, A. D. 1831, in the fifty-fifth year of the Independence of the United States of America, Carter, Hexdee and Babcock, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following, to wit: — " The American Common-Place Book of Poetry, with Occasional Notes. By George B. Cheever."' In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, "An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned ;" and also to an act, entitled, "An Act supplementary to-an act, entitled, 'An Act for the encourage- ment of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the times therein mentioned ;• and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of design- ing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." T\T) W DAVTS \ Clerk of the District Hiram Tupper, Printer. PREFACE. The unexpected favor, with which the American Common -Place Book of Prose was received, encouraged its publishers to hope that a similar volume of extracts from American poetry might be attended with the same success. It is true, that there are more good prose writers in our country than there are poets ; but it would be strange, indeed, if enough of really excellent poetry could not be found to fill a volume like this. It is not pretended that every piece, in the following selection, is a stately and perfect song, inspired by " the vision and the faculty divine," and containing, throughout, the true power and spirit of harmony ; but every lover of poetry will find much to delight a cultivated imagination, and much to set him on thinking ; and every religious mind will be pleased that a volume of American poetry, so variously selected, presents so many pages imbued with the feelings of devotion. If all the extracts are not of sufficient excellence to excite vivid admiration, most of them are of the kind that meet us Like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. 4 PREFACE. They are generally simple and unpretending in ornament quiet and unambitious in their spirit. The poetiy of devotion is the rarest of all poetry. It is sad to think how few, of all the poets in the English language, have possessed or exhibited the Christian character, or had the remembrance of their names associated with the thoughts of Christ and his cross, or the feelings to which the great theme of redemption gives rise in the bosom of the Christian. We may find plenty of the sentimentality of religion, expressed, too, in beautiful language — but as cold as a winter night's transitory frost-work on our windows. A few beloved volumes, indeed, have their place in the heart ; but they are few ; and of these the praise belongs not exclusively to the genius of poetry, but to a far more precious and elevated spirit — the spirit of the Bible. What bosom, that possesses this, does not contain the germ of deep poetry ? What poet has experienced its influence, whose song does not breathe an echo of the melodies of paradise ? In the true minstrelsy of devotion, there is a higher excellence than that of mere genius. Poetry herself acknowledges a power which is not in her, and observes a deep and sublime emotion excited, which she cannot, unassisted, produce or maintain in the souls of her listeners. When she becomes the handmaid of piety, she finds herself adorned and enriched (in another PREFACE. 5 sense than Virgil's) with a heauty and a wealth that are not her own : Miraturque novos fructus, et non sua poma. All the pieces in this volume are of the purest moral character ; and, considering its limits, and the comparative scantiness of American poetry, a good number of them contain, in an uncommon degree, the religious and poetical spirit united. The importance of having books of this nature sweet and chaste in their moral influence, as well as refined in their intellectual and poetical character, is not enough appreciated. None can tell how much good a volume like this may accomplish, if an editor keeps such a purpose in view. A thought upon death and eternity may be rendered acceptable, through the medium of poetry, to many a mind, that would otherwise have fled from its approach. A voice from the grave and the other world may possibly here find hearers who would listen to it no where else. A devout and solemn reflection may steal, with the poetry of this volume, into the most secret recess of some careless heart, and there, through the goodness of Him, who moves in a hidden and mysterious way, "his wonders to perform," and whose spirit can touch the soul with the humblest instruments, prove the first rising of that blessed well of water, which springeth up to everlasting life. 1 * 6 PREFACE. Many of the finest pieces in this volume have been drawn out from corners where they had long lain forgotten and neglected. Some of the devotional melodies are almost as sweet as any in the language. There are several fugitive anonymous pieces, that deserve a place along with those of the truest poets The extracts from acknowledged sources are as various as they are beautiful. None can describe nature with a simpler and more affecting beauty than Bryant None could draw an American landscape in truei colors, and throw more endearingly around it the charm of moral and devout reflection, than Wilcox. In die bold delineation of external scenery, and in painting human passion, philosophy, religion, and the domestic affections, none have displayed a more powerful fancy, or a deeper pathos of feeling, than Dana. Few have written nobler odes than Pierpont. Burns himself could hardly have thrown off a sweeter extempore effusion than some of Brainard's. In the difficult field of sacred drama, Hillhouse has shown a rich and classic imagination. Few will contest the beauty of Willis's Scripture pieces. Others might be named, whose poetry at once individualizes their genius in the mind ; but it is unnecessary. May the volume, thus selected, please and do good. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page. A Sacred Melody Anonymous. 17 Active Christian Benevolence the Source of Happiness. Carlos Wilcoz. 17 Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood Bryant. 19 The Death of Sin and the Life of Holiness R. H. Dana. 20 A Demon's false Description of fallen Intelligences. . Hillhouse. 22 Hadad's Description of the City of David Hillhouse. 25 The Song at Twilight Lucretia Maria Davidson. 25 Hagar in the Wilderness JV. P. Willis. 27 Return of the Buccaneer R. H. Dana. 30 Appearance of the Spectre Horse and the Burning Ship. R. H. Dana. 31 The Death of the Flowers Bryant. 35 The Skies Bryant. 36 From" The Minstrel Girl." J. G. Whittier. 37 u Weep for yourselves, and for your Children." . . Mrs. Sigourney. 38 The sudden coming on of Spring after long Rains. . Carlos Wilcox. 39 Slavery Carlos Wilcoz. 41 Hymn for the African Colonization Society Pierpont. 42 Dedication Hymn Pierpont. 43 Evening Music of the Angels Hillhouse. AA Vernal Melody in the Forest Carlos Wilcoz. 45 Close of the Vision of Judgment Hillhouse. 46 " As thy Day, so shall thy Strength be." . . . . Mrs. Sigourney, 48 The Pilgrims Mrs. Sigourney. 48 The Coral Grove Percival. 50 Hebrew Melody. Mrs. J. G. Brooks. 51 To a Child Anonymous. 51 The Western World Bryant. 52 To a Waterfowl Bryant. 54 The Constancy of Nature contrasted with the Changes in Life. Dana. t£5 " And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale." .... Dana. 56 Sonnet The Free Mind W.L. Garrison. 57 Marco Bozzaris F. G. Halleck. 58 Weehawken F. G. Halleck. 60 On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument. Pierpont. 61 O TABLE OF CONTENTS. Ta?e. Rousseau and Cowper Carlos Wilcox. 6L To the Dead Brainard. 63 The Deep Brainard. 64 Scene after a Summer Shower Andrews Norton 65 The Child's Wish in June . Mrs. Gilman. 66 From " The Minstrel Girl." J. G. Whittier. 66 Description of a sultry Summer's Noon Carlos Wilcox. 68 The Dying Child Christian Examiner. 70 Looking unto Jesus Christian Examiner. 71 Scene from Hadad Hillhousc. 72 Roman Catholic Chaunt. From " Percy's Masque." . • Hillhouse. 76 Song " . . . From the Talisman. 11 September Carlos Wilcox. 11 On the Loss of Professor Fisher Brainard. 78 Idle Words Anonymous. 79 " He knoweth our Frame, He remembereth we are Dust." R. H. Dana. 80 Immortality R. H.Dana. 80 The mysterious Music of Ocean. . . . Walsh's National Gazette. 82 Summer Wind ' . - . . . Bryant. 83 Summer Evening Lightning Carlos Wilcox. 84 Spring JV.P. Willis. 85 To Seneca Lake. . . Percival. 85 Mount Washington , N. H G. Mellen. 86 To the Dying Year J. G. Whittier. 87 The Captain. A Fragment Brainard. 88 " They that seek me early, shall find me." . . . Columbian Star. 89 A Son's Farewell to his Mother, &c Connecticut Observer. 90 " Hushed is the "Voice of Judah's Mirth." . From the Port-Folio. 90 Extract from a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College, in 1826 JV. P. Willis. 91 Retirement Anonymous. 94 To the River Arve Talisman. 95 The Burial Anonymous. 96 On the Loss of a pious Friend Brainard. 96 Icarus From the Port-Folio. 97 Sunset in September. Carlos Wilcox. 98 From " The Buccaneer." R. H. Dana. 100 Bminet Bryant. 101 Power of the Soul in investing external Circumstances with the Hue of its own Feelings R. H. Dana. 102 Spring in Town Bryant. 103 The Sabbath , . Carlos Wilcox. 105 Industry and Prayer Carlos Wilcox. 106 TABLE OF CONTENTS. V Page. Consolations of Religion to the Poor Percival. 107 Extract from " The Airs of Palestine." Pierpont. 107 On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh Brainard. 109 From "The Minstrel Girl." J. G. Whittier. 110 The Torn Hat JV. P. WUUs. Ill " The Memory of the Just is blessed." .... Mrs. Sigourney. 112 The Wife J\T. Y. Daily Advertiser. 113 Song of the Stars Bryant. 114 Summer Evening at a short Distance from the City. . Alonzo Lewis. 115 Introduction to the Poem of " Yamoyden." . . . Robert C. Sands. 116 Dawn JV. P. Willis. 119 The Restoration of Israel J. W. Eastbum. 120 The Buried Love Rufus Dawes. 121 The Missionary W. B. Tappan. 123 Missions Mrs. Sigourney. 123 The Fear of Madness Lucretia Maria Davidson. 125 The Matin Hour of Prayer Anonymous. 125 Song From Yamoyden. 127 Solitude. Mrs. Sigourney. 127 Bishop Ravenscroft. G. W. Doane. 128 The Life of God in the Soul of Man R. H. Dana. 130 To Pneuma. . . . . . J. W. Eastbum. 133 To a Star Lucretia Maria Davidson. 134 Thanatopsis Bryant. 135 Sacred Melody JV. Y. American. 137 The Graves of the Patriots Percival. 138 Funeral Hymn Christian Examiner. 139 To Laura, two Years of Age JV. P. Willis. 141 *' The dead Leaves strew the Forest-walk." .... Brainard. 142 Seasons of Prayer Henry Ware, Jr. 143 Effect of the Ocean and its Scenery on the Mind of the Buccaneer, when agitated with Remorse for his Crime R. H. Dana. 145 The third and last Appearance of the Spectre Horse, &c. R. H. Dana. 147 God's first Temples. A Hymn Bryant. 149 Scene from " Hadad." Hillhouse. 152 Extract from " The Airs of Palestine." Pierpont. 156 -^ The Falls of Niagara Brainard. 157 At Musing Hour T. Wells. 157 Evergreens Pinkney. 158 The Flower Spirit Anonymous. 158 " Man giveth up the Ghost, and where is he?" Christian Examiner. 159 Woods in Winter Longfellow. 160 A Last Wish Anonymous. 161 10 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page. The Winged Worshippers Charles Sprague. 162 Death of an Infant Mrs. Sigourney. 163 Burns F. G. Halleck. 163 Mary Magdalen. From the Spanish Bryant. 166 Be Humble Janes. 167 Sabbath Evening Twilight Anonymous. 168 The Burial of Arnold JV. P. Willis. 169 Lines to a Child on his Voyage to France, &c. . . Henry Ware, Jr. 170 New England . Percival. 172 The Damsel of Peru Bryant. 173 Power of Maternal Piety Mrs. Sigourney. 175 Niagara. From the Spanish. U. States Review and Literary Gazette. Ill Absalom • J\T. P. Willis. 178 Hymn of Nature W. 0. B. Peabody. 181 The Garden of Gethsemane Pierpont. 183 Trust in God Percival. 183 Heaven * f Christian Examiner. 184 Geehale. An Indian Lament Anonymous. 185 Scene from "Percy's Masque." Hillhouse. 186 To S****, weeping Anonymous. 191 Autumn Longfellow. 193 The Bucket Samuel Woodworth. 194 The Snow-Flake Hannah F. Gould. 195 " I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life." . . . Anonymous. 196 The Iceberg J.O.Rockwell. 197 Hymn Pierpont. 198 The Bride Anonymous. 199 On seeing an Eagle pass near me in Autumn Twilight. . G. Mellen. 200 To the Hon. Theodore Frelinghuysen, on reading his eloquent Speech in Defence of Indian Rights W. L. Garrison. 201 Genius Slumbering Percival. 202 Genius Waking Percival. 204 The Spirit of Poetry Longfellow. 206 Incomprehensibility of God Miss Elizabeth Townsend. 207 Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau. . . J. JVeal. 209 ^iines on visiting the Burying-Ground at New Haven. Christian Disciple. 211 ^Tho Pilgrim Fathers Pierpont. 211 Song of the Pilgrims T. C. Upham. 212 Dedication Hymn JV. P. Willis. 213 Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars Hillhouse. 214 The Land of the Blest W. O. B. Peabody. 215 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 11 Page. To the Moon Massachusetts Spy. 216 Song. ... From Yamoyden. 217 The Light of Home Mrs. Hale. 218 The American Flag F. G. Hallcck. 218 To the Ursa Major Henry Ware, Jr. 220 " Look not upon the Wine when it is red.'* .... A". P. Willis. 224 To ****, on the Death of a Friend. . . . . . Andrews Norton. 225 Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth Edward Everett. 225 Apostrophe to the Sun Percival. 223 " I thought it slept." Henry Pickering. 230 The Snow-Storm Anonymous. 231 " I went and washed, and I received sight." New York Evening Post. 232 The Huma Louisa P. Smith. 233 The Paint King Washington Allston. 233 The murdered Traveller Bryant. 239 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake F. G. Halleck. 240 To H Christian Examiner. 240 The Dying Raven. . . ". R. H. Dana. 241 After a Tempest Bryant. 244 A Winter Scene Idle Man. 24G Description of the Quiet Island R. H. Dana. 247 The Religious Cottage D. Huntington. 248 The two Homes Anonymous. 249 To a Sister Edward Everett. 250 To the Moon Walsh's National Gazette. 251 My native Land — My native Place Anonymous. 252 " Awake, Psaltery and Harp •, I myself will awake early." Anonymous. 253 Isaiah xxxv Brainard. 254 On listeuing to a Cricket Andrews Norton. 255 March Bryant. 256 April Longfellow. 257 May Percival. 258 Mounds on the Western Rivers M. Flint. 259 Burial of the Minisink Longfellow. 260 To the Eagle Percival. 262 Salmon River Brainard. 264 To the Evening Wind Bryant. 265 The Grave of the Indian Chief. Percival. 267 Escape from Winter Percival. 267 Bury me with my Fathers Andrews Norton. 269 Redemption W. B. Tappan. 269 On the Close of the Year Christian Examiner. 270 Saturday Afternoon. V. P. mills. 271 12 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Prize. Fall of Tecumsoh Jfcw York Statesman. 272 The Missionaries' Farewell Anonymous. 274 Mozart's Requiem Rufus Dawes. 275 " I will be glad in the Lord." Psalm civ. 34 Anonymous. 276 To the Memory of a Brother Anonymous. Qll A Home everywhere . . . S. Graham. 278 The Time to Weep Anonymous. 280 The Autumn Evening W.O.B. Peabody. 281 Lines on revisiting the Country Bryant. 2i2 The Spirit's Song of Consolation F. W. P. Greenwood. 283 Colonization of Africa Brainard. 284 Fable of the Wood Rose and the Laurel. . . Monthly Anthology. 284 A Castle in the Air ' Professor Frisbie. 288 The Consumptive Rockingham Gazette. 288 Lines to the Western Mummy. . ( W. E. Gallaudet. 289 Song Anonijmous. 291 The Life of the Blessed. From the Spanish Bryant. 291 The Sunday School. Mrs. Sigourney. 292 " They went out into the Mount of Olives." Pi crpont. 293 The Lily '. . -. . . . Percival. 294 The Last Evening before Eternity Hillhouse. 294 Wyoming Halleck. 29G Sonnet to Bryant. 298 Daybreak R. H. Dana. 298 Sonnet Bnjant. 300 Hymn for the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanic Association. Pierpont. 301 The little Beach Bird R. H. Dana. 302 Address of the Sylph of Autumn to the Bard. . Washington Allston. 303 Omnipresence Anonymous. 305 Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner. Longfellow. 306 The Raising of Jairus's Daughter *V. A. Review. 307 Departure of the Pioneer Brainard. 308 The Alpine Flowers Mrs. Sigourney. 309 A Child's first Impression of a Star JV. P. JFillis. 310 The Leper JV. P. IVillis. 310 Versification of the Beginning of the Last Book of the Martyrs. Alexander H. Everett. 314 Autumn Anonymous. 315 The Treasure that waxeth not old D. Huntingdon. 316 Fragment of an Epistle written while recovering from severe Illness. R. H. Dana. 318 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 13 Page. Lines occasioned by hearing a little Boy mock the Old South Clock, as it rung the Hour of Twelve Mrs. Child. 321 Hymn to the North Star Bryant. 322 Connecticut. From an unpublished Poem F. O. Halleck. 323 The Rising Moon W. 0. B. Peabody. 325 America to Great Britain W. Allston. 326 The Night-flowering Cereus Unitarian Miscellany. 327 God is Good. . Anonymous. 328 Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles Anonymous. 329 The Dying Child Carlos Wilcox. £30 To a Musquito JVew York Review. 331 Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God Longfellow. 332 The Blind Man's Lament J. W. Eastburn. 334 The Dying Girl Mrs. Hale's Magazine. 335 Autumn W. O. B. Peabody. 336 Spring W.O.B. Peabody. 336 Summer W.O.B. Peabody. 337 Rosalie Mrs. Hale's Magazine. 338 To a young Invalid, condemned, by accidental Lameness, to perpetual Confinement Henry Pickering. 339 The Sage of Caucasus Hdlhouse. 340 The Resolution of Ruth Christian Examiner. 341 Live for Eternity Carlos Wilcox. 342 Dedication Hymn Pierpont. 343 The Indian Summer Brainard. 344 To William. Written by a bereaved Father. . W. 0. B. Peabody. 345 Part of the 19th Psalm J. W. Eastburn. 347 " What is that, Mother ?" G. W. Doane. 347 Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson. . . . Mrs. Sigourney. 348 The Indian's Tale J. G. Wliittier. 349 Setting Sail Percival. 351 A Thanksgiving Hymn Henry Ware, Jr. 353 The Temple of Theseus J. W. Eastburn. 355 On the Death of a beautiful young Girl. . . . Connecticut Mirror. 356 Lines to a Lady of great musical Talent Mrs. Child. 356 Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Charles- town Pierpont. 357 The Family Bible Anonymous. 359 The Notes of the Birds /. MeLellan, Jr. 359 Sentimental Music F. G. Halleck. 362 The Silk Worm Mrs. Hale. 363 2 14 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page. The Reverio. Written from College on the Birth Day of the Author's Mother Frisbie. 364 The Soul's Defiance Anonymous. 365 Hymn for the second Centennial Anniversary of the City of Boston. Pierpont. 366 Napoleon at Rest Pierpont. 368 The Death of Napoleon J. McLellan, Jr. 369 Jerusalem Brainard. 370 The Angler's Song J. McLellan, Jr. 37a Who is my Neighbor ? Anonymous. 373 Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 6 — 13 Christian Mirror. 374 ' Broken-hearted, weep no more." .... Episcopal Watchman. 375 Tlie Sweet Brier " Brainard. 376 Mother, What is Death ? Mr*. Qilman. 376 Last Prayers. ...'.... Mary Ann Browne. 377 A Noon Scene Bryant. 379 New England's Dead /. McLellan, Jr. 381 Installation Hymn. . Pierpont. 382 The Wanderer of Africa Alonzo Lewis. 383 A Legend .' '. . J. G. Whittier. 384 " They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither." Rev. xi. 12 Mrs. Sigourney. 386 Occasional Hymn Pierpont. 387 The Sleeper Commercial Advertiser. 388 God's Omnipresent Agency Carlos Wilcox. 389 The Farewell Anonymous. 389 Sunrise on the Hills Anonymous. 390 Lines on passing the Grave of my Sister Micah P. Flint. 391 The Revellers Ohio Backicoodsman. 393 "I would not live always." B. B. Thatcher. 394 The Disimbo'l'-e-i Spirit W. 0. B. Peabody. 395 Lines on hea. ..:0 of the Death of Garafilia Mohalbi. Mrs. Sigourney. 396 Crossing the Ford 0. W. H. 396 Hymn of the Cherokee Indian I. McLellan, Jr. 397 Lake Superior S. G. Goodrich. 398 Oriental Mysticism. Leonard Woods. 400 To a Sister about to embark on a Missionary Enterprise. B. B. Thatcher. 401 The Pilgrim Fathers. Charles Sprague. 403 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Pa?e. Allston, W. . . 233,303,326 Anonymous. 17, 51, 79, 94, 96, 125, 158, 161, 168, 185, 191, 196, 199, 231, 249, 252, 253, 274, 276, 277, 280, 291, 305, 315, 328, 329, 359, 365, 373, 389, 390 Brainard, J. G. C. 63, 64, 78, 88, 96, 109, 142, 157, 254, 264, 284, 308, 344, 370, 376 Brooks, Mrs. J. G. .... 51 Browne, Mary Ann 377 Bryant, W. C. 19, 35, 36, 52, 54, 83, 101, 103, 114, 135, 149, 166, 173, 239, 244, 256, 265, 282, 291, 298, 300, 322, 379 Child, Mrs 321,356 Christian Disciplo. . . . 170, 211 Christian Examiner. 70, 71, 139, 159, 184, 240, 270, 341 Christian Mirror 374 Columbian Star 89 Commercial Advertiser* . . 388 Connecticut Mirror. . . . 356 Connecticut Observer. ... 90 Dana, R. H. 20, 30, 31, 55, 56, 80, 80, 100, 102, 130, 145, 147,241, 247, 298, 302, 318 Davidson, Lucretia M. 25, 125, 134 Dawes, R 121, 275 Doane, G. \V. . . . . 128, 347 Page. Eastburn. J. W. 120, 133, 334, 347, 355 Episcopal Watchman. . . . 375 Everett, E 225,250 Everett, A. H 314 Flint, M 259 Flint, M. P 391 Frisbie, L. 286,364 Gallaudet, W. E 289 Garrison, W. L. . . . 57,201 Gilman, Mrs 66, 376 Goodrich, S. G 398 Gould, Hannah F 195 Graham, S 278 Greenwood, W. P 283 Hale, Mrs 218,363 Halleck, F. G. 58, 60, 163, 218, 240, 296, 323,362 Hillhouse, J. A. 22, 25, 44, 46, 72, 76, 152, 186, 214, 294, 340 Huntington, D. ... 248, 316 Idle Man 246 Jones 167 Ladies' Magazine (Mrs. Hale's). 335,338 Lewis, A 115, 383 Longfellow, G. W. 160, 193, 206, 257, 260, 306, 332 1G INDEX OF Page. . . .216 Massachusetts Spy. . McLellan, I. Jr. 359, 369, 372, 381, 397 Mellon, G 86,200 Monthly Anthology ... 284 National Gazette (Walsh's). 82,251 Neal, J . 209 New York American. . 137 New York Daily Advertiser . 113 New York Evening Post. . 232 New York Review. . . . 331 New York Statesman. , . . 272 North American Review. . . 307 Norton, A. 65, 225, S 555, 269 Ohio Backwoodsman, . . . 393 0. W. H .. 396 Peabody, W. O. B. 181, 215, 231, 325, 336, 336, 337, 345, 395 Percival, J. G. 50, 85, 107, 138, 172, 183, 202, 204, 228, 258, 262, 267, 267, 294, 351 Pickering, H 230,339 Pierpont, J. 42, 43, 61, 107, 156, 183, 198, 211, 293, 301, 343, 357, 366, 368, 382, 387 Pinkney, E. C 158 Port Folio 90,97 AUTHORS. Page. Rockingham Gazette, . . . 288 Rockwell, J. 0 197 Sands, R. C 116 Sigourney, Mrs. 38, 48, 48, 112, 123, 127, 163, 175, 292, 309, 348, 386, 396 Smith, Louisa P 233 Sprague, C 162, 403 Talisman. ...... 77, 95 Tappan, W. B. ... 123, 269 Thatcher, B. B. . . . 394,401 Townsend, Elizabeth. ... 207 Unitarian Miscellany. . . . 327 Upham, T. C 212 U. S. Rev. & Lit. Gazette. . . 177 Ware, H. Jr. . . . 143, 220, 353 Wells, T 157 Whittier, J. G. 37, 66, 87, 110, 349,384 Wilcox, C. 17, 39, 41, 45, 61, 68, 77, 84, 98, 105, 106, 330, 342, 389 Willis, N. P. 27, 85, 91, 111, 119, 141, 169, 178,213,224,271,310, 310 Woodworth 194 Woods, L 400 Yamoyden, 127,217 AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. A Sacred Melody. — Anonymous. Be thou, O God ! by night, by day, My Guide, my Guard from sin, My Life, my Trust, my Light Divine, To keep me pure within ; — Pure as the air, when day's first light A cloudless sky illumes, And active as the lark, that soars Till heaven shine round its plumes. So may my soul, upon the wings Of faith, unwearied rise, Till at the gate of heaven it sings, Midst light from paradise. Active Christian Benevolence the Source of sublime and lasting Happiness. — Carlos Wilcox. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold. — 'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unrolled, Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 2* 18 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy numbered hours To take their swift and everlasting flight ; Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed ; Do something — do it soon — with all thy might; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime-, rest, and food, And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind ; • Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit To light on man as from the passing air ; The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; And learning is a plant that spreads and towers Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, That, 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groves, And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, To measure worlds, and follow where each moves ? Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ? Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace, By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece ? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame, Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 19 And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 'Tis infamy to die and not be missed, Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, — Shalt bless the earth while in the world above, The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood. — Bryant. Stranger, if thou hast learnt a truth, which needs Experience more than reason, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast known Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares To tire thee of it, — enter this wild wood, And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze, That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. Misery is wed To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes Of undissembled gladness : the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit ; while, below, The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment : as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy 20 COIVTMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Existence, than the winged plunderer That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, The old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees. That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude, Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and, tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. The Death of Sin and the Life of Holiness. — Dana. Be warned ! Thou canst not break or 'scape the power In kindness given in thy first breathing hour : Thou canst not slay its life : it must create ; And, good or ill, there ne'er will come a date To its tremendous energies. The trust, Thus given, guard, and to thyself be just. Nor dream with life to shuffle off this coil; It takes fresh life, starts fresh for further toil, And on it goes, for ever, ever on, Changing, all down its course, each thing to one With its immortal nature. All must be, Like thy dread self, one dread eternity. Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath, Uncalled by God. We look, and name it death. Mad wretch ! the soul hath no last sleep ; the strife To end itself, but wakes intenser life In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er ! Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more ? What! life destroy itself? O, idlest dream, Shaped in that emptiest thing — a doubter's scheme. Think'st in a universal soul will merge Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 21 Or, no less skeptic, sin will have an end, And thy purged spirit with the holy blend In joys as holy ? Why a sinner now ? As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou. God's Book, thou doubter, holds the plain record. Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word ? Dar'st palter with it in a quibbling sense ? That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence. Then, with thy spirit from the body freed, Thou'lt know, thou'lt see, thou'lt feel what's life, indeed. Bursting to life, thy dominant desire Will upward flame, like a fierce forest fire ; Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash — Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash A wild disaster round, like its own wo — Each wave cry, " Wo for ever!" in its flow, And then pass on — from far adown its path Send back commingling sounds of wo and wrath — Th' indomitable Will then know no sway : — God calls — Man, hear Him ; quit that fearful way ! Come, listen to His voice who died to save Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave ; From darkness showed a path of light to heaven ; Cried, " Rise and walk ; thy sins are all forgiven." Blest are the pure in heart. Wouid'st thou be blest ? He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Wouid'st thou find rest ? Around thy toils and cares he'll breathe a calm, And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm, From fear draw love, and teach thee where to seek Lost strength and grandeur, with the bowed and meek. Come lowly ; He will help thee. Lay aside That subtle, first of evils — human pride. Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid To call aught poor or low that he has made. Fear naught but sin ; love all but sin ; and learn How that, in all things else, thou may'st discern His forming, his creating power — how bind Earth, self and brother to th' Eternal Mind. Linked with th' Immortal, immortality Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee, 22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day, And that but changing life, miscalled decay ? Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart To pour a stream of life ? — to make a part With thy eternal spirit things that rot, — That, looked on for a moment, are forgot, But to thy opening vision pass to take New forms of life, and in new beauties wake ? To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear Its hues and odors to some fresher air ; Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere, That softly answers to thy listening ear. In one eternal round they go and come ; And where they travel, there hast thou a home For thy far-reaching thoughts. — 0, Power Divine, Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine ? Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go ! Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and wo ! Nay, rather let me use the world aright : Thus make me ready for my upward flight. A Demon's false Description of his Race of fallen Intelli- gences. A Scene from Hadad. — Hillhouse. Tamar. I shudder, Lest some dark Minister be near us now. Hadad. You wrong them. They are bright Intelligences, Robbed of some native splendor, and cast down, 'Tis true, from heaven ; but not deformed, and foul, Revengeful, malice- working fiends, as fools Suppose. They dwell, like princes, in the clouds ; Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky ; Or arch their palaces beneath the hills, With stones inestimable studded so, That sun or stars were useless there. Tarn. Good heavens ! Had. He bade me look on rugged Caucasus, Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken, Naked, and wild, as if creation's ruins Were neaped in one immeasurable chain Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 23 Of everlasting winter. But within Are glorious palaces, and domes of light, Irradiate halls, and crystal colonnades. Vaults set with gems, the purchase of a crown, Blazing with lustre past the noon-tide beam, Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth. Tarn. Unheard of splendor ! Had. There they dwell, and muse, And wander ; Beings beautiful, immortal, Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky, Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come, And glow with light intense, imperishable. Thus, in the sparry chambers of the sea And air-pavilions, rainbow tabernacles, They study Nature's secrets, and enjoy No poor dominion. Tarn. Are they beautiful, And powerful far beyond the human race ? Had. Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it. When The sage described them, fiery eloquence Flowed from his lips, his bosom heaved, his eyes Grew bright and mystical ; moved by the theme, Like one who feels a deity within. Tarn. Wondrous ! — What intercourse have they with men ? Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix with man, But oft with woman. Tarn. Hah ! with woman ? Had. She Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft, And beautiful, and heavenly, like themselves. They have been known to love her with a passion Stronger than human. Tarn. That surpasses ajl You yet have told me. Had. This the sage affirms; And Moses, darkly. Tarn. How do they appear ? How manifest their love ? Had. Sometimes 'tis spiritual, signified By beatific dreams, or more distinct And glorious apparition. — They have stooped To animate a human form, and love Like mortals. Tarn. Frightful to be so beloved ! 24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Who could endure the horrid thought! — What makes Thy cold hand tremble ? or is't mine That feels so deathy ? Had. Dark imaginations haunt me When I recall the dreadful interview. Tarn. 0, tell them not — I would not hear them. Had. But why contemn a Spirit's love ? so high, So glorious, if he haply deigned ? — Tarn. Forswear My Maker ! love a Demon ! Had. No — 0, no — My thoughts but wandered — Oft, alas ! they wander. Tarn. Why dost thou speak so sadly now ? — and lo ! Thine eyes are fixed again upon Arcturus. Thus ever, when thy drooping- spirits ebb, Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power To cause or cure thy melancholy mood ? [He appears lost in thought.] Tell me, ascrib'st thou influence to the stars ? Had. (starting.) The stars ! What know'st thou of the stars ? Tarn. I know that they were made to rule the night. Had. Like palace lamps ! thou echoest well thy grandsire. Woman ! the stars are living, glorious, Amazing, infinite ! Tam. Speak not so wildly. — I know them numberless, resplendent, set As symbols of the countless, countless years That make eternity. Had. Eternity !— Oh ! mighty, glorious, miserable thought ! — Had ye endured like those great sufferers, Like them, seen ages, myriad ages roll ; Could ye but look into the void abyss With eyes experienced, unobscured by torments, — Then mightst thou name it, name it feelingly. Tam. What ails thee, Hadad ? — Draw me not so close. Had. Tamar ! I need thy love — more than thy love — Tam. Thy cheek is wet with tears — Nay, let us part — 'Tis late — I cannot, must not linger. — [Breaks from him, and exit.'] Had. Loved and abhorred ! — Still, still accursed ! — [He paces, twice or thrice, up and down, with passionate gestures ; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.] I COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 25 — Oh ! where, In the illimitable space, in what Profound of untried misery, when all His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill With life and beauty yonder infinite, Their radiant journey run, for ever set, Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning ? [Exit.] Hadad's Description of the City of David. — Hillhouse. 'Tis so; — the hoary harper sings aright; How beautiful is Zion ! — Like a queen, Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness, Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Wave their dark beauty round the tower of David. Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, The embrazures of alabaster shine ; Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound To Judah's mart with orient merchandise. But not, for thou art fair and turret- crowned, Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense, Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here, Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, And where the Glory hovers, here I war. The Song at Twilight. — Lucretia Maria Davidson.* When evening spreads her shades around, And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; When not a murmur, not a sound, To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; *The remains and a biographical sketch of this remarkable girl were published last year by Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse. An interesting review of the volume appeared soon after in the London Quarterly : we are not 3 2fi COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. When the broad orb of heaven is bright, And looks around with golden eye ; When Nature, softened by her light, Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; — Then, when our thoughts are raised above This world, and all this world can give, 0, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive. The song which thrills my bosom's core, And, hovering, trembles half afraid, O, sister, sing the song once more Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 'Twere almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing, And wafted by their breath away. When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, Shouldst thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, And, sister, sing the song 1 love ? aware that it has been noticed in any periodical in this country. Southey has rendered himself distinguished for his attention to youthful genius. Except the cases of Chatterton and Henry Kirke White, he thinks there is no instance on record of" so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement," as is exhibited in the history of this young lady. " In these poems, there is enough of originality, enough of aspira- tion, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the friends and parents of the deceased, could have formed ; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes." " She was peculiarly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy ; she wished to hear it only at twilight ; thus, with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the windharp in the window when she was composing, seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible ; for it is said, that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost fainting ; yet it was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to these verses, addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister. " To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses, in one place, approach the verge of meaning, but are on the wrong side of the line : to none can it be necessary to say, that they breathe the deep feel- ing of a mind essentially poetical." The piece here referred to, is that extracted above. Ed. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 27 Hagarin the Wilderness. — N. P. Willis. The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were caroling as life Were a new thing to them ; but, oh ! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood left them ; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up Into his mother's face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swelled, Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn 28 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. Oh ! man may bear with suffering : his heart Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp Of pain that wrings mortality ; but tear One cord affection clings to, part one tie That binds him to a woman's delicate love, And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. He gave to her the water and the bread, But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand, In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness. Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine Jhe oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again ? O no ! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh ! estrange her once, it boots not how, . By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, — And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow ; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed His hand till it was pained ; for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning past, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat The cattle of the hills were in the shade, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 29 And the bright, plumage of the Orient lay- On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest ; but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips For water ; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him, And bore him farther on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not, Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourned : — * God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ; I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! And could I see thee die ? * I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; Or wearing rosy hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep. 1 Oh no ! and when I watched by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile, How prayed I that my father's land might be An heritage for thee ! 30 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. ' And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; And oh ! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there Upon his clustering hair V She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laughed In his reviving happiness, and lisped His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. Return of the Buccaneer. — Richard H. Dana. Within our bay, one stormy night, The isle's men saw boats make for shore, With here and there a dancing light That flashed on man and oar. When hailed, the rowing stopt, and all was dark. " Ha ! lantern work ! — We'll home ! They're playing shark!" Next day, at noon, towards the town, All stared and wondered much to see Matt and his men come strolling down. The boys shout, " Here comes Lee !" " Thy ship, good Lee ?" " Not many leagues from shore Our ship by chance took fire." — They learnt no more. He and his crew were flush of gold. " You did not lose your cargo, then ?" " Learn where all's fairly bought and sold." Heaven prospers those true men. Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook Our ways of sin, and honest courses took ! " Wouldst see my log-book ? Fairly writ, With pen of steel, and ink like blood ! How lightly doth the conscience sit ! Learn, truth's the only good." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 31 And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer, He fled repentance, if he 'scaped not fear. Remorse and fear he drowns in drink. " Come, pass the bowl, my jolly crew It thicks the blood to mope and think. Here's merry days, though few !" And then he quaffs. — So riot reigns within ; So brawl and laughter shake that house of sin. Matt lords it now throughout the isle. His hand falls heavier than before. All dread alike his frown or smile. None come within his door, Save those who dipped their hands in blood with him ; Save those who laughed to see the white horse swim. Appearance of the Spectre Horse and the Burning Ship to the Buccaneer. — Ibid. " To-night's our anniversary ; And, mind me, lads, we'll have it kept With royal state and special glee ! Better with those who slept Their sleep that night, had he be now, who slinks ! And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks !" The words they spoke we may not speak. The tales they told we may not tell. Mere mortal man, forbear to seek The secrets of that hell ! Their shouts grow loud. 'Tis near mid-hour of night. What means upon the waters that red light ? Not bigger than a star it seems ; And, now, 'tis like the bloody moon ; And, now, it shoots in hairy streams Its light! — 'Twill reach us soon ! A ship ! and all on fire ! — hull, yards and mast ! Her sheets are sheets of flame ! — She's nearing fast ! And now she rides, upright and still, Shedding a wild and lurid light 32 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Around the cove on inland hill, Waking the gloom of night. All breathes of terror ! Men in dumb amaze Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze. It scares the sea-birds from their nests. They dart and wheel with deafning screams ; Now dark, — and now their wings and breasts Flash back disastrous gleams. O, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth ? The world, 0 man, is wailing o'er thy birth. And what comes up above that wave, So ghastly white ? — A spectral head ! — A horse's head — (May heaven save Those looking on the dead, — The waking dead !) There on the sea he stands — The spectre-horse ! — he moves ; he gains the sands ! Onward he speeds. His ghostly sides Are streaming with a cold, blue light. Heaven keep the wits of him who rides The spectre-horse to-night ! His path is shining like a swift ship's wake ; He gleams before Lee's door like day's gray break. The revel now is high within : It breaks upon the midnight air. They little think, midst mirth and din, What spirit waits them there. As if the sky became a voice, there spread A sound to appal the living, stir the dead. The spirit-steed sent up the neigh. It seemed the living trump of hell, Sounding to call the damned away, To join the host that fell. It rang along the vaulted sky : the shore Jarred hard, as when the thronging surges roar. It rang in ears that knew the sound ; And hot, flushed cheeks are blanched with fear And why does Lee look wildly round ? Thinks he the drowned horse near ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 33 He drops his cup ; his lips are stiff with fright. Nay, sit thee down ! — It is thy banquet night. (e I cannot sit. I needs must go : The spell is on my spirit now. I go to dread ! I go to wo !" O, who so weak as thou, Strong man ? — His hoofs upon the door-stone, see, The shadow stands ? — His eyes are on thee, Lee ! — Thy hair pricks up ! — " 0, I must bear His damp, cold breath ! It chills my frame ! His eyes — their near and dreadful glare Speak that I must not name !" Thou'rt mad to mount that horse ! — " A power within, I must obey, cries, ' Mount thee, man of sin !' " He's now astride the spectre's back, With rein of silk, and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed ! — the rein is slack Within his senseless hold : Nor doth he touch the shade he strides, upborne By an unseen power. — God help thee, man forlorn ! He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! And now they're on the hanging steep ! And, now, the living and the dead, They'll make the horrid leap ! The horse stops short: — his feet are on the verge. He stands, like marble, high above the surge. And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars and crackling flame. From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet's the same ! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light. Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. Thou ne'er again wilt curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip ! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound ! What see you, Lee, — the bodies of the drowned ? 34 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. " I look — where mortal man may not — Into the chambers of the deep. I see the dead, long, long forgot; I see them in their sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, Save he who leagues his soul with death and wo." Thou mild, sad mother, waning moon Thy last, low, melancholy ray Shines towards him. — Quit him not so soon! Mother, in mercy, stay ! Despair and death are with him ; and canst thou, With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now ? O, thou wast born for things of love ; Making more lovely in thy shine Whate'er thou look'st on. Hosts above, In that soft 'light of thine, Burn softer : — earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. — Thou'rt going down ! — Thou'st left him unforgiven ! The far, low west is bright no more. How still it is ! No sound is heard At sea, or all along the shore, But cry of passing bird. Thou living thing, and dar'st thou come so near These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear ? Now long that thick, red light has shone On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay, On man and horse that seem of stone, So motionless are they. But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : The night is going — faint, gray dawn returns. The spectre-steed now slowly pales ; Now changes like the moonlit cloud. That cold, thin light, now slowly fails, Which wrapt them like a shroud. Both ship and horse are fading into air. Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there ! The morning air blows fresh on him ; The waves dance gladly in his sight ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 35 The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim — O, blessed morning light ! He doth not hear that joyous call ; he sees No beauty in the wave ; he feels no breeze. For he's accurst from all that's good ; He ne'er must know its healing power. The sinner on his sins must brood ; Must wait, alone, his hour. Thou stranger to earth's beauty — human love — There's here no rest for thee, no hope above I The Death of the Flowers. — Bryant. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the -brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when come3 the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, 36 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. The Skies. — Bryant. Ay, gloriously thou standest there, Beautiful, boundless firmament ! That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, And round the horizon bent, With that bright vault and sapphire wall, Dost overhang and circle all. Far, far below thee, tall gray trees Arise, and piles built up of old, And hills, whose ancient summits freeze In the fierce light and cold. The eagle soars his utmost height ; Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. Thou hast thy frowns : with thee, on high, The storm has made his airy seat : Beyond thy soft blue curtain lie His stores of hail and sleet : Thence the consuming lightnings break ; There the strong hurricanes awake. Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern : Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, A song at their return ; The glory that comes down from thee Bathes in deep joy the land and sea. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TOETRY. 37 The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine, The airs that fan his way. Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The meek moon walks the silent air. The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast, May thy blue pillars rise :— I only know how fair they stand About my own beloved land. And they are fair : a charm is theirs, That earth — the proud, green earth — has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, And read of heaven's eternal year. Oh ! when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us, then, Away from this cold earth, And look into thy azure breast, For seats of innocence and rest ! From " The Minstrel Girl." — James G. Whittier. Her lover died. Away from her, The ocean-girls his requiem sang, And smoothed his dreamless sepulchre Where the tall coral branches sprang. And it Was told her how he strove With death ; but not from selfish fear : It was the memory of her love Which made existence doubly dear. They told her how his fevered sleep Revealed the phantom of his brain — He thought his love had come to keep Her vigils at his couch of pain ; 4 38 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And he would speak in his soft tone, And stretch his arms to clasp the air, And then awaken with a moan, And weep that there was nothing there I And when he bowed himself at last Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse, Even as the weary spirit passed, Her name was on his marble lips. She heard the tale ; she did not weep ; It was too strangely sad for tears ; And so she kept it for the deep Rememberings of after years. She poured one lone and plaintive wail For the loved dead — it was her last — Like harp-tones dying, on the gale Her minstrelsy of spirit passed : And she became an altered one, Forgetful of her olden shrine, As if her darkened soul had done With all beneath the fair sunshine. 1 Weep for Yourselves, and for your Children."- Mrs. Sigour.\ey. We mourn for those who toil, The slave who ploughs the main, Or him who hopeless tills the soil Beneath the stripe and chain ; For those who in the world's hard race O'erwearied and unblest, A host of restless phantoms chase, — Why mourn for those who rest? We mourn for those who sin, Bound in the tempter's snare, Whom syren pleasure beckons in To prisons of despair, Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, Are wrecked on folly's shore, — But why in sorrow should we mourn For those who sin no morel We mourn for those who weep, Whom stern afflictions bend COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 39 With anguish o'er the lowly sleep Of lover or of friend ; — But they to whom the sway Of pain and grief is o'er, Whose tears our God hath wiped away, Oh, mourn for them no more ! The sudden Coming on of Spring after long Rains, — Carlos Wilcox. The spring, made dreary hy incessant rain, Was well nigh gone, and not a glimpse appeared Of vernal loveliness, but light-green turf Round the deep bubbling fountain in the vale, Or by the rivulet on the hill-side, near Its cultivated base, fronting the south, Where, in the first warm rajs of March, it sprung Amid dissolving snow : — save these mere specks Of earliest verdure, with a few pale flowers, In other years bright blowing soon as earth Unveils her face, and a faint vermil tinge On clumps of maple of the softer kind, Was nothing visible to give to May, Though far advanced, an aspect more like her's Than like November's universal gloom. All day, beneath the sheltering hovel, stood The drooping herd, or lingered near to ask The food of winter. A few lonely birds, Of those that in this northern clime remain Throughout the year, and in the dawn of spring, At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat, Come suddenly to view with lively notes, Or those that soonest to this clime return From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen, But with their feathers ruffled, and despoiled Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute, Or only skipping, with a single chirp, In quest of food. Whene'er the heavy clouds, That half way down the mountain side oft hung, As if o'erloaded with their watery store, Were parted, though with motion unobserved, Through their dark opening, white with snow appeared Its lowest, e'en its cultivated, peaks. 40 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. With sinking heart the husbandman surveyed The melancholy scene, and much his fears On famine dwelt; when, suddenly awaked At the first glimpse of daylight, by the sound, Long time unheard, of cheerful martins, near His window, round their dwelling chirping quick, "With spirits by hope enlivened, up he sprung To look abroad, and to his joy beheld A sky without the remnant of a cloud. From gloom to gayety and beauty bright So rapid now the universal change, The rude survey it with delight refined, And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout. Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds, Start at the touch of vivifying beams. Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, Is naked nature in her full attire. On the first morn, light as an open plain Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below, With strong reflection : on the lasi, 'tis dark With full-grown foliage, shading all within. In one short week, the orchard buds and blooms ; And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers, It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. E'en from the juicy leaves, of sudden growth, And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, Filled with a watery glimmering, receives A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. Each day are heard, and almost every hour, New notes to swell the music of the groves. And soon the latest of the feathered train At evening twilight come ; — the lonely snipe, O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air, Invisible, but, with faint, tremulous tones, Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; — And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen Flying awhile at random, uttering oft A cheerful cry, attended with a shake Of level pinions, dark, but, when upturned, Against the brightness of the western sky, One white plume showing in the midst of each. COMMON-PLAGE BOOK OF POETRY. 41 Then far down diving with loud hollow sound ; — And, deep at first within the distant wood, The whip-poor-will, her name her only song. She, soon as children from the noisy sport Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones, To hear the echoes of the empty barn, Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; And when the twilight, deepened into night, Calls them within, close to the house she comes, And on its dark side, haply on the step Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen, Breaks into strains articulate and clear, The closing sometimes quickened as in sport. Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve All harmony, activity, and joy, Is lovely Nature, as in her blest prime. The robin to the garden, or green yard, Close to the door repairs to build again Within her wonted tree ; and at her work Seems doubly busy, for her past delay. Along the surface of the winding stream, Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim ; Or round the borders of the spacious lawn Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er Hillock and fence, with motion serpentine, Easy and light. One snatches from the ground A downy feather, and then upward springs, Followed by others, but oft drops it soon, In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, When all at once dart at the falling prize. The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown, Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops On the next tree, and on its highest limb, Or some tall flag, and, gently rocking, sits, Her strain repeating. Slavery. — Carlos Wilcox. All are born free, and all with equal rights. So speaks the charter of a nation proud Of her unequalled liberties and laws, 4* 42 C03IMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. While, in that nation, — shameful to relate, — One man in five is horn and dies a slave. Is this my country ? this that happy land, The wonder and the envy of the world ? O for a mantle to conceal her shame ! But why, when Patriotism cannot hide The ruin which her guilt will surely bring If unrepented ? and unless the God Who poured his plagues on Egypt till she let The oppressed go free, and often pours his wrath, In earthquakes and tornadoes, on the isles Of western India, laying waste their fields, Dashing their mercenary ships ashore, Tossing the isles themselves like floating wrecks, And burying towns alive in one wide grave, No sooner ope'd but closed, let judgment pass For once untasted till the general doom, Can it go well with us while we retain This cursed thing ? Will not untimely frosts, Devouring insects, drought, and wind and hail, Destroy the fruits of ground long tilled in chains ? Will not some daring spirit, born to thoughts Above his beast-like state, find out the truth, That Africans are men ; and, catching fire From Freedom's altar raised before his eyes With incense fuming sweet, in others light A kindred flame in secret, till a train, Kindled at once, deal death on every side ? Cease then, Columbia, for thy safety cease, And for thine honor, to proclaim the praise Of thy fair shores of liberty and joy, While thrice five hundred thousand wretched slaves, In thine own bosom, start at every word As meant to mock their woes, and shake their chains, Thinking defiance which they dare not speak. Hymn for the African Colonization Society. — Pierpont. With thy pure dews and rains, Wash out, O God, the stains From Afric's shore ; And, while her palm-trees bud, common-place: rook of poetry. 43 Let not her children's blood With her broad Niger's flood Be mingled more ! Quench, righteous God, the thirst That Congo's sons hath cursed, The thirst for gold. Shall not thy thunders speak, Where Mammon's altars reek, Where maids and matrons shriek, Bound, bleeding, sold ? Hear'st thou, 0 God, those chains, Clanking on Freedom's plains, By Christians wrought ! Them, who those chains have worn, Christians from home have torn, Christians have hither borne, Christians have bought ! Cast down, great God, the fanes That, to unhallowed gains, Round us have risen — Temples, whose priesthood pore Moses and Jesus o'er, Then bolt the black man's door, The poor man's prison ! Wilt thou not, Lord, at last, From thine own image, cast Away all cords, But that of love, which brings Man, from his wanderings, Back to the King of kings, The Lord of lords ! Dedication Hymn. — Pierpont. O thou, to whom, in ancient time, The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, Whom kings adored in songs sublime, And prophets praised with glowing tongue,- 44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Not now, on Zion's height alone, The favored worshipper may dwell, Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son Sat, weary, by the patriarch's well. From every place below the skies, The grateful song, the fervent prayer — The incense of the heart — may rise To heaven, and find acceptance there. In this thy house, whose doors we now For social worship first unfold, To thee the suppliant throng shall bow, While circling years on years are rolled. To thee shall age, with snowy hair, And strength and beauty, bend the knee, And childhood lisp, with reverend air, Its praises and its prayers to thee. O thou, to whom, in ancient time, The lyre of prophet bards was strung, To thee, at last,' in every clime, - Shall temples rise, and praise be sung. Evening Music of the Angels. — Hillhouse. Low warblings, now, and solitary harps, Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices. Louder as they swelled, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mixed with clear silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven ; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes, Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 45 In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down. Vernal Melody in the Forest. — Carlos Wilcox/ With sonorous notes Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, All chanted in the fulness of delight, The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed With bushy sides, and covered high above With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, Like pillars rising to support a roof, It seems a temple vast, the space within Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, The merry mocking-bird together links In one continued song their different notes, * He was a true poet, and deeply interesting in his character, both as a man and a Christian. He resembled Cowper in many respects ; — in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities — in the modest and re- tiring disposition of his mind — in its fine culture, and its original poetical cast — and not a little in the character of his poetry. It has been said with truth, that, if he had given himself to poetry as his chief occupation, he might have been the Cowper of Xew England. We pretend not to place his unfinished and broken compositions on a level with the works of the author of the Task ; but they possess much of his spirit, and, at the same time, are original. Like Cowper, "he left the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and passion, for those of real life and simple nature, and for the developement of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral and religious truth." Amidst the throngs of imitators, whose names have crowded the pages of the annuals and magazines, his is never to be seen ; and the merits of his poetry are almost unknown to those who regulate the criticisms of the public journals. But it is both a proof and a consequence of his original powers and his elevated feeling?, that, instead of devoting his mind to the composition of short, artificial pieces for the public eye, he started at once upon a wide and noble subject, with the outline in his mind of a magnificent moral poem. The history, the sce- nery, and the public and domestic manners in this country, afforded scope for the composition of another Task, which, if the powers of the writer were equal to his subject, would be more for America, and the religious world, than even Cowper's was for England and his fellow men. Mr. Wilcox did not live to execute his design ; but the fragments he has left us are so rich, in a vein of unaffected poetry and piety, that they make us sorrowful for what we have lost, and indignant that his merits are so little known and appreciated beyond a small circle of affectionate Christian friends. — Ed, 46 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Adding new life and sweetness to them all. Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields Frequents the stony wall and briery fence, Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat, Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; But oft, a moment after, re-appears, First peeping out, then starting forth at once With a courageous air, yet in his pranks Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far Till left unheeded. Close of the Vision of Judgment. — Hill, house. As when, from some proud capital that crowns Imperial Gan'ges, the reviving breeze * Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog, Impervious, mantled o'er her highest towers, Bright on the eye rush Brahma's temples, capped With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets, Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnished domes, Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun, So from the hill the cloudy curtains rolled, And, in the lingering lustre of the eve, Again the Savior and his seraphs shone « Emitted sudden in his rising, flashed Intenser light, as toward the right hand host Mild turning, with a look ineffable, The invitation he proclaimed in accents Which on their ravished ears poured thrilling, like The silver sound of many trumpets heard Afar in sweetest jubilee ; then, swift Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left, That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them Seemed like the crush of Heaven, pronounced the doom. The sentence uttered, as with life instinct, The throne uprose majestically slow ; Each angel spread his wings ; in one dread swell Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets, And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet, And many a strange and deep-toned instrument COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 47 Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth, And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim Of all the ransomed, like a thunder-shout. Far through the skies melodious echoes rolled, And faint hosannas distant climes returned. Down from the lessening multitude came faint And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal, All else in distance lost, when, to receive Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded. Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse The wicked caught of Paradise, where streaks Of splendor, golden gleamings, radiance shone, Like the deep glories of declining day, When, washed by evening showers, the huge-orbed sun Breaks instantaneous o'er the illumined world. Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by, Slow turning to the light their snowy wings. A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped The hapless outcasts, when upon the Lord The glowing portals closed. L^ndone, they stood Wistfully gazing on the cold gray heaven, As if to catch, alas ! a hope not there. But shades began to gather, night approached, Murky and lowering ; round with horror rolled On one another their despairing eyes, That glared with anguish ; starless, hopeless gloom Fell on their souls, never to know an end. Though in the far horizon lingered yet A lurid gleam ; black clouds were mustering there ; Red flashes, followed by low, muttering sounds, Announced the fiery tempest doomed to hurl The fragments of the earth again to chaos. Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged Their dark, impure abyss, as sea-foul dive Their watery element. O'erwhelmed with sights And sounds of horror, I awoke ; and found For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo, The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed Serene and peaceful. Gladly I surveyed her Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven, And blessed the respite ere the day of doom. 48 COMMOX-PLACE EOOK OF POETRY. "As thy Day, so shall thy Strength be." — Mrs. Sigotjrivey. When adverse winds and waves arise, And in my heart despondence sighs, — When life her throng of care reveals, And weakness o'er my spirit steals, — Grateful I hear the kind decree, That " as my day, my strength shall be." When, with sad footstep, memory roves Mid smitten joys, and buried loves, — When sleep my tearful pillow flies, And dewy morning drinks my sighs,- — Still to thy promise, -Lord, I flee, That " as my day, my strength shall be." One trial' more must yet be past, * One pang, — the keenest, and the last ; And when, with brow convulsed and pale, My feeble, quivering heart-strings fail, Redeemer, grant my soul to see That " as her day, her strength shall be." The Pilgrims. — Mrs. Sigournet. How slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom, — then from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed, — or reels, Half wrecked, through gulfs profound. — Moons wax and wane, But still that lonely traveller treads the deep. — I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern Winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. — - They land! — They land! — not like the Genoese, With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies. — Forth they come From their long prison, — hardy forms, that brave The world's unkindness, — men of hoary hair, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 49 And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave, Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. — Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round, Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, And savage men, who through the thickets peer With vengeful arrow. — What could lure their steps To this drear desert ? — Ask of him who left His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds, Distrusting not the Guide who called him forth, Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed Should be as Ocean's sands. — But yon lone bark Hath spread her parting sail. — They crowd the strand, Those few, lone pilgrims. — Can ye scan the wo That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link Binding to man, and habitable earth, Is severed ? — Can ye tell what pangs were there, What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart, What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, Their distant, dear ones ? — Long, with straining eye, They watch the lessening speck. — Heard ye no shriek Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness Sank down into their bosoms ? — No! they turn Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! — Pray, — and the ills that haunt this transient life Fade into air. — Up in each girded breast There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, — A loftiness, — to face a world in arms, — To strip the pomp from sceptres, — and to lay Upon the sacred altar the warm blood Of slain affections, when they rise between The soul and God. — And can ye deem it strange That from their planting such a branch should bloom As nations envy ? — Would a germ, embalmed With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew Upon the winds, to reap the winds again ? Hid by its veil of waters from the hand Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth In giant strength. — Its early clusters, crushed In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host 5 50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. A draught of deadly wine. 0, ye who boast In your free veins the blood of sires like these, Lose not their lineaments. — Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart, — or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core From manly virtue, — or the tempting world Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, Turn ye to Plymouth's beach, — and on that rock Kneel in their foot-prints, and renew the vow They breathed to God. The Coral Grove. — Percival. Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and the waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air : There, with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter: There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea : And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful Spirit of storms, ' Has made the top of the waves his own : And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 51 Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. Hebrew Melody. — Mrs. J. G. Brooks. Jeremiah x. 17. From the hall of our fathers in anguish we fled, Nor again will its marble re-echo our tread, For the breath of the Siroc has blasted our name, And the frown of Jehovah has crushed us in shame. His robe was the whirlwind, his voice was the thunder, And earth, at his footstep, was riven asunder; The mantle of midnight had shrouded the sky, But we knew where He stood by the flash of His eye. O Judah! how long must thy weary ones weep, Far, far from the land where their forefathers sleep : How long ere the glory that brightened the mountain Will welcome the exile to Siloa's fountain ? To a Child. — Anonymous. M The memory of thy name, dear one, Lives in my inmost heart, Linked with a thousand hopes and fears, That will not thence depart." Things of high import sound I in thine ears, Dear child, though now thou may'st not feel their power. But hoard them up, and in thy coming years Forget them not ; and when earth's tempests lower, A talisman unto thee shall they be, To give thy weak arm strength, to make thy dim eye see. Seek Truth — that pure, celestial Truth, whose birth Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred, shrined, In reason's light. Not oft she visits earth ; But her majestic port the willing mind, 52 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll. Be free — not chiefly from the iron chain, But from the one which passion forges ; be The master of thyself ! If lost, regain The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free. Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet, And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet. Seek Virtue. Wear her armor to the fight ; Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might By each contending, turbulent ill of life. Seek Virtue ; she alone is all divine ; And, having found, be strong in God's own strength and thine. Truth — Freedom — Virtue — these, dear child, have power, If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour : Neglect them — thy celestial gifts are vain — In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled ; Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled. The Western World. — Bryant. Late, from this western shore, that morning chased The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay Young group of grassy islands born ot him, And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. DO Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring The commerce of the world — with tawny limb, And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. Then, all his youthful paradise around, And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned O'er mound and vale, where never summer ray Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay, Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake Spread its blue sheet, that flashed with many an oar, Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake, And the deer drank — as the light gale flew o'er, The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore ; And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, A look of glad and innocent beauty wore, And peace was on the earth and in the air, The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there : Not unavenged— the foeman, from the wood, Beheld the deed, and, when the midnight shade Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood ; All died — the wailing babe — the shrieking maid — And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ; No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, And ever by their lake lay moored the light canoe. Look now abroad — another race has filled These populous borders — wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; The land is full of harvests and green meads ; Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze Their virgin waters ; the full region leads New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees. 5* 54 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race. Far, like the comet's way through infinite space, Stretches the long untravelled path of light Into the depths of ages : we may trace, Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. To a Waterfowl. — Bryant. Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens -with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 55 Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. The Constancy of Nature contrasted with the Changes in Human Life. — Dana. How like eternity doth nature seem To life of man — that short and fitful dream ! I look around me ; — no where can I trace Lines of decay that mark our human race. These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours. Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come. Long years have past since this was last my home ! And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame ; But all this vale shuts in is still the same : 'Tis I alone am changed ; they know me not : I feel a stranger — or as one forgot. The breeze that cooled my warm and youthful brow, Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now. The leaves that flung around me sun and shade, While gazing idly on them, as they played, Are holding yet their frolic in the air ; The motion, joy, and beauty still are there — But not for me ! — I look upon the ground : Myriads of happy faces throng me round, Familiar to my eye ; yet heart and mind In vain would now the old communion find. Ye were as living, conscious beings, then, With whom I talked — but I have talked with men ! With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts I've met; Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset ; Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow ; Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show. 56 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale. — Dai* a. The sun was nigh its set, when we were come Once more where stood the good man's lowly home. We sat beside the door ; a gorgeous sight Above our heads — the elm in golden light. Thoughtful and silent for awhile — he then Talked of my coming.—" Thou'lt not go again From thine own vale ; and we will make thy home Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come." Then of my garden and my house he spoke, And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope ; And grew more bright and happy in his talk Of social winter eve, and summer walk. And, while I listened, to my sadder soul A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole ; Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man. At length I spake — " No ! here I must not stay I'll rest to-night — to-morrow go my way." He did not urge me. Looking in my face, As he each feeling of the heart could trace, He prest my hand, and prayed I might be blest, — Where'er I went, that Heaven would give me rest. The silent night has past into the prime Of day — to thoughtful souls a solemn time. For man has wakened from his nightly death, And shut up sense to morning's life and breath. He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept Their glorious watch while he, unconscious, slept, — Feels God was round him while he knew it not — Is awed — then meets the world — and God's forgot. So may I not forget thee, holy Power ! Be to me ever as at this calm hour. The tree tops now are glittering in the sun : Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun. Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled, Strange to the living, knowing but the dead ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 57 A homeless wanderer through my early home ; Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come ? To pass each cottage, and to have it tell, Here did thy mother, here a playmate dwell ; To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom, And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom ! — It haunts me now — her dim and wildered brain. I would not look upon that eye again ! Let me go, rather, where I shall not find Aught that my former self will bring to mind. These old, familiar things, where'er I tread, Are round me like the mansions of the dead. No ! wide and foreign lands shall be my range, That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange. Then for the dashing sea, the broad full sail ! And fare thee well, my own green, quiet vale. Sonnet. The Free Mind.— William Lloyd Garrison.* High walls and huge the body may confine, And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design, And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways : ♦This sonnet, written during Mr. Garrison's despotic imprisonment, pos- sesses a nobleness and an energy in the thought, a corresponding ease and originality in the expression, and an antique richness in its whole structure, which make it worthy of the happiest 'Olden Times' of the English Muse. With all the heart, we bid its author God speed in his efforts in the cause of freedom. But it needs patience and prudence, as well as stern moral courage. The possible result of the Colonization Society, and the success which may attend the efforts for the entire abolition of slavery in this coun- try, constitute the great problem, on the solution of which our prosperity, and perhaps even our existence as a nation, depends. Every man who can speak, every editor who can influence the public mind, should certainly be doing all in his power to hasten forward the period of complete emancipa- tion. " Speed it, O Father ! Let thy kingdom come !" Ed. 58 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control ! No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes ! It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers ; It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale, Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. 'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star ! Marco Bozzaris. — F. G. Halleck. [He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the an- cient Plataea, August 20, 18*23, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were — " To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain. "J At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring, — Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; That bright dream was his last ; He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, " To arms ! they come : the Greek ! the Greek !" He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band ; — " Strike — till the last armed foe expires, Strike — for your altars and your fires, Strike — for the green graves of your sires, God — and your native land !" COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETKY. 59 They fought, like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; — Come when the blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; — Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; — Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, — And thou art terrible : the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. 60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Weehawken. — F. G. Halleck. Weehawken ! in thy mountain scenery yet, All we adore of Nature, in her wild And frolic hour of infancy, is met ; And never has a summer's morning smiled Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye Of the enthusiast revels on — when high, Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes The breathless moment — when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear, Like the death-music of his coming doom, And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to .life ; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. In such an hour, he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him — Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him The city bright below ; and far away, Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, And banners floating in the sunny air, And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there, In wild reality. When life is old, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold Its memory of this ; nor lives there one, Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 61 On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monu- ment. PlERPONT. O, is not this a holy spot ? Tis the high place of Freedom's birth ! God of our fathers! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth ? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; And those old men, thy seers, abide No more on Zion's mournful brow. But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, Since round its head the war-cloud curled, And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt In prayer and battle for a world. Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground : And we, the children of the brave, From the four winds are gathered round, To lay our offering on their grave. Free as the winds around us blow, Free as the waves below us spread, We rear a pile, that long shall throw Its shadow on their sacred bed. But on their deeds no-shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, And thy right hand shall guard their fame. Rousseau and Cowper. — Carlos Wilcox. Rousseau could weep ; yes, with a heart of stone, The impious sophist could recline beside The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone On all its loveliness at even tide — On its small running waves, in purple dyed, Beneath bright clouds or all the glowing skv, 6 62 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, And on surrounding mountains wild and high, Till tears unbidden gushed from his enchanted eye. But his were not the tears of feeling fine Of grief or love ; at fancy's flash they flowed, Like burning drops from some proud lonely pine By lightning fired ; his heart with passion glowed Till it consumed his life, and yet he showed A chilling coldness both to friend and foe, As Etna, with its centre an abode Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow Of all its desert brow the living world below. Was he but justly wretched from his crimes ? Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen, With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes Genius and feeling, and to things unseen Lifts the pure heart through clouds, that roll between The earth and skies,- to darken human hope ? Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope ? He, too, could give himself to musing deep ; By the calm lake, at evening, he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast, by not an insect fanned, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or, through the still and dewy atmosphere, The pipe's soft tones, waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear. And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, In the pine grove, when low the full moon, fair, Shot under lofty tops her level beams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 63 'Twas thus, in nature's bloom and solitude, He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage i 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage ; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age ; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. To that bright world where things of earth appear Stripped of false charms, my fancy often flies, To ask him there what life is happiest here ; And, as he points around him, and replies With glowing lips, my heart within me dies, And conscience whispers of a dreadful bar, When, in some scene where every beauty lies, A soft, sweet pensiveness begins to mar The joys of social life, and with its claims to war. To the Dead. — Brainard. How many now are dead to me That live to others yet ! How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look which we Till dead can ne'er forget. Beyond the blue seas, far away, Most wretchedly alone, One died in prison, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, And never hope or comfort's ray In his lone dungeon shone. Dead to the world, alive to me ; Though months and years have passed, In a lone hour, his sigh to me Comes like the hum of some wild bee, And then his form and face I see As when I saw him last. 64 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And one, with a bright lip, and cheek, And eye, is dead to me. How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek ! His lip was cold — it would not speak ; His heart was dead, for it did not break ; And his eye, for it did not see. Then for the living be the tomb, And for the dead the smile ; Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloom — Dim is such glare ; but bright the gloom Around the funeral pile. The Deep. — Brainard. There's beauty in the deep : — The wave is bluer than the sky ; „ And, though the light shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below ; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid, And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine. There's beauty in the deep. There's music in the deep :— It is not in the surf's rough roar, Nor in the whispering, shelly shore — They are but earthly sounds, that tell How little of the sea-nymph's shell, That sends its loud, clear note abroad, Or winds its softness through the flood, Echoes through groves with coral gay, And dies, on spongy banks, away. There's music in the deep. There's quiet in the deep : — Above, let tides and tempests rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; Above, let care and fear contend, With sin and sorrow to the end : COMMON-PLACE BOUKL OF POETRY. 65 Here, far beneath the tainted foam, That frets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep. Scene after a Summer Shower. — Professor Norton. The rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky ! In grateful silence, earth receives The general blessing ; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; The wind flows cool ; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene Its floating veil of mist is flung ; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature — yet the same — Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above ; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. 6* 66 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Drink in her influence ; low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And 'mid this living light expire. The Child1 's Wish in June. — Mrs. Gilman. Mother, mother, the winds are at play, Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky. See, how slowly the streamlet glides; Look, how the violet roguishly hides ; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, And the flies go about him one by one ; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, But very lazily flieth he, And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat. You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near, And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. I wish, oh, I wish, I was yonder cloud, That sails about with its misty shroud ; Books and work I no more should see, And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. From "The Minstrel Girl." — James G. Whittier. She leaned against her favorite tree, The golden sunlight melting through The twined branches, as the free And easy-pinioned breezes flew COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 67 Around the bloom and greenness there, Awaking all to life and motion, Like unseen spirits sent to bear Earth's perfume to the barren ocean That ocean lay before her then Like a broad lustre, to send back The scattered beams of day again To burn along its sunset track ! And broad and beautiful it shone ; As quickened by some spiritual breath, Its very waves seemed dancing on To music whispered underneath. And there she leaned, — that minstrel girl ! The breeze's kiss was soft and meek Where coral melted into pearl On parted lip and glowing cheek ; Her dark and lifted eye had caught Its lustre from the spirit's gem ; And round her brow the light of thought Was like an angel's diadem ; For genius, as a living coal, Had touched her lip and heart with flame, And on the altar of her soul The fire of inspiration came. And early she had learned to love Each holy charm to Nature given, — The changing earth, the skies above, Were prompters to her dreams of Heaven ! She loved the earth — the streams that wind Like music from its hills of green — The stirring boughs above them twined — The shifting light and shade between ; — The fall of waves — the fountain gush — The sigh of winds — the music heard At even-tide, from air and bush — The minstrelsy of leaf and bird. But chief she loved the sunset sky — Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn To form the gorgeous canopy Of monarchs to their slumbers gone ! The sun went down, — and, broad and red, One moment, on the burning wave, 68 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Rested his front of fire, to shed A glory round his ocean-grave : And sunset — far and gorgeous hung A banner from the wall of heaven — A wave of living glory, flung Along the shadowy verge of even. Description of a sultry Summer's Noon* — Carlos Wilcox. A sultry noon, not in the summer's prime, When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, But near its close, when vegetation stops, And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, Its images of silence and of rest, The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken, on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines, in sweet repose. • Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stana, The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, And panting quick.. The fields, for harvest ripe, . No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath Brushes along the surface with a shade Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. The slender stalks their heavy bended heads . Support as motionless as oaks their tops. O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still ; E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside * How perfect is this description of the hot noon of a summer's day in the country ! and yet how simple and unstudied ! Several of its most expressive images are entirely new, and the whole graphic comhination is original — a quality very difficult to attain after Thomson and Cowper. The thistle alighting sleepily on the grass, the yellow-hammer mutely picking the seeds, the grasshopper snapping his wings, and the low singing of the locust — all the images, indeed, make up a picture inimitably beautiful and true to na- ture. Ed. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. G9 Some shading object, in a silver shower Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct From the resplendent sky, a single cloud On the soft bosom of the air becalmed, Drops a lone shadow as distinct and still, On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; Or in the polished mirror of the lake, In which the deep reflected sky appears A calm, sublime immensity below. No sound nor motion of a living thing The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe, Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, Mutely, the thistle's seed ; but in her flight, So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread To rise a little, closed to fall as far, Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves, With each new impulse chimes a feeble note. The russet grasshopper at times is heard, Snapping his many wings, as half he flies, Half hovers in the air. Where strikes the sun, With sultriest beams, upon the sandy plain, Or stony mount, or in the close, deep vale, The harmless locust of this western clime, At intervals, amid the leaves unseen, Is heard to sing with one unbroken sound, As with a long-drawn breath, beginning low, And rising to the midst with shriller swell, Then in low cadence dying all away. Beside the stream, collected in a flock, The noiseless butterflies, though on the ground, Continue still to wave their open fans Powdered with gold ; while on the jutting twigs The spindling insects that frequent the banks Rest, with their thin transparent wings outspread As when they fly. Ofttimes, though seldom seen, The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves, Is heard to moan, as if at every breath Panting aloud. The hawk, in mid-air high, 70 common-place; hook of poetry. On his broad pinions sailing round and round, With not a flutter, or but now and then, As if his trembling balance to regain, Utters a single scream, but faintly heard, And all again is still. The Dying Child. — Christian Examiner. 'Tis dying ! life is yielding place To that mysterious charm, Which spreads upon the troubled face A fixed, unchanging calm, That deepens as the parting breath Is gently sinking into death. A thoughtful beauty rests the while Upon its snowy brow ; But those pale lips' could never smile More radiantly than now ; And sure some heavenly dreams begin To dawn upon the soul within! O that those mildly conscious lips Were parted to reply — To tell how death's severe eclipse Is passing from thine eye ; For living eye can never see The change that death hath wrought in thee. Perhaps thy sight is wandering far Throughout the kindled sky, In tracing every infant star Amid the flames on high ; — Souls of the just, whose path is bent Around the glorious firmament. Perhaps thine eye is gazing down Upon the earth below, Rejoicing to have gained thy crown, And hurried from its wo To dwell beneath the throne of Him, Before whose glory heaven is dim. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 71 Thy life ! how cold it might have been, If days had grown to years ! How dark, how deeply stained with sin, With weariness and tears! How happy thus to sink to rest, So early numbered with the blest ! 'Tis well, then, that the smile should lie Upon thy marble cheek : It tells to our inquiring eye What words could never speak — A revelation sweetly given Of all that man can learn of heaven. Looking unto Jesus. — Christian Examiner. Thou, who didst stoop below, To drain the cup of wo, Wearing the form of frail mortality, — Thy blessed labors done, Thy crown of victory won, Hast passed from earth — passed to thy home on high Man may no longer trace, In thy celestial face, The image of the bright, the viewless One ; Nor may thy servants hear, Save with faith's raptured ear, Thy voice of tenderness, God's holy Son ! Our eyes behold thee not, Yet hast thou not forgot Those who have placed their hope, their trust in thee ; Before thy Father's face Thou hast prepared a place, That where thou art, there they may also be. It was no path of flowers, Through this dark world of ours, Beloved of the Father, thou didst tread; And shall we, in dismay, Shrink from the narrow way, When clouds and darkness are around it spread ? 72 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. O thou, who art our life, Be with us through the strife ! Was not thy head by earth's fierce tempests bowed ? Raise thou our eyes above, To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, through the cloud. Even through the awful gloom, Which hovers o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be ; Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy way to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to thee. Scene from Hqdad. — Hillhouse. The garden of Absalom's house on Mount Zion, near the palace, over- looking the city. Tamar sitting by a fountain. Tamar. How aromatic evening grows ! The flowers And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha ; Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. Blest hour ! which He, who fashioned it so fair, So softly glowing, so contemplative, - Hath set, and sanctified to look on man. And, lo ! the smoke of evening sacrifice Ascends from out the tabernacle. Heaven Accept the expiation, and forgive This day's offences ! — Ha ! the wonted strain, Precursor of his coming! — Whence can this — It seems to flow from some unearthly hand — Enter Hadad. Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount, Herself, or heaven ? Tarn. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence Those sad, mysterious sounds. Had. What sounds, dear princess ? Tarn. Surely, thou know'st ; and now I almost think Some spiritual creature waits on thee. Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends Up from the city to these quiet shades ; A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, And voices from the hills. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 73 Tarn. The sounds I mean Floated like mournful music round my head, From unseen fingers. Had. When ? Tarn. Now, as thou earnest. Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought To ecstasy ; or else thy grandsire's harp Resounding from his tower at eventide. I've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones, Till the broad moon, that rose o'er Olivet, Stood listening in the zenith ; yea, have deemed Viols and heavenly voices answered him. Tain. But these — Had. Were we in Syria, I might say The naiad of the fount, or some sweet nymph, The goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee, And gave thee salutations ; but I fear Judah would call me infidel to Moses. Tarn. How like my fancy ! When these strains precede Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think Some gentle being, who delights in us, Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming ; But they are dirge-like. Had. Youthful fantasy, Attuned to sadness, makes them seem so, lady. So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever, As signs of rest and peace ; — the watchman's call, The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump Announcing the returning moon, the pipe Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell, Send melancholy to a drooping soul. Tarn. But how delicious are the pensive dreams That steal upon the fancy at their call ! Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest. Meek Labor wipes his brow, and intermits The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot; Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks — and, hark f What merry strains they send from Olivet ! The jar of life is still ; the city speaks In gentle murmurs ; voices chime with lutes Waked in the streets and gardens ; loving pairs Eye the red west in one another's arms ; And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields A glimpse of happiness, which He, who formed Earth and the stars, had power to make eternal. 7 74 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Tarn. Ah, Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend Who gave so much, because he gave not all ? Had. Perfect benevolence, methinks, had willed Unceasing happiness, and peace, and joy ; Filled the whole universe of human hearts With pleasure, like a flowing spring of life. Tarn. Our Prophet teaches so, till man rebelled. Had. Mighty rebellion ! Had he 'leagured heaven With beings powerful, numberless, and dreadful* Strong as the enginery that rocks the world When all its pillars tremble ; mixed the fires Of onset with annihilating bolts Defensive volleyed from the throne ; this, this Had been rebellion worthy of the name, Worthy of punishment. But what did man ? Tasted an apple ! and the fragile scene, Eden, and innocence, and human bliss, The nectar-flowing streams, life-giving fruits, Celestial shades, and amaranthine flowers, Vanish ; and sorpow, toil, and pain, and death, Cleave to him by an everlasting curse. Tarn. Ah ! talk not thus. ' Had. Is this benevolence ? — Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me ; For I was tutored in a-brighter faith. Our Syrians deem each lucid fount, and stream, Forest, and mountain, glade, and bosky dell, Peopled with kind divinities, the friends Of man, a spiritual race, allied To him by many sympathies, who seek His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts, Cool with their waves, and fan him with their airs. O'er them, the Spirit of the Universe, Or Soul of Nature, circumfuses all With mild, benevolent, and sun-like radiance ; Pervading, warming, vivifying earth, As spirit does the body, till green herbs, And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars, rise ; And shooting stellar influence through her caves, Whence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre. Tarn. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams. Had. These deities They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites, Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 75 With Nature's bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers. Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks — Tarn. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar. Had. Nay, sweet. — Having enjoyed all pleasures here That Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love, At death, the happy Syrian maiden deems Her immaterial flies into the fields, Or circumambient clouds, or crystal brooks, And dwells, a Deity, with those she worshipped, Till time, or fate, return her in its course To quaff, once more, the cup of human joy. Tarn. But thou believ'st not this. Had. I almost wish Thou didst ; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar, Thy spirit is too tender for a law Announced in terrors, coupled with the threats Of an inflexible and dreadful Being, Whose word annihilates, whose awful voice Thunders the doom of nations, who can check The sun in heaven, and shake the loosened stars, Like wind-tossed fruit, to earth, whose fiery step The earthquake follows, whose tempestuous breath Divides the sea, whose anger never dies, Never remits, but everlasting burns, Burns unextinguished in the deeps of hell. Jealous, implacable — Tarn. Peace ! impious ! peace ! Had. Ha ! says not Moses so ? The Lord is jealous. Tarn. Jealous of our faith, Our love, our true obedience, justly his ; And a poor recompense for all his favors. Implacable he is not ; contrite man Ne'er found him so. Had. But others have, If oracles be true. Tarn. Little we know Of them ; and nothing of their dire offence. Had. I meant not to displease, love ; but my soul Sometimes revolts, because I think thy nature Shudders at him and yonder bloody rites. How dreadful ! when the world awakes to light, And life, and gladness, and the jocund tide Bounds in the veins of every happy creature, Morning is ushered by a murdered victim, 76 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Whose wasting members reek upon the air, Polluting the pure firmament ; the shades Of evening scent of death ; almost, the shrine O'ershadowed by the holy cherubim; And where the clotted current from the altar Mixes with Kedron, all its waves are gore. Nay, nay, I grieve thee — 'tis not for myself, But that I fear these gloomy things oppress Thy soul, and cloud its native sunshine. Tarn, (in tears, clasping her hands.) Witness, ye heavens ! Eternal Father, witness ! Blest God of Jacob ! Maker ! Friend ! Preserver ! That, with my heart, my undivided soul, I love, adore, and praise thy glorious name Confess thee Lord of all, believe thy laws Wise, just, and merciful, as they are true. 0 Hadad, Hadad ! you misconstrue much The sadness that usurps me : 'tis for thee 1 grieve — for hopes that fade — for your lost soul, And my lost happiness. Had. 0 say not so, Beloved princess. Why distrust my faith ? * Tarn. Thou know'st, alas ! my weakness ; but remember, I never, never will be thine, although The feast, the blessing-, and the song were past, Though Absalom and David called me bride, Till sure thou own'st, with truth and love sincere, The Lord Jehovah. Roman Catholic Chaunt. From " Percy's Masque.' HlLLHOUSE. O, holy Virgin, call thy child ; Her spirit longs to be with thee ; For, threatening, lower those skies so mild, Whose faithless day-star dawned for me. From tears released to speedy rest, From youthful dreams which all beguiled, To quiet slumber on thy breast, O, holy Virgin, call thy child. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Joy from my darkling soul is fled, And haggard phantoms haunt me wild ; Despair assails, and Hope is dead : O, holy Virgin, call thy child. Song. — From the Talisman. When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, And the woodlands, awaking, burst into a hymn, And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, — How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim ! Oh, us sad, in that moment of glory and song, To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, The glittering host, that kept watch all night long O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one ; — Till the circle of ether, deep, rosy and vast, Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were there ; And their leader, the day-star, the brightest and last, Twinkles faintly, and fades in that desert of air. Thus Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came, Steals o'er us again when life's moment is gone ; And the crowd of bright names in the heaven of fame Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on. Let them fade — but we'll pray that the age, in whose flight Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall die, May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light Of the dawn that effaces the stars from the sky. September. — Carlos Wilcox. The sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow-declining year; — All mildness, soothing loneliness and peace ; The fading season ere the falling come, More sober than the buxom blooming May, And therefore less the favorite of the world, But dearest month of all to pensive minds. 7* 78 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FOETRY. Tis now far spent ; and the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, Checkered by one night's frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees, That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick, Adorn the shores ; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below With its bright colors, intermixed with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer's night ; To hear,' where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain ; Then, rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps, The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropped From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. On the Loss of Professor Fisher. — Brain ard. The breath of air, that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; The drops of dew, exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise, and assume the tempest's threatening form;. The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash ; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster, when the might Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 79 So science whispered in thy charmed ear, And radiant learning beckoned thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee ! — But there is a shore Where storms are hushed, where tempests never rage ; Where angry skies and blackening seas no more With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod — Thy home is heaven, and thy Friend is God. Idle Words. — Anonymous. J have a high sense of the virtue and dignity of the female character ; and would not, by any means, be thought to attribute to the ladies emphatically, the fault here spoken of. But I have remarked it in some of my friends, who, in all but this, were among the loveliest of their sex. In such, the blemish is more distinct and striking, because so strongly contrasted with the superior delicacy and loveliness of their natures. V My God !" the beauty oft exclaimed, With deep impassioned tone — But not in humble prayer she named The High and Holy One ! 'Twas not upon the bended knee, With soul upraised to heaven, Pleading, with heartfelt agony, That she might be forgiven. 'Twas not in heavenly strains to raise To the great Source of good Her daily offering of praise, Her song of gratitude. But in the gay and thoughtless crowd, And in the festive hall, 'Mid scenes of mirth and mockery proud, She named the Lord of All. She called upon that awful name, When laughter loudest rang — Or when the flush of triumph came — Or disappointment's pang ! 80 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The idlest thing that flattery knew, The most unmeaning jest, From those sweet lips profanely drew Names of the Holiest ! I thought — How sweet that voice would be, Breathing this prayer to heaven — " My God, I worship only thee ; O, be my sins forgiven!" He faioweth our Frame, He remembereth we are Dust.- Dana. Thou, who didst form us with mysterious powers, Didst give a conscious soul, and call it ours, 'Tis thou alone who know'st the strife within ; Thou'lt kincfly judge,< nor name each weakness sin. Thou art not man, who only sees in part, Yet deals unsparing with a brother's heart ; For thou look'st in upon the struggling throng That war — the good with ill — the weak with strong. And those thy hand hath wrought of finer frame, When grief o'erthrows the mind, thou wilt not blame. — " It is enough !" thou'lt say, and pity show ; " Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of wo ! — Thy heart find rest — thy dark mind clear away, And thou sit in the peace of heaven's calm day !" Immortality. — Dana.* Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? And doth death cancel the great bond that holds Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out The Eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms * We scarcely know where, in the English language, we could point out a finer extract than this, — of the same character. It has a softened grandeur worthy of the subject j especially in the noble paragraph commencing " O, listen, man !" — Ed. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 81 Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? — Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, Which One, with gentle hand the vail of flesh Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed In glory ? — throne, before which, even now, Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? — Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, Thou awful, unseen Presence — are they quenched, Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not ; as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? And with our frames do perish all our loves ? Do those that took their root and put forth buds, And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers ? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, And make it send forth winning harmonies, — That to the cheek do give its living glow, And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance — Are these the body's accidents ? — no more ? — To live in it, and when that dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame ? O, listen, man ! A voice within us speaks that startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality : Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song. O, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories ; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 82 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. The mysterious Music of Ocean. — Walsh's National, Gazette. "And the people of this place say, that, at certain seasons, beautiful souuds are heard from the ocean." — Mavar'a Voyages. Lonely and wild it rose, That strain of solemn music from the sea, As though the bright air trembled to disclose An ocean mystery. Again a low, sweet tone, Fainting in murmurs on the listening day, Just bade the excited thought its presence own, Then died away. Once more the gush of sound, Struggling and swelling from the heaving plain, Thrilled a rich peal triumphantly around. And fled again. O boundless deep ! we know Thou hast strange wonders in thy gloom concealed, Gems, flashing gems, from whose unearthly glow Sunlight is sealed. And an eternal spring Showers her rich colors with unsparing hand, Where coral trees their graceful branches fling O'er golden sand. But tell, 0 restless main ! Who are the dwellers in thy world beneath, That thus the watery realm cannot contain The joy they breathe ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 83 Emblem of glorious might! Are thy wild children like thyself arrayed, Strong in immortal and unchecked delight, Which cannot fade ? Or to mankind allied, Toiling with wo, and passion's fiery sting, Like their own home, where storms or peace preside, As the winds bring ? Alas for human thought ! How does it flee existence, worn and old, To win companionship with beings wrought Of liner mould ! 'Tis vain the reckless waves Join with loud revel the dim ages flown, But keep each secret of their hidden caves Dark and unknown. Summer Wind. — Bryant. It is a sultry day ; the sun has drank The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; There is no rustHng in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the tierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light W^ere but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — Their bases on the mountains— their white tops Shining in the far ether, — fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 84 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? O come, and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now, Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He come9 ! Lo where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings Music of birds and rustling of young boughs," And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet ; and silver waters break Into small waves", and sparkle as he comes. Summer Evening Lightning. — Carlos Wilcox. Far off and low In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, Where sleeps in embryo the midnight storm, The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets, Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge ; Or if the bolder fancy so conceive Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops With beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright The distant flashes gleam as to efface The window's image on the floor impressed, By the dim crescent ; or outshines the light Cast from the room upon the trees hard by, If haply, to illume a moonless night, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 85 The lighted taper shine ; though lit in vain To waste away unused, and from abroad Distinctly through the open window seen, Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp. Spring. — N. P. Willis.* The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers ; And with it comes a thirst to be away, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours — A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things. We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods ; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June, And the light whisper as their edges meet — Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment, in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream ; Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye And sing — till it is hooded from the sky. To Seneca Lake. — Percival. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, * This is a beautiful piece of poetry — more exquisitely finished than any of Mr. Willis's poetry which we have seen. Even a prejudiced mind (and there seem to be many such) cannot but admire it. — Ed. 86 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side ! At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheej of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts,' at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O ! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. Mount Washington ; the loftiest Peak of the White Mountains, J\T. H. — G. Mellen. Mount of the clouds, on whose Olympian height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there ! Thine is the rock of other regions ; where The world of life which blooms so far below Sweeps a wide waste : no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 87 When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home ! Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth — and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong ! And, when the tumult of the air is fled, And quenched in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name. The stars look down upon them — and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave, Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave — The richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave ! Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws The hoary mantle of the dying year, Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear ! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue ; When, lo ! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view ! To the dying Year. — J. G. Whittier. And thou, gray voyager to the breezeless sea Of infinite Oblivion, speed thou on ! Another gift of Time succeedeth thee, Fresh from the hand of God ! for thou hast done The errand of thy destiny, and none May dream of thy returning. Go ! and bear Mortality's frail records to thy cold, Eternal prison-house ; — the midnight prayer Of suffering bosoms, and the fevered care Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold ; Ambition's grasp at greatness ; the quenched light Of broken spirits; the forgiven wrong, And the abiding curse. Ay, bear along 88 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. These wrecks of thine own making. Lo ! thy knell Gathers upon the windy breath of night, Its last and faintest echo ! Fare thee well! The Captain. A Fragment* — Brainard. Solemn he paced upon that schooner's deck, And muttered of his hardships : — " I have been Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide Has dashed me on the sawyer ; I have sailed In the thick night, along the wave -washed edge Of ice, in acres, by the pitiless coast Of Labrador ; and I have scraped my keel O'er coral rocks in Madagascar seas ; And often, in my cold and midnight watch, Have heard the warning voice of the lee shore Speaking in breakers ! Ay, and I have seen The whale and sword-fish fight beneath my bows ; And, when they made the deep boil like a pot, Have swung into its vortex ; and I know To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill, And brave such dangers with a sailor's heart ; — But never yet, upon the stormy wave, Or where the river mixes with the main, Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay, In all my rough experience of harm, Met I — a Methodist meeting-house ! * * * * Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none, Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern ! It comes in such a " questionable shape," I cannot even speak it ! Up jib, Josey, And make for Bridgeport ! There, where Stratford Point, Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy, Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest! And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale, That once a Charleston schooner was beset, Riding at anchor, by a meeting-house ! *The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said : " Arrived, schooner Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that harbor, dur- ing the rain storm on Thursday evening last, the Fame was run foul of by the wreck of the Methodist meeting-house from Norwich, which was carried away in the late freshet." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 89 " They that seek me early shall find me." — Columbian Star. Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze ; Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways ; Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding, Waken rich feelings in the careless breast — While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding, Come, and secure interminable rest. Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown ; Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover Will to the embraces of the worm have gone ; Those who now bless thee will have passed for ever ; Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee ; Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever, As thy sick heart broods over years to be ! Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die — Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing, Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky. Life is but shadows, save a promise given, Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray : O, touch the sceptre ! — with a hope in heaven — Come, turn thy spirit from the world away. Then will the crosses of this brief existence Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul, And, shining brightly in the forward distance, Will of thy patient race appear the goal ; Home of the weary ! where, in peace reposing, The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss : Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing, Who would not early choose a lot like this ? 8*. 90 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. A Son's Farewell to his Mother, and Departure from Home. — Connecticut Observer. Mother — I leave thy dwelling, Thy counsel and thy care ; With grief my heart is swelling No more in them to share ; Nor hear that sweet voice speaking When hours of joy run high, Nor meet that mild eye seeking When sorrow's touch comes nigh. Mother — I leave thy dwelling, And the sweet hour of prayer ; With grief my heart is swelling No more to meet thee there. Thy faith and fervor, pleading In unspent tones of love, Perchance my soul are leading To better hopes above. Mother — I leave thy dwelling ; Oh ! shall it be for ever ? With grief-my heart is swelling, From thee — from thee — to sever. These arms, that now enfold me So closely to thy heart, These eyes, that now behold me, From all — from all — I part. Hushed is the Voice of Judah's Mirth. A Sacred Melody. — From the Port-Folio.* 11 In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning ; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not." St. Matt. ii. 18. Hushed is the voice of Judah's mirth ; And Judah's minstrels, too, are gone ; * We are not sensible that this piece is inferior, in any respect whatever, to Moore's celebrated and beautiful Sacred Melodies. We lately saw it quoted, and wrongly ascribed to the English poet. It was written in COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 91 And harps that told Messiah's birth Are hung on heaven's eternal throne. Fled is the bright and shining throng That swelled on earth the welcome strain, And lost in air the choral song That floated wild on David's plain : — For dark and sad is Bethlehem's fate ; Her valleys gush with human blood ; Despair sits mourning at her gate, And Murder stalks in frantic mood. At morn, the mother's heart was light, Her infant bloomed upon her breast ; At eve, 'twas pale and withered quite, And gone to its eternal rest. Weep on, ye childless mothers, weep ; Your babes are hushed in one cold grave ; In Jordan's streams their spirits sleep, Their blood is mingled with the wave. Extract from a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College, in 1826. — N. P. Willis. We shall go forth together. There will come Alike the day of trial unto all, And the rude world will buffet us alike. Temptation hath a music for all ears ; And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; And the ungovernable thought within Will be in every bosom eloquent ; — But, when the silence and the calm come on, And the high seal of character is set, We shall not all be similar. The scale Of being is a graduated thing ; And deeper than the vanities of power, Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ Gradation, in its hidden characters. Charleston, South Carolina, and published in the Port-Folio of 1818. While under Mr. Dennie's care, the pages of this journal were enriched with many fine articles, both in poetry and prose. — Ed. 92 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The pathway to the grave may be the same, And the proud man shall tread it, and the low, With his bowed head, shall bear him company. Decay will make no difference, and death, With his cold hand, shall make no difference ; And there will be no precedence of power, In waking at the coming trump of God ; But in the temper of the invisible mind, The godlike and undying intellect, There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance ! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free, Beside the crystal waters ; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God, Will measure the capacities of mind ; . And as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify him more. It is life's mystery. The soul of man Createth fts own destiny of power;- And, as the trial is intenser here, His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. What is its earthly victory ? Press on ! For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on ! For it shall make you mighty among men ; And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, Ye shall look down on monarchs. O, press on ! For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence ; and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your brow, And read it like a talisman of love ! Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought ; Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, And, in the very fetters of your flesh, Mating with the pure essences of heaven ! Press on ! — c for in the grave there is no work, And no device.' — Press on ! while yet ye may ! So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst Of his immortal nature ; and he rends The rock for secret fountains, and pursues The path of the illimitable wind COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 93 For mysteries — and this is human pride ! There is a gentler element, and man May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul, And drink its living waters till his heart Is pure — and this is human happiness! Its secret and its evidence are writ In the broad book of nature. 'Tis to have Attentive and believing faculties ; To go abroad rejoicing in the joy Of beautiful and well created things; To love the voice of waters, and the sheen Of silver fountains leaping to the sea; To thrill with the rich melody of birds, Living their life of music ; to be glad In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm; To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree ; To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world ! It is to linger on ■ the magic face Of human beauty,' and from light and shade Alike to draw a lesson ; 'tis to love The cadences of voices that are tuned By majesty and purity of thought ; To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star Whose purity and distance make it fair ; And in the gush of music to be still, And feel that it has purified the heart! It is to love all virtue for itself, All nature for its breathing evidence ; And, when the eye hath seen, and when the ear Hath drunk the beautiful harmony of the world, It is to humble the imperfect mind, And lean the broken spirit upon God ! Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true To the great moral of a passing world. Thus would I — like a just departing child, Who lingers on the threshold of his home — Remember the best lesson of the lips Whose accents shall be with us now, no more ! It is the gift of sorrow to be pure ; And I would press the lesson ; that, when life Hath half become a weariness, and hope Thirsts for serener waters, Go abroad 94 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Upon the paths of nature, and, when all Its voices whisper, and its silent things Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, Kneel at its simple altar, and the God Who hath the living waters shall be there ! Retirement. — Anonymous. " The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree, And seem by Thy sweet bounty made For those who follow Thee. " There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul, ' And grace her mean abode, O, with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God. " There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays, Nor asks a witness to her song, Nor thirsts for human praise." Corcper . I love to steal awhile away From every cumbering care, And spend the hours of setting day In humble, grateful prayer. I love in solitude to shed The penitential tear, And all His promises to plead* Where none but God can hear. I love to think on mercies past, And future good implore, And all my sighs and sorrows cast On him whom I adore. I love by faith to take a view Of brighter scenes in heaven ; Such prospects oft my strength renew, While here by tempests driven. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 95 Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er, May its departing ray Be calm as this impressive hour, And lead to endless day. To the River Arte.— Taltsmapt. Not from the sands or cloven rocks, Thou rapid Arve, thy waters flow ; Nor earth, within its bosom, locks Thy dark, unfathomed wells below. Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream Begins to move and murmur first Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. Born where the thunder, and the blast, And morning's earliest light are born, Thou rushest, swoln, and loud, and fast, By these low homes, as if in scorn : Yet humbler springs yield purer waves, And brighter, glassier streams than thine, Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, With heaven's own beam and image shine. Yet stay ; for here are flowers and trees ; Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, And laugh of girls, and hum of bees : Here linger till thy waves are clear. Thou heedest not ; thou hastest on ; From steep to steep thy torrent falls, Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, It rests beneath Geneva's walls. Rush on ; but were there one with me That loved me, I would light my hearth Here, where with God's own majesty Are touched the features of the earth. By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat, Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, Among the blossoms at their feet. 96 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The Burial. — Anonymous. " We therefore commit his body to the ground.'' — Burial Service. The earth has fallen cold and deep Above his narrow bier ; No wintry winds can break his sleep, No thunders reach his ear. The mourner's parting steps are gone, Gone the last echoing sound ; And night's dark shadows, stealing on, Spread solemn gloom around. And he whose heart was wont to glow With joy, when hastening home, Here must he lie., cold, silent, now, And mouldering in the tomb, — Till time itself, and days, and years, Shall all have passed away ; In that cold heart, no hopes nor fears Shall hold their dubious sway. ******** Though deep the slumbers of the tomb, Though dark that bed of clay, Yet shall he wake, and leave that gloom, For everlasting day. On the Loss of a pious Friend. — Brainard. Imitated from the 57th chapter of Isaiah. Who shall weep when the righteous die ? Who shall mourn when the good depart ? When the soul of the godly away shall fly, Who shall lay the loss to heart ? He has gone into peace ; he has laid him down To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day ; And he shall wake on that holy morn, When sorrow and sighing shall flee away. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 97 But ye, who worship in sin and shame Your idol gods, whate'er they be, — Who scoff in your pride at your Maker's name, By the pebbly stream and the shady tree, — Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams, Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray ; Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams, But the wind shall carry them all away. There's one who drank at a purer fountain, One who was washed in a purer flood : He shall inherit a holier mountain, He shall worship a holier Lord. But the sinner shall utterly fail and die, Whelmed in the waves of a troubled sea ; And God, from his throne of light on high, Shall say, " There is no peace for thee." Icarus* — From the Port-Folio. Heard'st thou that dying moan of gasping breath, The shriek of agony, despair and death ? Prone from his lofty station in the skies, The lost adventurer falls, no more to rise ; Vain boast of earthly nature, that hath striven To rival, in his flight, the lords of heaven ! Long o'er the azure air he winged his way, And tracked the pure ethereal light of day, On floating clouds of amber radiance hung, And on the fragrant breeze his pinions flung ; But ah ! forgetful that the blaze of noon Would sweep his daring frame to earth too soon, Spurning his sire, he rose sublime on high, Lost in the radiance of the solar sky : — The melting wax proclaims his sad defeat ; He fades before the intolerable heat. * This piece, which was first published in the Port-Folio, was written, we believe, by Rev. J. W. Eastburn.— Ed. 0 98 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The heaving surge received him as he fell, While sadder moaned the unaccustomed swell ; The Nereids caught him on the trembling waves, And bore his body to their coral caves ; His funeral song they sung, and every surge Murmured along his melancholy dirge : Wide o'er the sparkling deep the sound was heard, Mixed with the wailing of the ocean bird, Then passed away, and all was still again Upon the wide, unfathomable main; But to that roaring sea immortal fame Gave — to commemorate the deed — his name ! Sunset in September* — Carlos Wilcox. The sun now rests upon the mountain tops — Begins to sink behind — is half concealed — And now i's gone : the last faint twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. * Every person, who has witnessed the splendor of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the land- scape ; the situation of the hill, on the broad level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution ; the vast amphitheatre of luxu- riant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens ; the perfect outline of the horizon •, the noble range of blue moun- tains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance ; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot, — these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, ' fading, still fading,' till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless . night reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Ando- ver combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow-banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate. — Ed. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 99 Sweet to the pensive is departing day, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb ; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpened to a needle's point, With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half hour's space above the mountain lie ; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threatened rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves ; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, All fading soon as lower sinks the sun, Till twilight end. But now another scene, To me most beautiful of all, appears : The sky, without the shadow of a cloud, Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye, Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force Its power of vision to admit the whole. Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye, Midway the blushing of the mellow peach Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep ; And here, in this most lovely region, shines, With added loveliness, the evening-star. Above, the fainter purple slowly fades, Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun Descended, in a single row arranged, As if thus planted by the hand of art, Majestic pines shoot up into the sky, And in its fluid gold seem half dissolved. Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, A stately colonnade with verdant roof; Upon a nearer still, a single tree, With shapely form, looks beautiful alone ; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass 100 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Scooped in the hither range, a single mount Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, And of a softer, more ethereal blue, A pyramid of polished sapphire built. But now the twilight mingles into one The various mountains ; levels to a plain This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, Where every object to my sight presents Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls, And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks Under thick foliage, reflective shows Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line Of the horizon parting heaven and earth ! From " The Buccaneer ." — Dana. A sound is in the Pyrenees ! Whirliiig and dar,k, comes roaring down A tide, as of a thousand seas, Sweeping both cowl and crown. On field and vineyard thick and red it stood. Spain's streets and palaces are full of blood ; — And wrath and terror shake the land ; The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights ; Soon comes the tread of that stout band — Bold Arthur and his knights. Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain! The spell is broke ! — Arthur is come again !— - Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride : The lips are cold, the brow is pale, That thou didst kiss in love and pride. He cannot hear thy wail, Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound- His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. He fell for Spain — her Spain no more ; For he was gone who made it dear ; And she would seek some distant shore, At rest from strife and fear, And wait, amidst her sorrows, till the day His voice of love should call her thence away. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 101 Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low. 'T would joy his heart could he but aid So good a lady in her wo, He meekly, smoothly said. With wealth and servants, she is soon aboard, And that white steed she rode beside her lord. The sun goes down upon the sea ; The shadows gather round her home. " How like a pall are ye to me ! My home, how like a tomb ! O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head. Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead." And now the stars are burning bright ; Yet still she looks towards the shore Beyond the waters black in night. " I ne'er shall see thee more ! Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow, And I'm alone — scarce know I where I go." Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea ! The wash of waters lulls thee now ; His arm no more will pillow thee, Thy hand upon his brow. He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. The ground is his — the sea must be thy grave. Sonnet. — Bryant, A power is on the earth and in the air From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth : her thousand plants Are smitten ; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze : The herd beside the shaded fountain pants ; For life is driven from all the landscape brown ; The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den ; The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town : As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. 9^ 102 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Power of the Soul in investing external Circumstances with the Hue of its own Feelings. — Dana. — Life in itself, it life to all things gives; For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives — Becomes an acting being, ill or good ; And, grateful to its giver, tenders food For the soul's health, or, suffering change unblest, Pours poison down to rankle in the breast : As is the man, e'en so it bears its part, And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart. Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see, In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree. Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air, Now rests, now stirs, as if a breeze were there Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all ! And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall ; The double strips of silvery sand unite Above, below, each grain distinct and bright. — Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough, Peck not alone ; that bird below, as thou, Is busy after food, and happy, too — They're gone ! Both, pleased, away together flew. And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood, Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood ? The world, 0 man, is like that flood to thee : Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand, If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep The drifting waste, like waves along the deep, Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams ; Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky, And one still, sightless level make the earth, Like thy dull, lonely, joyless soul, — a dearth. The rill is tuneless to his ear, who feels No harmony within ; the south wind steals As silent as unseen amongst the leaves. Who has no inward beauty, none perceives, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 103 Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more — In nature's calmest hour, he hears the roar Of winds and flinging waves — puts out the light, When high and angry passions meet in fight ; And, his own spirit into tumult hurled, He makes a turmoil of a quiet world : The fiends of his own bosom people air With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair. Hates he his fellow-men ? Why, then, he deems 'Tis hate for hate : — as he, so each one seems. Soul ! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness ; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast — Which gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart. Spring in Town. — Bryant. The country ever has a lagging spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses. Showers and sunshine bring Slowly the deepening verdure o'er the earth ; To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing birds come back ; Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours, Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, Shine on our roofs, and chase the wintry gloom — And, lo, our borders glow with sudden bloom. For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, That, overhung with blossoms, through its glen Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon; And they that search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 104 COMMON-PLACE UOOK OF POETRY. For here arc eyes that shame the violet, Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies ; And foreheads white as when, in clusters set, The anemonies by forest fountains rise ; And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. And thick about those lovely temples lie Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled — Thrice happy man, whose trade it is to buy, And bake, and braid those love-nets of the world . Who curls of every glossy color keepest, And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest ! And well thou mayst ; for Italy's brown maids Send the dark locks with which their brows are drest* And Tuscan lasses from their jetty braids Crop half to buy a ribbon for the rest ; But the fresh Norman girls their ringlets spare, And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. Then henceforth let no maid or matron grieve To see her locks of an unlovely hue, Frowzy or thin ; for Vignardonne shall give Such piles of curls as nature never knew : Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight Had blushed outdone, and owned herself a fright. Soft voices and light laughter wake the street Like notes of wood-birds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by ; The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. No swimming Juno gait> of languor born, Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn, — A step that speaks the spirit of the place, Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away To Singsing and the shores of Tappan bay. Ye that dash by in chariots, who will care For steeds and footmen now ? Ye cannot show COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 105 Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, And last edition of the shape ! Ah no ; These sights are for the earth and open sky, And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. The Sabbath. — Carlos Wilcox. Who scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. Emblem and earnest of eternal rest, A festival with fruits celestial crowned, A jubilee releasing him from earth, The day delights and animates the saint. It gives new vigor to the languid pulse Of life divine, restores the wandering feet, Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, Establishing them all upon a rock. Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come. To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn Seems like the first, when every thing was new. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold. In every thing a smiling God is seen. On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines. In objects overlooked On other days he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell. While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now To bring him near ; for Faith performs the work ; In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, With such transparent vividness, she feels 106 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Struck with admiring awe, as if li ansform'd To sudden vision. Such is oft her power In God's own house, which, in the absorbing act Of adoration, or inspiring praise, She with his glory fills, as once a cloud Of radiance filled the temple's inner court. Industry and Prayer, — Carlos Wilcox. Time well employed is Satan's deadliest foe : It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend : Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer, Statues, without it in the form of guards. The closet which the saint devotes to prayer Is not his temple only, but his tower, Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked ; His armory, to which he soon retreats. When danger warns, his weapons to select, And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead, When taken by surprise and half o'ercome, That, now, to venture near the hallowed place Were but profane ;• a plea that marks a soul Glad to impose on conscience with a show Of humble veneration, to secure Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed, It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears. The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near The upper world of purity and light. He loses sight of his intended prey, In that effulgence beaming from the throne Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails To succor and preserve the tempted soul, Whose time and talents rest or run to waste. Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse A salutary savor through the day, With charities and duties not well filled. These form the links of an electric chain That join the orisons of morn and eve, And propagate through all its several parts. While kept continuous, the ethereal fire ; But if a break be found, the fire is spent. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 107 Consolations of Religion to the Poor. — Perc;val. There is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; She is a widow ; she is old and poor; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her beicg's night 5 She lives in her affections ; for the grave Has closed upon her husband, children; all Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save Her treasured jewels; though her views are small, Though she has never mounted high, to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall Her unperverted palate, but will bring A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers, — so softly pour The breathings of her bosom, when sne prays, Low-bowed, before her Maker ; then no more She muses on the griefs of former days ; Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays. And faith can see a new world, and the eyes Of saints look pity on her : Death will come — A few short moments over, and the prize Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb Becomes her fondest pillow ; all its gloom Is scattered. What a meeting there will be To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee : Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity. Extract from the Airs of Palestine. — Pierpont. Where lies our path ? — Though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all. 10S COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Where lies our path ? — A poet, and inquire What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre ? See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow ; See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; There Ossa rises ; there Olympus towers ; Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers, Forever verdant ; and there Peneus glides Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. Your theme is Music ; — Yonder rolls the wave, Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, Enchanted by his lyre : — Cithaeron's shade Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth, Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth. And fast by Haenius, Thracian Hebrus creeps O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps, Whose gory head, borne by the stream along, Was still melodious, and expired in song. There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell ; There be thy path — for there the muses cjwell. No, no — a lonelier, lovelier path be mine ; Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine. There purer streams through happier valleys flow, And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow. I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm ; I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews ; I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse : In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose, And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose. Here arching vines their leafy banner spread,. Shake their green shields, and purple odors shed, At once repelling Syria's burning raj-, And breathing freshness on the sultry day. Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing, Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring ; And here, — as musing on my theme divine, — I gather flowers to bloom along my line, And hang my garlands in festoons around, Inwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound ; And fondly, warmly, humbly hope the Power, That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower, Drew living water from this rocky shrine, Purpled the clustering honors of the vine, And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 109 To weave a garland, will not let it wither; — Wond'ring, I listen to the strain suhlime, That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time, Wafted in grand simplicity along, The undying hreath, the very soul of song. On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh.— Braiistard. " The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss j it breaks at every breeze." Another ! 'tis a sad word to the heart, That one by one has lost its hold on life, From all it loved or valued, forced to part In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife That cuts at once and kills : its tortured strife Is with distilled affliction, drop by drop Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife With grief and sorrow : all that we would prop, Or would be propped with, falls ; when shall the ruin stop ! The sea has one, and Palestine has one, And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone, And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid — And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid, Turn to some other monument — nor know Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read ; Whose loved and honored relics lie below ; Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo. There is a world of bliss hereafter — else Why are the bad above, the good beneath The green grass of the grave ? The Mower fells Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe (When he his desolating blade shall sheathe, And rest him from his work) in a pure sky, Above the smoke of burning worlds ; — and Death On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie, When Time, with all his years and centuries, has passed by. 10 110 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY, From "The Minstrel Girl." — James G. Whittier, Again 'twas evening. — Agnes knelt, Pale, passionless, — a sainted one : On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt The last beams of the setting sun. Alone — the damp and cloistered wall Was round her like a sepulchre ; And at the vesper's mournful call Was bending every worshipper. She knelt — her knee upon the stone — Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye, As it were sin to gaze upon The changes of the changeful sky. It seemed as if a sudden thought Of her enthusiast moments came With the bland eve — and she had sought To stifle in her heart the flame Of its awakened, memory : She felt she might not cherish, then, The raptures of a spirit, free And passionate as hers had been, When its sole worship was, to look With a delighted eye abroad ; And read, as from an open book, The written languages of God, How changed she kneels ! — the vile, gray hood, Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair ; And where the jewelled silk hath flowed, Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire. And wherefore thus ? Was hers a soul, Which, all unfit for Nature's gladness, Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl, And drain with joy its draught of madness ? Read ye the secret, who have nursed In your own hearts intenser feelings, Which stole upon ye, at the first, Like bland and musical revealings From some untrodden Paradise, Until your very soul was theirs ; And from their maddening ecstasies Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Ill But she is sometimes happy now — And yet her happiness is not Such as the buoyant heart may know — And it is blended with her lot To chasten every smile with tears, And look on life with tempered gladness, That, undebased by human fears, Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness, Like sunshine on the falling rain, Or as the moonlight on the cloud ;-»- Nor would she mingle once again With life's unsympathising crowd ; — But, yielding up to earnest prayer Life's dark and mournful residue, She waiteth for her summons where The pure in heart their faith renew. The Torn Hat.—T$. P. Willis. There's something in a noble boy, A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his unchecked, unbidden joy, His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile, And unrepressed by sadness — Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track, And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all — For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now — But when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music heard, 112 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird, Stands gazing on the empty air As if some dream were passing there — 'Tis then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face, And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet, familiar meanings trace, Remembering a thousand things Which passed me on these golden wings Which time has fettered now — Things that came o'er me with a thrill, And left me silent, sad, and still, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last. 'Tis strange how thought upon a child Will, like a presence, sometimes press, And when his pulse is beating wild, And life itself is in excess — When foot and hand, and ear and eye, Are all with ardor straining high — How in his heart will spring A feeling whose mysterious thrall Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; And on its silent wing, How with the clouds he'll float away, As wandering and as lost as they ! The Memory of the Just is blessed. — Mrs. SigojjR^ey, Thou too, blest Raikes — philanthropist divine — Who, all unconscious what thy hands had done, Didst plant that germ, whose glorious fruit shall shine When from his throne doth fall yon darkened sun, — The Sabbath bell, the Teacher's hallowed lore, The countless throng from childhood's snares set free, Who in sweet strains the Sire of Heaven adore, Shall point in solemn gratitude to thee. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 113 Who was with Martyn, when lie breathed his last, A martyr pale, on Asia's burning sod ? Who cheered his spirit as it onward past From its frail house of clay ? — The hosts of God. Oh ! ye who trust, when earthly toils shall cease, To find a home in heaven's unfading clime, Drink deeper at the fountain head of peace, And cleanse your spirits for that world sublime ! The Wife. — New York Daily Advertiser. " She flung her white arms around him — Thou art That this poor heart can cling to." I could have stemmed misfortune's tide, And borne the rich one's sneer, Have braved the haughty glance of pride, Nor shed a single tear. I could have smiled on every blow From Life's full quiver thrown, While I might gaze on thee, and know I should not be " alone." I could — I think I could have brooked, E'en for a time, that thou Upon my fading face hadst looked With less of love than now ; For then I should at least have felt The sweet hope still my own, To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt On earth, not been " alone." But thus to see, from day to day, Thy brightening eye and cheek, And watch thy life-sands waste away, Unnumbered, slowly, meek ; — To meet thy smiles of tenderness, And catch the feeble tone Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, And feel, I'll be " alone ;" — To mark thy strength each hour decay, And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 10* 114 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say, " Earth may not claim thee longer ;" Nay, dearest ; 'tis too much — this heart Must break, when thou art gone ; It must not be ; we may not part ; I could not live " alone !" Song of the Stars. — Bryant. When the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame," From the void abyss, by myriads came, In the joy of youth, as they darted away, Through the .widening wastes of space to play, Their silver voices in dhorus rung ; And this was the song the bright ones sung : — " Away, away ! through the wide, wide sky,— The fair blue fields that before us lie, — Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll, Each planet, poised on her turning pole, With her isles of green, and her clouds of white. And her waters that lie like fluid light. " For the Source of glory uncovers his face* And the brightness o'erfiows unbounded space ; And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides In our ruddy air and our blooming sides. Lo, yonder the living splendors play : Away, on our joyous path away ! " Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star, How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean " And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 115 And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ; And, twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, With her shadowy cone, the night goes round ! " Away, away ! — in our blossoming bowers, In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours, In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, See, love is brooding, and life is born, And breathing myriads are breaking from night, To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. " Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, To weave the dance that measures the years. Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent To the farthest wall of the firmament, — The boundless visible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim." Sum77ier Evening at a short Distance from the City.- Alonzo Lewis. Ajvd now the city smoke begins to rise, And spread its volume o'er the misty sea ; From school dismissed, the barefoot urchin hies To drive the cattle from the upland lea ; With gentle pace we cross the polished beach, And the sun sets as we our mansion reach. Then come the social joys of summer eve, The pleasant walk along the river-side, What time their task the weary boatmen leave, And little fishes from the silver tide, Elate with joy, leap in successive springs, And spread the wavelets in diverging rings. His;h overhead the stripe-winged nighthawk soars, With loud responses to his distant love ; And while the air for insects he explores, In frequent swoop descending from above, Startles, with whizzing sound, the fearful wight, Who wanders lonely in the silent night. 116 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETttY. Around our heads the bat, on leathern wings, In airy circles wheels his sudden flight ; The whippoorwill, in distant forest, sings Her loud, unvaried song; and o'er the night The boding owl, upon the evening gale, Sends forth her wild and melancholy wail. The first sweet hour of gentle evening flies, On downy pinions to eternal rest ; Along the vale the balmy breezes rise, Fanning the languid boughs ; while in the west The last faint streaks of daylight die away, And night and silence close the summer day. Introductioyi to the Poem of" Yamoyden." — Robert C. Sands. Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that either bard shall e'er essay : The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them in a happier day : Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave ; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honors crave ; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave ! Friend of my youth ! with thee began the love Of sacred song ; the wont, in golden dreams, 'Mid classic realms of splendors past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory's twilight beams ; Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age. There would we linger oft, entranced, to hear, O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll ; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing stole ; There would we mark, uncurbed by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 117 Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night, In loved Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. Homeward we turned to that fair land, but late Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where Mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate, And kept the key, till three millenniums past; When, as creation's noblest work was last, Latest, to man it was vouchsafed to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free. And here forerunners strange and meet were found Of that blest freedom, only dreamed before ; — Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. " Earth was their mother ;" or they knew no more, Or would not that their secret should be told ; For they were grave and silent ; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old. Kind Nature's commoners, from her they drew Their needful wants, and learned not how to hoard ; And him whom strength and wisdom crowned they knew, But with no servile reverence, as their lord. And on their mountain summits they adored One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, And thence their incense and orisons poured To his pervading presence, that abroad They felt through all his works, — their Father, King, and God. And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good ; But when the tempest roared, with voices rude, Or fierce, red lightning tired the forest pine, Or withering heats untimely seared the wood, The angry forms they saw of powers malign; These they besought to spare, those blessed for aid divine. 118 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And, as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame : Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name ; These simple truths went down from sire to son, — To reverence age, — the sluggish hunter's shame, And craven warrior's infamy, to shun, — And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done. From forest shades they peered, with awful dread, When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came, ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. Few years have passed, and all their forests' pride From shores and hills has vanished, with the race, Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, Like airy shapes, which" eld was wont to trace, In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place. And many a gloomy tale tradition yet Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet To people scenes where still their names remain ; And so began our young, delighted strain, That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, And bid their martial hosts arise again, Where Narragansett's tides roll by their grave, And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave. Friend of my youth ! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die ; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long, — Though not to me the muse averse deny, Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, — Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; And he who loved with thee his notes to try, But for thy sake such idlesse would deplore, — And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more. But no ! the freshness of that past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be ; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved, and gathered chaplets wild with thee ; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 119 Like two proud bark-, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay, Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray ; — And downward, far, reflected in the clear Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees; So buoyant, they do seem to float in air, And silently obey the noiseless breeze ; — Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, They part for distant ports. The gales benign, Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees, To its own harbor sure, where each divine And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. Muses of Helicon ! melodious race Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyne! Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, And drives each scowling form of grief away ! Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove ; Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds your nightly way Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above! Bright choir ! with lips untempted, and with zone Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane ; Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain ; — Rightly invoked, — if right the elected swain, On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, Whose honored hand took not your gift in vain, Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore, — Farewell ! a long farewell ! I worship you no more. Dawn. — N. P. Willis. That line I learned not in the old sad song." — Charles Lamb. Throw up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world ; And the south wind seems liquid — it o'ersteals 120 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. My bosom and my brow so bathingly. It has come over gardens, and the flowers That kissed it are betrayed ; for as it parts, With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, I know it has been trifling with the rose, And stooping to the violet. There is joy For all God's creature? in it. The wet leaves Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing As if to breathe were music ; and the grass Sends up its modest odor with the dew, Like the small tribute of humility. Lovely indeed is morning ! I have drank Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt Its delicate touch ; and 'tis a kindlier thing Than music, or a feast, or medicine. I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, And light was welcome to me. I looked out To feel the common air, and when the breath Of the delicious morning met my brow, Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun Shone on familiar objects, it was like The feeling of the captive who comes forth From darkness to the cheerful light of day. Oh ! could we wake from sorrow ; were it all A troubled dream like this, to cast aside Like an untimely garment with the morn ; Could the long fever of the heart be cooled By a sweet breath from nature ; or the gloom Of a bereaved affection pass away With looking on the lively tint of flowers — How lightly were the spirit reconciled To make this beautiful, bright world its home! The Restoration of Israel. — James Wallis Eastburn. Mountains of Israel, rear on high Your summits, crowned with verdure new, And spread your branches to the sky, Refulgent with celestial dew. O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow, And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 121 And far reflect the lovely glow Where ocean's waves incessant toil. See where the scattered tribes return ; Their slavery is burst at length, And purer flames to Jesus burn, And Zion girds on her new strengtn : New cities bloom along the plain, New temples to Jehovah rise, The kindling voice of praise again Pours its sweet anthems to the skies. The fruitful fields again are blest, And yellow harvests smile around ; Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest, Where peace and innocence are found. The bloody sacrifice no more Shall smoke upon the altars high, — But ardent hearts, from hill to shore, Send grateful incense to the sky ! The jubilee of man is near, When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign; He comes to wipe the mourner's tear, And cleanse the heart from sin and pain. Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise The king that ransomed you from wo : Nations, the hymn of triumph raise, And bid the song of rapture flow ! The buried Love. — Rufus Dawes. M I have often thought that flowers were the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious truths." — The Rebels. She sleeps the quiet sleep of death, The maid who lies below, And these are angel-missioned flowers, That o'er the green turf grow. And they are sent to warn the fair, How transient is their bloom ; See, how they bend their tender forms, And weep upon her tomb. 11 122 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The blush upon her living cheek Had shamed the morning skies ; And diamond light is not more bright Than were her youthful eyes. To see her on a summer's day, Gave love a lighter wing; And happy thoughts would crowd the heart, And gush from many a spring. I know the language of the flowers, And love to hear them grieve, — When crimsoning to the eye of morn, Or drooping to the eve. I listened when the stt>r of love Shone through the blue serene, When twilight held her silent wake, Beneath the crested queen. They told of her whose spirit come To breathe upon their leaves ; And can I choose but love the breath That once was Genevieve's ? She's gone where sorrows may not come, Where pain may never be ; But she, who lives an angel still, May sometimes think of me. Though gone, alas ! her blushing smile, Who sleeps in sweet repose, I joy to find its mimic grace Still living in the rose. Then when I love the modest flower, And cherish it with tears, It minds me of my fleeting time, Yet chases all my fears. And when my hour of rest shall be, I will not weep my doom ; So angel-missioned flowers may come And gather round my tomb ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 123 The Missionary. — W. B. Tappan. Onward, ye men of prayer! Scatter, in rich exuberance, the seed, Whose fruit is living bread, and all your need Will God supply ; Ins harvest ye shall share. To him, child of the bow, The wanderer of his native Oregon, Tell of that Jesus, who, in dying, won The peace-branch of the skies — salvation for His foe ! Unfurl the banneret On other shores, — Messiah's cross bid shine O'er every lovely hill of Palestine ; Fair stars of glory that shall never set. Seek ye the far-off isle ; The sullied jewel of the deep, O'er whose remembered beauty angels weep, Restore its lustre, and to God give spoil. Go, break the chain of caste ; Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more The Indian river roll its waves of gore ; Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast. To heal the bruised, speed; Oh, pour on Africa the balm Of Gilead, and, her agony to calm, Whisper of fetters broken, and the spirit freed. And thou, 0 Church, betake Thyself to watching, labour — help these men : God shall thee visit of a surety, when Thou'rt faithful : Church that Jesus bought, awake, awake ! Missions. — Mrs. Sigourney. Light for the dreary vales Of ice-bound Labrador ! Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails, 124 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And the mariner wakes no more ; Lift high the lamp that never fails, To that dark and sterile shore. Light for the forest child ! An outcast though he be, From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled, And the country of the free ; Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild, For what home on earth has he ? Light for the hills of Greece ! Light for that trampled clime Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease Ere it wrecked the boast of time ; If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace, Can ye grudge your boon sublime ? Light on the Hindoo shed ! On the maddening idol-train, The flame of the suttee is dire and red, And the fakir faints with pain, And the dying moan on their cheerless bed, By the Ganges laved in vain. Light for the Persian sky ! The Sophi's wisdom fades, And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy Armor when Death invades ; Hark ! Hark ! — 'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh From Ararat's mournful shades. Light for the Burman vales ! For the islands of the sea ! For the coast where the slave-ship fills its srila With sighs of agony, And her kidnapped babes the mother wails 'Neath the lone banana-tree ! Light for the ancient race Exiled from Zion's rest ! Homeless they roam from place to place* Benighted and oppressed ; They shudder at Sinai's fearful base ; Guide them to Calvary's breast. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 125 Light for the darkened earth ! Ye blessed, its beams who shed, Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth, Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth, Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed, And clear the tomb From its lingering g-oom, For the aged to rest his weary head. The Fear of Madness * — Lucretia Maria Davidson. There is a something which I dread ; It is a dark, a fearful thing ; It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. That thought comes o'er me in the hour Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness ; 'Tis not the dread of death, — 'tis more, — It is the dread of madness. Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, Forgetful of their feverish course ; May this hot brain, which, burning, glows With all a fiery whirlpool's force, Be cold, and motionless, and still, A tenant of its lowly bed ; But let not dark delirium steal The Matin Hour of Prayer. — Anonymous. This cool and fragrant hour of prime, Unvexed by life's intrusive care, My matin hour of praise shall be, Sweet, solitary praise, and prayer. * These lines, expressing her fears of insanity, were written by this in- teresting girl while confined to her bed in the last stage of consumption. They were unfinished, and the last she ever composed. — Ed. 11* 126 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 'Twill gird my spirit for the fight, The glare, the strife, of this world's way ; Weak, tempted, weary, lone, and sad, — 'Tis never, never vain to pray. This cool and fragrant hour of prime ; The silent stars are fading quite ; The moist air gently stirs the leaves, Dew-laden, to the breaking light. The stillness, the repose, the peace, They win the quiet soul away, To visit that Elysian world, Where breaketh an eternal day. Ere falls the stealing step of dawn, . The night's soft dew on her brown wings, Upriseth from her nest the lark, And, soaring to the sunlight, sings. Thus may my soul sing on, and soar Where sight tracks not her flight sublime, Morn, noon, sweet eve, and ever in This cool and fragrant hour of prime. For, though the world enclose me round, Strong Faith can carry me abroad, Where shines my home, — Jerusalem, The glorious dwelling-place of God ! Then let my soul sing on, and soar Above the world, beyond all time, And dwell in that pure light, and breathe The air from that celestial clime. Sing on and soar, sing on and soar, Till, through the crystal gates of heaven, No longer closed in upper skies, Thou enter in to sing, Forgiven ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 127 Song* — From Yamoydejv. Sleep, child of my love! be thy slumber as light As the red birds that nestle secure on the spray ; Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray. O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast ; In the wild wood Sleep cradles in roses thy head ; But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed, He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread. I fear for thy father ! why stays he so long On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song, So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone. He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe, Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may descry ; The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry ! The Power that is round us — whose presence is near, In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul — Protect that lone bark in its lonely career, And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll ! Solitude. — Mrs. Sigourney. Deep solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught, For which it long had languished 'mid the strife And fever of the world. I thought to be * We cannot determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a comparison of its charac- ter with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, which the reader will rind in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed ; the former being but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen.— Ed. 128 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. There without witness. But the violet's eye Looked up upon me, — the fresh wild-rose smiled, And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek And there were voices too. The garrulous brook, Untiring, to the patient pebbles told Its history ; — up came the singing breeze, And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake Responsive, every one. Even busy life Woke in that dell. The tireless- spider threw From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare. The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel. To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird Sang to her nurslings. Yet I strangely thought To be alone, and silent in thy realm, Spirit of life and love! It might not be ! There is no solitude in thy domains, - Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast, He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief. Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams, Are social and benevolent ; and he Wrho oft communeth in their language pure, Roaming among them at the cool of day, Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed, His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. Bishop Ravenscroft. — George Washington Doane. " For he was a good man." The good old man is gone ! He lies in his saintly rest, And his labors all are done, And the work that he loved the best. The good old man is gone — But the dead in the Lord are blessed ! I stood in the holy aisle, When he spake the solemn word, That bound him, through care and toil, The servant of the Lord : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 129 And I saw how the depths of his manly soul By that sacred vow were stirred. And nobly his pledge he kept — For the truth he stood up alone, And his spirit never slept, And his march was ever on! Oh ! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, The brave old man that's gone. There were heralds of the cross, By his bed of death that stood, And heard how he counted all but loss, For the gain of his Savior's blood ; And patiently waited his Master's voice, Let it call him when it would. The good old man is gone ! An apostle chair is void ; There is dust on his mitre thrown, And they've broken his pastoral rod ; And the fold of his love he has left alone, To account for its care to God. The wise old man is gone ! His honored head lies low, And his thoughts of power are done, And his voice's manly flow, And the pen that, for truth, like a sword was drawn, Is still and soulless now. The brave old man is gone ! With his armor on, he fell ;* Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn, When his spirit fled, to tell ; For mortal sufferings, keen and long, Had no power his heart to quell. The good old man is gone ! He is gone to his saintly rest, Where no sorrow can be known, And no trouble can molest: For his crown of life is won, And the dead in Christ are blessed ! * The bishop was at that time (ten days before his death) employing the little strength he had in revising his MSS. for publication . By them, though dead, he will yet speak. 130 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The Life of God in (he Soul of Man. — Dana.* Come, brother, turn with me from pining thought, And all those inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live. Canst guess what deep content, in turn, they give ? Kind wishes and good deeds will render back More than thou e'er canst sum. Thou'lt nothing lack, But say, " I'm full!" — Where does the stream begin? The source of outward joy lies deep within. E'en let it flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow men. Should'st thou be sad, And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters running near, And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam, *We are disposed to rank Mr. Dana at the head of all the American 'poets, not excepting Bryant j and we think this is the judgment which posterity will pass upon his writings. Not hecause he is superior to all others in the elegance of his language, and in the polished beauty ana finish of his compositions :'in these respects, Bryant has, in this country, no equal : and Mr. Dana is often careless in the dress of his thoughts. Xot be- cause, In the same kind and class of composition to which Bryant has prin- cipally confined his genius, he would be superior, or even equal to this de- lightful writer: for the genius and style of Bryant are peculiarly suited to the accurate and exquisite description of what is beautiful in nature •, and, what is more, he unites with this power the spirit of gentle human feeling, and sometimes a rich, grand, and solemn philosophy : it will be long ere any one breathes forth the soul of poetry in a finer strain than that to tho evening wind ; and Coleridge himself could hardly have written a nobler " Thanatopsis." But Mr. Dana has attempted and proved successful in a higher and more difficult range of poetry ; he exhibits loftier powers, and his compositions agitate the suul with a deeper emotion. His language, without being bo beautiful and finished, is yet more vivid, concise, and alive and informed with meaning. His descriptions of natural objects may not pass before the mind with such sweet harmony, bat they often present, in a single line, a whole picture before the imagination, with a vividness and power of compression which are astonishing. For instance j " But when the light winds lie at rest, ~2nd, on the glassy, heaving sea, The black duck, icit'h her glossy breast, Sits swinging silently."^ And again ; ' The ship works hard •, the seas run high ; Their white tops, flashing through the night, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 131 That now, upon the water, dances, now, Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely ? Tell me, where doth dwell The fay that wrought so beautiful a spell ? In tnine own bosom, brother, didst thou say ? Then cherish as thine own so good a fay. And if, indeed, 'tis not the outward state, But temper of the soul, by which we rate Sadness or joy, then let thy bosom move With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love. Then let the feeling in thy breast be given To honest ends ; this, sanctified by Heaven, And springing into life, new life imparts, Till thy frame beats as with a thousand hearts. Our sins our nobler faculties debase, And make the earth a spiritual waste Unto the soul's dimmed eye : — 'tis man, not earth— 'Tis thou, poor, self-starved soul, hast caused the dearth. Give to the eager, straining eye, A icild and~shifting light." Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one ) speaking of the prospect of immortality : — " 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 'Tis floating ''midst day's setting glories ; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step. Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen living hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee." — In these respects, — in the power of giving in one word, as it were, a whole picture, — in his admirable skill in the perspective, — and in the faculty of chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation, — he re- minds us both of Collins and of Milton. We have not space here, in a note, to illustrate the resemblance, by instances which would show our meaning, and his merits, better than a whole chapter of criticism. But, above all, we admire Mr. Dana, more than any other American poet, because he has aimed not merely to please the imagination, but to rouse up the soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him, because his poetry is full of benevolent, alTectionate, domestic feeling; but, more than this, because it is full of religious feeling. The fountain which gushes here has mingled with the "well of water springing up to ever- lasting life."' The aspirations breathed forth in this poetry are humble, earnest desires after that holiness, '; without which no man shall see God.' It speaks of a better land of rest, " but bids us turn to God, and seek our rest in Him."— Ed. 132 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The earth is full of life : the living Hand Touched it with life ; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full ? — Earth which thou tread'st ! — and thy poor mind be dull ? Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep ! Thou " living dead man," let thy spirits leap Forth to the day ; and let the fresh air blow Through thy soul's shut up mansion. Would'st thou know Something of what is life, shake off this death ; Have thy soul feel the universal breath With which all nature's quick ! and learn to be Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see. Break from thy body's grasp thy spirit's trance ; Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse : — Love, joy, — e'en sorrow, — yield thyself to all! They'll make thy freedom, man, and not thy thrall. Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind To dust and sense, and set at large thy mind. Then move in sympathy with God's great whole, And be, like man at first, M a living soul, !" ********* Debased by sin, and used to things of sense, How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence, Where lie the soul's pure regions, without bounds — Where mind's at large — where passion ne'er confounds Clear thought — where thought is sight — the far brings nigh, Calls up the deep, and, now, calls down the high. Cast off thy slough ! Send thy low spirit forth Up to the Infinite ; then know thy worth. With Infinite, be infinite ; with Love, be love ; Angel, midst angel throngs that move above ; Ay, more than angel : nearer the great Cause, Through his redeeming power, now read his laws — Not with thy earthly mind, that half detects Something of outward things by slow effects ; Viewing creative causes, learn to know The hidden springs ; nor guess, as here below, Laws, purposes, relations, sympathies — In errors vain. — Clear Truth's in yonder skies. Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light, Up from the dust ! the last, great day is bright — COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 133 Bright on the holy mountain, round the throne, Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone. Look down ! the depths are bright ! and hear them cry, " Light ! light !" — Look up ! 'tis rushing down from high ! Regions on regions — far away they shine : 'Tis light ineffable, 'tis light divine ! " Immortal light, and life for evermore !" Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore Of rolling worlds — " Man, wake thee from the sod — Wake thee from death — awake ! — and live with God !" To Pneuma. — James Wallis Eastburn. Tempests their furious course may sweep Swiftly o'er the troubled deep, Darkness may lend her gloomy aid, And wrap the groaning world in shade ; But man can show a darker hour, And bend beneath a stronger power ; — There is a tempest of the soul, A gloom where wilder billows roll ! The howling wilderness may spread Its pathless deserts, parched and dread, Where not a blade of herbage blooms, Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes ; Where silence, death, and horror reign, Unchecked, across the wide domain; — There is a desert of the mind More hopeless, dreary, undefined ! There Sorrow, moody Discontent, And gnawing Care, are wildly blent; There Horror hangs her darkest clouds, And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds ; A sickly ray is cast around, Where nought but dreariness is found ; A feeling that may not be told, Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold. The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom's strife ; 12 134 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The tempest, in its blackest form, Is beauty to the bosom's storm; The ocean, lashed to fury loud, Its high wave mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity To passion's dark and boundless sea. There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest, When storms are warring in the breast ; There is no moment of repose In bosoms lashed by hidden woes ; The scorpion sting the fury rears, And every trembling fibre tears ; The vulture preys with bloody beak Upon the heart that can but break ! To a Star.— Luc ret i a Maria Davidson. Written in her fifteenth year. Thou brightly glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow of heaven ! Oh ! were this fluttering spirit.frec, How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee! How calmly, brightly, dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in virtue's shrine ! Sure the fair world which thou raay'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost. There, beings pure as heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys, together share ; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights ; There, seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul. Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure heaven ! How swiftly will I soar to thee, When this imprisoned soul is free ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 135 Thwiatopsis* — Bryant. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — ■ Go forth unto the open sky, and list To nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air- — Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist * This poem, so much admired, both in England and America, was first published in 1817, in the North American Review. The following verses were then prefixed to it ; they are in themselves beautiful, but more so as an introduction to the solemn grandeur of the piece which they preceded. " Not that from life, and all its woes, The hand of death shall set me free ; Not that this head shall then repose, In the low vale, most peacefully. Ah, when I touch time's farthest brink, A kinder solace must attend ; It chills my very soul to think On that dread hour when life must end. In vain the flattering verse may breathe Of ease from pain, and rest trom strife ; There is a sacred dread of death, Inwoven with the strings of life. This bitter cup at first was given, When angry Justice frowned severe j And 'tis the eternal doom of Heaven, That man must view the grave with fear." Ed. 136 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty ; and the' complaining brooks, That make the meadow green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; . Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings ; yet — the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As the long train COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 137 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off, — Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those, who, in their turn, shall follow them. So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Sacred Melody. — New York American. " Sing to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously ; the horse and his rid- er hath he thrown into the sea." Ezodus xv. 26. Ye daughters and soldiers of Israel, look back ! Where — where are the thousands who shadowed your track — The chariots that shook the deep earth as they rolled — The banners of silk, and the helmets of gold ? Where are they — the vultures, whose beaks would have fed On the tide of your hearts ere the pulses had fled ? Give glory to God, who in mercy arose, And strewed mid the waters the strength of our foes! When we travelled the waste of the desert by day, With his banner-cloud's motion he marshalled our way; When we saw the tired sun in his glory expire, Before us he walked, in a pillar of lire ! But this morn, and the Israelites' strength was a reed, That shook with the thunder of chariot and steed : Where now are the swords and their far-flashing sweep ? Their lightnings are quenched in the depths of the deep. O thou, who redeemest the weak one at length, And scourgest the strong in the pride of their strength — 12* 138 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Who boldest the earth and the sea in thine hand, And rulest Eternity's shadowy land — To thee let our thoughts and our offerings tend, Of virtue the Hope, and of sorrow the Friend ; Let the incense of prayer still ascend to thy throne, Omnipotent — glorious — eternal — alone ! The Graves of the Patriots. — Percival. Here rest the great and good — here they repose After their generous toil. A sacred band, They take their sleep together, while the year Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves, And gathers them again, as Winter frowns. Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre ; green sods Are all their 'monument ; and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles, Or the eternal pyramids. They need No statue nor inscription to reveal Their greatness. It is round them ; and the joy With which their children tread the hallowed ground That holds their venerated bones, the peace That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth That clothes the land they rescued, — these, though mute, As feeling ever is when deepest, — these Are monuments more lasting than the fanes Reared to the kings and demigods of old. Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs There is a solemn darkness, even at noon, Suited to such as visit at the shrine Of serious Liberty. No factious voice Called them unto the field of generous fame, But the pure consecrated love of home. No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes In all its greatness. It has told itself To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, Where first our patriots sent the invader back Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. Their feelings were all nature, and thev need COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 139 No art to make them known. They live in us, While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts, And the one universal Lord. They need No column, pointing to the heaven they sought, To tell us of their home. The heart itself, Left to its own free purpose, hastens there, And there alone reposes. Let these elms Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves, And build, with their green roof, the only fane Where we may gather on the hallowed day, That rose to them in blood, and set in glory. Here let us meet, and, while our motionless lips Give not a sound, and all around is mute In the deep sabbath of a heart too full For words or tears, — here let us strew the sod With the first flowers of spring, and make to them An offering of the plenty Nature gives, And they have rendered ours — perpetually. Funeral Hymn. — Christian Examiner. He has gone to his God ; he has gone to his home, No more amid peril and error to roam ; His eyes are no longer dim ; His feet will no more falter ; No grief can follow him ; No pang his cheek can alter. There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below ; For our faith is faint, and our tears will now •, But the harps of heaven are ringing ; Glad angels come to greet him ; And hymns of joy are singing While old friends press to meet him. O honored, beloved, to earth unconfined, Thou hast soared on high ; thou hast left us behind. But our parting is not forever ; We will follow thee, by heaven's light, Where the grave cannot dissever The souls whom God will unite. 140 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yes, visions of his future rest To man, the pilgrim, here are shown; Deep love, pure friendship, thrill his breast, And hopes rush in of joys unknown. Released from earth's dull round of cares, The aspiring soul her vigor tries ; Plumes her soiled pinions, and prepares To soar amid ethereal skies. Around us float, in changing light, The dazzling forms ofdistant years ; And earth becomes a glorious sight, Beyond which opening heaven appears. We did not part as others part ; And should we meet on earth no more, Yet deep and dear, within my heart, Some thoughts will rest, a treasured store. How oft, when weary and alone, Have I recalled each word, each look, The meaning of each varying tone, And the last parting glance we took ! Yes, sometimes, even here, are found Those who can touch the chords of love, And wake a glad and holy sound, Like that which fills the courts above. It is as when a traveller hears* In a strange land, his native tongue, A voice he loved in happier years, A song that once his mother sung. We part; the sea will roll between, While we through different climates roam ; Sad days, a life may intervene ; But we shall meet again, — at home. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 141 To Laura, two Years of Age. — N. P. Willis. Bright be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow — Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now. Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words. I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout. I would that thou might'st ever be As beautiful as now, — That Time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow, — I would life were " all poetry," To gentle measure set, That nought but chastened melody Might stain thine eye of jet — Nor one discordant note be spoken, Till God the cunning harp hath broken. I would — but deeper things than these With woman's lot are wove, Wrought of intenser sympathies, And nerved by purer love. By the strong spirit's discipline, By the fierce wrong forgiven, By all that wrings the heart of sin, Is woman won to Heaven. " Her lot is on thee," lovely child — God keep thy spirit undefiled ! I fear thy gentle loveliness, Thy witching tone and air ; Thine eye's beseeching earnestness May be to thee a snare. The silver stars may purely shine, The waters taintless flow — But they who kneel at woman's shrine Breathe on it as they bow — 142 COMMOX-I'LACE HOOK OF POETRY. Ye may fling* back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain. What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? Keep thee as thou art now ? Bring thee, a spirit undented, At God's pure throne to bow ? The world is but a broken reed, And life grows early dim : Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up — to Him ? He, who himself was " undefiled :" With him we trust thee, beautiful child ! The dead Leaves strew the Forest-walk. — Brainard. The dead leaves strew the forest-walk, And withered are the pale wild-flowers ; The frost hangs blackening on the stalk, The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. Gone are the spring's green, sprouting bowers, Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, And autumn, with her yellow hours, On hill and plain no longer shines. I learned a clear and wild-toned note, That rose and swelled from yonder tree — A gay bird, with too sweet a throat, There perched, and raised her song for me/ The winter comes, and where is she ? Away where summer wings will rove, Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love. Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there ; The northern breeze, that rustles by, Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair ; No forest- tree stands stript and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain-top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 143 Go there with all the birds, — and seek A happier clime, with livelier flight; Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek; And leave me lonely with the night. Til gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone — See — that it all is fair and bright, Feel — that it all is cold and gone ! Seasojis of Prayer. — Henry Ware, Jr. To prayer, to prayer ; — for the morning breaks, And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all below and above, The light of gladness, and life, and love. O, then, on the breath of this early air, Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer ; — for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. To prayer ; — for the day that God has blessed Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom; It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. There are smiles and tears in the mother's eye3, For her new-born infant beside her lies. O, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows. Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand. What trying thougjbis in her bosom swell, As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! 144 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, And pray for his soul through him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow- CD, what is earth and its pleasures now ! And what shall assuage his dark despair, But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; There is peace in his eye that upwards bends ; There is peace in his calm, confiding air; For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer. The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. It commends the spirit to God who gave ; It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; It points to the glory where he shall reign, Who whispered, " Thy brother shall rise again." The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! But gladder, purer, than rose from this. The ransomed shout to their glorious King, Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing; But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength To join that holy band at length. To him who unceasing love displays, Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 145 Effect of the Ocean and its Scenery on the Mind of the Buccaneer when agitated with Remorse for his Crime. — Richard H. Dana. Who's yonder on that long, black ledge, Which makes so far into the sea ? See ! there he sits, and pulls the sedge — Poor, idle Matthew Lee ! So weak and pale ? A year and little more, And thou didst lord it bravely round this shore! And on the shingles now he sits, And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands ; Now walks the beach ; then stops by fits, And scores the smooth, wet sands ; Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds The isle ; then home from many weary rounds. They ask him why he wanders so, From day to day, the uneven strand ? — " I wish, I wish that I might go! But I would go by land ; And there's no way that I can find — I've tried All day and night!" — He looked towards sea, and sighed. It brought the tear to many an eye, That, once, his eye had made to quail. " Lee, go with us; our sloop rides nigh; Come ! help us hoist her sail." He shook. — " You know the spirit-horse I ride ! He'll let me on the sea with none beside !" Lie views the ships that come and go, Looking so like to living things. O ! 'tis a proud and gallant show Of bright and broad-spread wings Flinging a glory round them, as they keep Their course right onward through the unsounded deep. And where the far-off sand-bars lift Their backs in long and narrow line, The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, And send the sparkling brine 13 146 COMMON-PLACE BUUK OF POETRY- Into the air ; then rush to mimic strife : — Glad creatures of the sea ! How all seems life ! — But not to Lee. He sits alone ; No fellowship nor joy for him. Borne down by wo, he makes no moan, Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye. — 0, how his worn thoughts crave — Not joy again, but rest within the grave. The rocks are dripping in the mist That lies so heavy off the shore. Scarce seen the running breakers ; — list Their dull and smothered roar ! Lee hearkens to their voice. — " I hear, I hear You call. — Not yet! — I know my time is. near!" And now the mist seems taking shape, Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, — Enormous thing ! — There's no eseape ; 'Tis close upon the coast. Lee kneels, but cannot pray. — Why mock him so ? The ship has cleared the fog, Lee, see her go ! A sweet, low voice, in starry nights, Chants to his ear a plaining song. Its tones come winding up those heights, Telling of wo and wrong ; And he must listen, till the stars grow dim, The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. O, it is sad that aught so mild Should bind the soul with bands of fear ; That strains to soothe a little child The man should dread to hear ! But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace — unstrung The harmonious chords to which the angels sung. In thick, dark nights, he'd take his seat High up the cliffs, and feel them shake, As swung the sea with heavy beat Below — and hear it break With savage roar, then pause and gather strength. And, then, come tumbling in its swollen length. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 147 But thou no more shalt haunt the beach, Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown, Nor go the round of all that reach, Nor feebly sit thee down, Watching the swaying weeds : — another day, And thou'lt have gone far hence that dreadful way. The third and last Appearance of the Spectre Horse and the Burning Ship. — Richard H. Dana. To-night the charmed number's told. " Twice have I come for thee," it said. ** Once more, and none shall thee behold. Come ! live one, to the dead !" — So hears his soul, and fears the coming night; Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light. Again he sits within that room ; All day he leans at that still board ; None to bring comfort to his gloom, Or speak a friendly word. Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse, Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse. Not long he'll wait. — Where now are gone Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood Beautiful, while the west sun shone And bathed them in his flood Of airy glory ? — Sudden darkness fell ; And down they sank, peak, tower, and citadel. The darkness, like a dome of stone, Ceils up the heavens. — 'Tis hush as death — All but the ocean's dull, low moan. How hard Lee draws his breath ! He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, Lee ! up ; man thee for thine hour ! — 'Tis close at hand ; for there, once more, The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame And shafted fire she showed before ; Twice thus she hither came ; — 148 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws A wasting light; then, settling, down she goes. And where she sank, up slowly came The Spectre-Horse from out the sea. And there he stands ! His pale sides flame. He'll meet thee shortly, Lee. He treads the waters as a solid floor : He's moving on. Lee waits him at the dooi\ They've met. — " I know thou com'st for me," Lee's spirit to the spectre said — " I know that I must go with thee — Take me not to the dead. It was not I alone that did the deed!" Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral steed ! Lee cannot turn. There is a force In that fixed eye, which holds him fast. How still they stand! — that man and horse. — "Thine hour is almost past." " 0, spare me," cries the wretch, " thou fearful one !" — " My time is full — I must not go alone." " I'm weak and faint. 0, let me stay !" — " Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee !" The horse and man are on their way ; He bears him to the sea. Hark! how the spectre breathes through this still night! See ! from his nostrils streams a deathly light !. He's on the beach ; but stops not there. He's on the sea ! — Lee, quit the horse ! Lee struggles hard. — 'Tis mad despair! — 'Tis vain ! The spirit-corse Holds him by fearful spell ; — he cannot leap. Within that horrid light he rides the deep. It lights the sea around their track — The curling comb, and dark steel wave : There, yet, sits Lee the spectre's back — Gone ! gone ! and none to save ! They're seen no more ; the night has shut them in. May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin! COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF POKTRY. 149 The earth has washed away its stain. The sealed up sky is breaking forth, Mustering its glorious hosts again From the far south and north. The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. — O, wrhither on its waters rideth Lee ? God's first Temples. A Hymn. — Bryant. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, — in the darkling w^ood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless Power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why Should wre, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ! Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 13* 150 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride ; — no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summits of these trees In music ; — thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt ; — the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship ; — nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly 'forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated — not a prince, In all the proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal, of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me, when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die : but sec, again, COMMON-PLACE DOOK OF POETRY. 151 How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; — and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities ; — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face, Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And, to the beautiful order of thy works, Learn to conform the order of our lives. 16'Z COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Scene from Hadad* — Hillhouse. An apartment in Absalom's house. Nathan and Tamar. Nathan. Thou'rt left to-day, (would thou wert ever left Of some that haunt thee !) therefore am I come To give thee counsel. — Child of sainted Miriam, Fear not to look upon me ; thou wilt hear The gentle voice of love, not stern monition. Commune with me as with a tender parent, Who cares for all thy wishes, hopes, and fears, Though prizing thy immortal gem above The transitory. Tamar. Have I not thus, ever ? JVath. But I would probe the tenderest of thy heart, Touch its disease, and give it strength again, And yet inflict no pain. Tarn. What nieans my lord ? JVath. 1 know thee pure, and guileless as the dove ; The easier prey ; and thou art fair, to tempt The spoiler — nay, be not alarmed, but speak Openly to me. I would ask thee, princess, If not displeasing, somewhat of the stranger, The Syrian, who aspires to David's line. Tarn, (averting her eyes.) If I can answer JVath. Maiden, need I ask, — I fear I need not, — is he dear to thee ? 'Tis well. But tell me, hast thou ever noted, Amidst his many shining qualities, Aught strange or singular ? — unlike to others ? — That caused thy wonder ? — even to thyself, Moved thee to say, How ! Wherefore's this ? Tarn. Never. JVath. Nothing that marked him from the rest of men? — Hereafter you shall know why thus I question. Tarn. O yes, unlike he seems in many things ; In knowledge, eloquence, high thoughts. JVath. Proud thoughts Thou mean'st. Tarn. I'm but a young and simple maid; But, father, he, of all my ears have judged, Is master of the loftiest, richest mind. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 153 JVath. How have I wronged him ! deeming him more apt For intricate designs, and daring deeds, Than contemplation's solitary flights. Tarn. Seer, his far-soaring thoughts ascend the stars, Pierce the unseen abyss, pervade, like light, The universe, and wing the infinite. JVath. {fixing his eyes upon her.) What stores of love, and praise, and gratitude, He thence must bring to Him, whose mighty hand Fashioned their glories, hung yon golden orbs Amidst his wondrous firmament ; who bids The day-spring know his place, and sheds from all Sweet influences ; who bars the haughty sea, Binds fast his dreadful hail, but drops the dew Nightly upon his people ! How his soul, Returning from its quest through earth and heaven, Must glow with holy fervor ! — Doth it, maiden ? Tarn. Ah, father, father ! were it so indeed, I were too happy. JVath. How ! — expound thy words. Tarn. Though he has trod the confines of the world, Knows all its wonders, and almost has pierced The secrets of eternity, his heart Is melancholy, lone, discordant, save When love attunes it into happiness. He hath not found, alas i the peace which dwells But with our fathers' God. JVath. And canst thou love One who loves not Jehovah ? Tarn. O, ask not. jXath. (fervently.) My child, thou wouldst not wed an infidel ? Tarn, (in tears.) 0 no ! 0 no ! J\rath. Why, then, this embassage ? Why doth your sire Still urge the king ? Why hast thou hearkened it? Tarn. There was a time when I had hopes, — when truth Seemed dawning in his mind — and sometimes, still, Such heavenly glimpses shine, that my fond heart Refuses to forego the hope, at last, To number him with Israel. JVath. Beware ! Or thou'lt delude thy soul to ruin. Say, Doth he attend our holy ordinances ? Tarn. He promises observance. 154 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. JVath. Two full years Hath he abode in Jewry. Tarn. Prophet, think How he was nurtured — in the faith of idols. — That impious worship long since he abjured By his own native strength ; and now he looks Abroad through nature's works, and yet must rise — JVath. Speaks he of Moses ? Tarn. Familiar as thyself. JVath. I think thou said'st he had surveyed the world ? Tain. From Ethiopia to the farthest East, Cities, and tribes, and nations. He can speak Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon, And mightier Nineveh, vast Palibothra, Serendib anchored by the gates of morning, Renowned Benares, where the sages teach The mystery of the soul, and that famed seat Where fleets and warriors from Elishah's Isles Besieged the Beauty, where great Memnon fell ; — Of temples, groves, and superstitious caves Filled with strange symbols of the Deity ; Of wondrous mountains, desert-circled seas, Isles of the ocean, lovely Paradises, Set, like unfading emeralds, in the deep. . JVath. Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. Tarn. All this His thirst of knowledge has achieved ; the wish To gather from the wise eternal truth. JVath. Not found where he has sought it, and has led Thy wandering fancy. Tarn. O, might I relate — But I bethink me, father, of a thing Like that you asked. Sometimes, when I'm alone, Just ere his coming, I have heard a sound, A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound, Like music in the air. Anon he enters. JVath. Ha! is this oft ? Tarn. 'Tis not unfrcquent. JVath. Only When thou'rt alone ? Tarn. I have not heard it else. JVath. A sound like what? Tarn. Like wild, sad music, father ; More moving than the lute or viol touched COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 155 By skilful fingers. Wailing in the air, It seems around me, and withdraws as when One looks and lingers for a last adieu. JVath. Just ere he enters? Tarn. At his step it dies. Nath. Mark me. — Thou know'st 'tis held by righteous men, That Heaven intrusts us all to watching spirits, Who ward us from the tempter. — This I deem Some intimation of an unseen danger. Tarn. But whence ? JVath. Time may reveal : meanwhile, I warn thee, Trust not thyself alone with Hadad. Tarn. Father,— J\"ath. I lay not to his charge ; I know, in sooth, Little of him, (though I have supplicated,) And will not wound thee with a dark suspicion But shun the peril thou art warned of; shun What looks like danger, though we haply err : Be not alone with him, I charge thee. Tarn. Seer, I will avoid it. JVath. All is ominous : The oracles are mute, dreams warn no more, Urim and Thummiin keep their glory hid ; My days are dark, my nights are visionless ; Jehovah hath forsaken, or, in wrath, Resigned us for a season. Times like these Are jubilee in hell. Fiends walk the earth, Misleading princes, tempting poor men's pillows, Supplying moody hatred with the dagger, Lust with occasions, treason with excuses, Lifting man's heart, like the rebellious waves, Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble ; So may the Highest overshadow thee ! [Exit JVath.'] Tam. His awful accents freeze my blood. — Alas ! How desolate, how dark my prospect lowers ! — O Hadad, is it thus those sunny days, Those sweet deceptive hopes, must terminate, When, mixing in thy gentle looks, I saw Love blend with reverence, as my lips described The power, the patience, purity, and faith Of our Almighty Father ? Then, I thought Thy spirit, softened by its earthly passion, 156 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POr/iil* Meetly refined, and tempered, to receive The impression of a love which never dies. How art thou changed ! All tenderness you seemed, Gentle and social as a playful child ; But now, in lofty meditation wrapped. As on an icy mountain-top thou sit'st Lonely and unapproachable, or tossest Upon the surge of passion, like the wreck Of some proud Tynan in the stormy sea. Extract from u The Airs of Palestine.'''1 — Pierpo:vt. On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Yallombrosa throws, Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, Alone, — at night, — the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen: — he sees her image, on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest Around his brow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering, dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rests her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen! How dark the mountain's shade ! How still the scene ! Hushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir. Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver. Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river. Hark ! — 'tis a convent's bell : — its midnight chime : For music measures even the march of time : — O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise : — the eye can catch no more. •The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar ; — a low and solemn swell, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. What melting song wakes the cold ear of night ? A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TOETRY. 157 Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, To charm the parting spirit of the dead. Triumphant is the spell ! With raptured ear, That uncaged spirit, hovering, lingers near: — Why should she mount ? why pant for brighter bliss, A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this ? The Falls of Niagara. — Braijcward. The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from his " hollow hand," And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him, Who dwelt ;»n Patmos for his Saviour's sake, " The sounl of many waters ;" and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks. Deep caHeth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime ? O, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! Yea, what is all the riot man can make, In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. At Musing Hour. — Thomas Wells A r musing hour of twilight gray, When silence reigns around, I love to walk the churchyard way : To me 'tis holy ground. To me, congenial is the place Where yew and cypress grow ; I love the moss-grown stone to trace, That tells who lies below. 14 158 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And, as the lonely spot I pass Where weary ones repose, I think, like them, how soon, alas ' My pilgrimage will close. Like them, I think, when I am gone, And soundly sleep as they, Alike unnoticed and unknown Shall pass my name away. Yet, ah ! — and let me lightly tread ! — She sleeps beneath this stone, That would have soothed my dying bed, And wept for me when gone ! Her image 'tis — to memory dear— That clings around my heart, And makes me fondly linger here, Unwilling to, depart. Evergreens. — Pinkney. When summer's sunny hues adorn Sky, forest, hill and meadow, The foliage of the evergreens, In contrast, seems a shadow. But when the tints of autumn have Their sober reign asserted, The landscape that cold shadow shows Into a light converted. Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth Will smile upon our sorrow, And many dark fears of to-day May be bright hopes to-morrow. The Flower Spirit. — Anonymous. I am the spirit that dwells in the flower ; Mine is the exquisite music that flies, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 159 When silence and moonlight reign over each bower, That blooms in the glory of tropical skies. I woo the bird with his melody glowing To leap in the sunshine, and warble its strain, And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing, The songster is paid for his music again. There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding ; Care is a stranger, and troubles us not ; And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding, I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot. They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces, They drink our warm breath, rich with odor and song, Then hurry away to their desolate places, And look for us hourly, and think of us long. Who of the dull earth that's moving around us, Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose, At the opening of spring, our destiny found us A prisoner until the first bud should unclose ; Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us, Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air, And leap offin joy to the music that won us, And made us the tenants of climates so fair ! " Man giveth up the Ghost, and where is he?"- Christian Examiner. I stand among the dark-gray stones ; No living thing is near ; Beneath me are the mouldering bones Of those who once were here. And here, perhaps, they mused like me, And heard the grave declare, On every side, its victory, And saw how frail they were. Like me, they felt that sense is nought, That passion is a dream, That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught, Must sink beneath the stream. 160 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yet sense and passion held them slaves, And lashed them to the oar, Till they were wrecked upon their graves, And then they rose no more ! Perhaps, like them, I, too, shall go, Nor heed my coming doom, And every trace of me below Be swept into the tomb. And yet I would not live in vain, By earthly pleasures cloyed, Or render back to God again My talent unemployed. 0 God of mercy, make me know The gift which thou hast given, Nor let me idly spend it so, But make it fit for heaven ! Woods in Winter. — Longfellow. When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That over-brows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ; Whilst in the frozen fountain — hark ! — His piercing beak the bittern dips. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, — The crystal icicle is hung. COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 161 Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay ; And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day ! But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear Has grown familiar with your song ; I hear it in the opening year — I listen, and it cheers me long. A Last Wish. — Anonymous. When breath and sense have left this clay, In yon damp vault, O, lay me not ! But kindly bear my bones away To some lone, green, and sunny spot ; Where few shall be the feet that tread, With reckless haste, upon my grave ; And gently, o'er my last, still bed, To whispering winds, the grass shall wave. The wild flowers, too, I loved so well, Shall blow, and breathe their sweetness there. And all around my grave shall tell, " She felt that nature's face was fair." And those that come because they loved The mouldering frame that lies below, Shall find their anguish half removed, While that sweet spot shall soothe their wo. The notes of happy birds alone Shall there disturb the silent air; And when the cheerful sun goes down, His beams shall linger longest there. And if, — when soft night breezes wake, 14* 162 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Roving among the sleeping flowers, When dews their airy home forsake, To rest till morn in earthly bowers, — If, then, some dearer friend than all Steal to my grave to weep awhile, And happier hours awhile recall, And bid fond memory beguile The tediousness of cherished grief — Faintly descried — a fading ray — My passing ghost shall breathe relief, And whisper — " Lingerer, come away !" The Winged Worshippers. — Charles Sprague. Gay, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend r Can your pure spirits fear - The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep . Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 163 Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'Twere heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed, And nature's own great God adore. Death of an Infant. — Mrs. Sigourney. Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip ; — he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, — a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow, — Death gazed, and left it there ;— he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven. Burns. — F. G. Halleck. The memory of Burns — a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory — be the rest Forgot — she's canonized his mind ; And it is joy to speak the best We may of human kind. 164 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath, A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument — that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that bard-peasant given. ******** There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires. Yet read the names that know not death, — Few nobler ones than Burns are there, And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; * And his, that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. ******** What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or " Auld lang Syne" is sung ! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of jTouth, and truth, and love, With " Logan's" banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 165 Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. Praise to the bard ! — His words are driven, Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven; The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man ! — A nation stood Beside his coffin with wet eyes, Her brave, her beautiful, her good, As when a loved one dies. And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, With the mute homr.ge that we pay To consecrated gf ound. And consecrated ground it is, The last, the half owed home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with th<; buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined, — The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind. Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors, with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour ; And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, — Are there— o'er wave and mountain come, From countries near and far ; Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, Or trod the piled leaves of the West, M7 own green forest-land, 166 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, And gather feelings not of earth His fields and streams among. They linger by the Doon's low trees, And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! The poet's tomb is there. But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns ? Wear they not, graven on the heart, The name of Robert Burns ? Mary Magdalen. — Bryant. From the Spanish of Bartolome Leonardo de Argensola. Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, In wonder and in scorn ! Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move The Lord to pity and love. The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel down to him who came from heaven, Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise Holy, and pure, and wise. It is not much, that to the fragrant blossom The ragged brier should change, the bitter fir Distil Arabian myrrh ; Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home the abundant grain. But come and see the bleak and barren mountains Thick to their tops with roses ; come and see Leaves on the dry, dead tree : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 1G7 The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies. Be humble. — Jones. Triumph not, frail man ; thou art Too weak a thing to boast ; Thou hast a sad and foolish heart ; Misdeeds are all thou dost. Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence ; Thou sinn'st e'en where thou want'st pretence. Triumph not, though nothing warns Of vigor waning fast ; Remember roses fade, but thorns Survive the wintry blast. A pleasant morn, a sultry noon, Foretell the tempest rising soon. Triumph not, though fortune sends The riches of the mine ; If then thou countest many friends, It is good luck of thine. But triumph not : that gold may go ; And friends will fly in hour of wo. And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek, And woo a tender eye : But triumph not : a single week, And cold those lips may lie, — Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove, And leave thee, for another love. But triumph, if thy soul feels firm In faith, and leans on God ; If wo bids flourish love's warm germ, And thou can'st kiss the rod ; Then triumph, man ; for this alone Is cause for an exulting tone. 168 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Sabbath Evening Twilight. — Anonymou? Delightful hour of sweet repose, Of hallowed thoughts, of love, of prayer ! I love thy deep and tranquil close, For all the Sabbath day is there. Each pure desire, each high request That burned before the temple shrine, — The hopes, the fears, that moved the breast, — All live again in light like thine. I love thee for the fervid glow Thou shed'st around the closing day, — Those golden fires, those wreaths of snow, That light and pave his glorious way ! Through them, I've sometimes thought, the eye May pierce the unmeasured deeps of space, And track the course where spirits fly, On viewless wings, to realms of bliss. I love thee for the unbroken calm, That slumbers on this fading scene, And throws its kind and soothing charm O'er " all the little world within." It trances every roving thought, Yet sets the soaring fancy free, — Shuts from the soul the present out, That all is musing memory. I love those joyous memories, That rush, with thee, upon the soul, — Those deep, unuttered symphonies, That o'er the spell-bound spirit roll. All the bright scenes of love and youth Revive, as if they had not fled ; And Fancy clothes with seeming truth The forms she rescues from the dead. Yet holier is thy peaceful close, For vows love left recorded there ; — Thi3 is the noiseless hour we chose To consecrate to mutual prayer. 'Twas when misfortune's fearful cloud Was gathering o'er the brow of heaven, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 169 Ere yet despair's eternal shroud Wrapped every vision hope had given. When these deep purpling; shades came down, In softened tints, upon the hills, We swore, that, whether fate should crown Our future course with joys or ills, — Whether safe moored in love's retreat, Or severed wide by mount and sea, — This hour, in spirit, we would meet, And urge to Heaven our mutual plea. 0, tell me if this hallowed hour Still finds thee constant at our shrine, Still witnesses thy fervent prayer Ascending warm and true with mine ! Faithful through every change of wo, My heart still flies to meet thee there : 'Twould soothe this weary heart to know That thine responded every prayer. The Burial of Arnold*— -N. P. Willis. Ye've gathered to your place of prayer With slow and measured tread : Your ranks are full, your mates all there — But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all ; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye around his pall ? Ye reckon it in days, since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously, And his lip wreathed with a smile. 0, had it been but told you, then, To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, Would ye have singled him ? * A member of the senior class in Yale College. 15 ! 1 170 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung Defiance to the ring ? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — Yet not for glorying ? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not ? There lies he — go and look ! On now — his requiem is done, The last deep prayer is said — On to his burial, comrades — on, With the noblest of the dead I Slow — for it presses heavily — It is a man ye bear ! Slow for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noble sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades! — we have laid His dark locks on his brow — Like life — save deeper light and shade : We'll not disturb them now. Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, That blue-veined eye-lid's- sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull — Its slumber we will keep. Rest now ! — his journeying is done — Your feet are on his sod — Death's chain is on your champion — He waiteth here his God ! Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness To be heart-broken here — For the grave of earth's best nobleness Is watered by the tear. Lines to a Child on his Voyage to France, to meet his Father. — He>ry Ware, Jr. Lo, how impatiently upon the tide The proud ship tosses, eager to be free ! Her flag streams wildly, and her fluttering sails Pant to be on their flight. A few hours more, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 171 And she will move, in stately grandeur, on, Cleaving her path majestic through the flood, As if she were a goddess of the deep. O, 'tis a thought sublime, that man can force A path upon the waste, can find a way Where all is trackless, and compel the winds, Those freest agents of almighty Power, To lend their untamed wings, and bear him on To distant climes. Thou, William, still art young, And dost not see the wonder. Thou wilt tread The buoyant deck, and look upon the flood, Unconscious of the high sublimity, As 'twere a common thing — thy soul nnawed, Thy childish sports unchecked ; while thinking man Shrinks back into himself, — himself so mean 'Mid things so vast, — and, rapt in deepest awe, Bends to the might of that mysterious Power, Who holds the waters in his hand, and guides The ungovernable winds. 'Tis not in man To look unmoved upon that heaving waste, Which, from horizon to horizon spread, Meets the o'er-arching heavens on every side, Blending their hues in distant faintness there. 'Tis wonderful ! — and yet, my boy, just such Is life. Life is asea as fathomless, As wide, as terrible, and yet, sometimes, As calm and beautiful. The light of heaven Smiles on it, and 'tis decked with every hue Of glory and of joy. Anon, dark clouds Arise, contending winds of fate go forth, And Hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck. And thou must sail upon this sea, a long, Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck, The foolish must. 0, then, be early wise ; Learn from the mariner his skilful art To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze, And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path, 'Mid countless dangers, to the destined port Unerringly secure. O, learn from him To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm, To guard thyself from Passion's sudden blasts, And make Religion thy magnetic guide, 172 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Which, though it tremhles as it lowly lies, Points to the light that changes not, in heaven. Farewell ! Heaven smile propitious on thy course, And favoring breezes waft thee to the arms Of love paternal. Yes, and more than this — Blessed be thy passage o'er the changing sea Of life ; the clouds be few that intercept The light of joy ; the waves roll gently on Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe To meet in peace thine other Father — God. New England. — J. G. Percival. Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast ; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed, A fearless host : No slave is here ; our unchained feet Walk freely as the waves that beat Our coast. Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this shore ; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave ; — With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled ; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar. Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height, And, fearless, stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the nireling brood, In desperate fight ! O, 'twas a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 173 There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore ; Thou art the shelter of the free ; The home, the port of Liberty, Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon My land, shall mother curse the son She bore. Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, On which we rest ; And, rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And Slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed : All, who the wreath of Freedom twine Beneath the shadow of their vine, Are blessed. We love thy rude and rocky shore, And here we stand — Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land ; They still shall find our lives are given To die for home ; — and leant on Heaven Our hand. The Damsel of Peru. — Bryant. Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat, beneath the pleasant shade, a damsel of Peru : Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, Came glimpses of her snowy arm and oi her glossy hair ; And sweetly rang her silver voice amid that shady nook, As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook. 'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of Old Castile was sung, 15* 174 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout "below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his bride, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed. A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north ; — Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden ; the sharpest sight would fail 'To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills and forest tops seem reeling in the heat. That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone ; But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, — Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low, — A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave. But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride ; See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side ; His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein ; There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the mane; He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill : God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill. And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear A shriek sent up amid the shade — a shriek — but not of fear ; For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak : " I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 175 Power of Maternal Piety. — Mrs. Sigourney. " When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations •, but when I would have yielded, that same hand teas upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed, — {0, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.' " Why gaze ye on my hoary hairs, Ye children, young and gay ? Your locks, beneath the blast of cares, Will bleach as white as they. I had a mother once, like you, Who o'er my pillow hung, Kissed from my cheek the briny dew, And taught my faltering tongue. She, when the nightly couch was spread, Would bow my infant knee, And place her hand upon my head, And, kneeling, pray for me. But, then, there came a fearful day ; I sought my mother's bed, Till harsh hands tore me thence away, And told me she was dead. I plucked a fair white rose, and stole To lay it by her side, Ana* thought strange sleep enchained her soul, For no fond voice replied. That eve, I knelt me down in wo, And said a lonely prayer ; Yet still my temples seemed to glow As if that hand were there. Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, Gay sports and pastimes dear; I rose a wild and wayward boy, Who scorned the curb of fear. 176 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Fierce passions shook me like a reed ; Yet, ere at night I slept, That soft hand made my bosom bleed And down I fell, and wept. Youth came — the props of virtue reeled ; But oft, at day's decline, A marble touch my brow congealed — Blessed mother, was it thine ? — In foreign lands I travelled wide, My pulse was bounding high, Vice spread her meshes at my side, And pleasure lured-my eye ; — Yet still tliat hand, so soft and cold, Maintained its mystic sway, As when, amid my curls of gold, With gentle force it lay. And with it breathed a voice of care, As from the lowly sod, " My son — my only one — beware ! Nor sin against thy God." Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole My kindly warmth away, And dimmed the tablet of the soul ; — Yet when, with lordly sway, This brow the plumed helm displayed, That guides the warrior throng, Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed These manly locks among, — That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot! — And now, though time hath set His frosty seal upon my lot, These temples feel it yet. And if I e'er in heaven appear, A mother's holy prayer, A mother's hand, and gentle tear, That pointed to a Savior dear, Have led the wanderer there. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 177 Niagara. — U. States Review and Literary Gazette. From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredia. Tremendous torrent ! for an instant hush The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes May see the fearful beauty of thy face. I am not all unworthy of thy sight; For, from my very boyhood, have I loved, — Shunning the meaner track of common minds, — To look on Nature in her loftier moods. At the rierce rushing of the hurricane, At the near bursting of the thunderbolt, I have been touched with joy; and, when the sea, Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved Its dangers and the wrath of elements. But never yet the madness of the sea Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now. Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves Grow broken 'midst the rocks ; thy current, then, Shoots onward, like the irresistible course Of destiny. Ah! terribly they rage — The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My brain Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight Vainly would follow, as toward the verge Sweeps the wide torrent : waves innumerable Meet there and madden ; waves innumerable Urge on, and overtake the waves before, And disappear in thunder and in foam. They reach — they leap the barrier : the abyss Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves. A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock Shatters to vapor the descending sheets : A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves The mighty pyramid of circling mist To heaven. The solitary hunter, near, Pauses with terror in the forest shades. ****** God of all truth ! in other lands I've seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw 173 COMMOX-I'LACE BOOK OF POETRY. Their fellows deep into impiety ; And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here My heart doth open all itself to thee. In this immensity of loneliness, I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear The eternal thunder of the cataract brings Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. Dread torrent ! that, with wonder and with fear, Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, Whence hast thou thy beginning ? Who supplies, Age after age, thy unexhausted springs ? What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight Descends into the deep, the swollen waves Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth ? The Lord hath opened