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THE 
 
 POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 WITH OCCASIONAL NOTES. 
 
 BY GEORGE B't'CHEEVER. 
 
 * - ' J T • J ■> 
 
 HARTFORD: 
 SILAS ANDRUS AND SON. 
 
 1847. 
 

 ^.5| \Z 
 
 '0% 
 
 ■ ' r J .' 
 
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 
 ^rom American poetry might be attended with the same 
 success. It is true, that there are more good prose wiiters 
 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 
 <livir,e." and containing, throughout, the true power and 
 s])irit of harmony ; but every lover of poetry will find 
 much to dehght a cultivated imagination, and much to 
 vset him on thinking ; and every rehgious mind will be 
 pleased that a volume of American poetiy, so variously 
 selected, presents so many pages imbued with the feelings 
 of devotion. If all the extracts are not of sufiicient 
 excellence to excite vivid admiration, most of tliem are 
 ef the kind that meet us 
 
 Like a pleasant thought, 
 When 8uch are wanted 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 They are generally simple and unpretending in omamenf^ 
 quiet and unambitious in their spirit. 
 
 The poetry of devotion is the rarest of all poetry. It 
 is sad to tliink how few, of all the poet^ in the English 
 language, ha/e 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 rehgion, 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 
 spuit — the spirit of the Bible. What b( ?om, 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 
 pietyyshe finds herself adorned and enriched (in another 
 
 (h 
 
PREFACE. 5 
 
 sense tlian Virgil's) with a beauty and a wealth that 
 are not her own : 
 
 Miraturque novos fructus, et non sua poma. 
 
 All the pieces in tliis volume are of the purest moral 
 character *. and, considering its limits, and the comparative 
 scantiness of American poetry, a good number of them 
 <3ontain, in an uncommon degree, the religious and 
 poetical spirit united. The importance of havmg 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 hosv 
 much good a volume Hke this may accomplish, if an 
 editor keeps such a pui-pose in view. A thought upon 
 death and eternity may be rendered acceptable, through 
 the medium of poetiy, 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 aiyl 
 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, " Ms wonders 
 to perform," and whose spnit 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 ^ 
 
b PREFACE. 
 
 Many of the finest pieces in this volume have been 
 drawn out from comers 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, thai 
 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 witli 
 a simpler and more affecting beauty than Biyaiit. 
 None could draw an American landscape in truer 
 colors, and throw more endearingly around it the 
 charm of moral and devout reflection, than Wilcox. In 
 the bold dehneation of external scenery, and in painting 
 human passion, philosophy, rehgion, and the domestic 
 affections, none have displayed a more powerful fancy, 
 or a deeper pathos of feeling, than Dana. Few have 
 v^a•itten nobler odes than Pierpont. Bums 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 poetiy 
 at once individualizes their genius in the mind ; but it is 
 mmecessary. May the volume, thus selected, please an 1 
 do good* 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 A Sacred Melody Anonymous 17 
 
 Active Christian Benevolence the Source of Happiness. Carlos Wilcox 17 
 
 Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood Bryant li» 
 
 Tlie 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 Mana Davidson 25 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness JST. P, Willis 27 
 
 Return of the Buccaneer < R. H, Dana 30 
 
 Appearance of the Spectre Horse and the Burning Ship. R. H. Dana 31 
 
 Tiie Death of the Flowers Bryant 35 
 
 The Skies Bryant 36 
 
 From " The Minstrel Girl." J, O, Whittier 37 
 
 " Weep for yourselves, and for your Children." . . Mrs. Sigourney 38 
 
 The sudden coming on of Spring after long Rains. • Carlos Wilcox 39 
 
 Slavery • Carlos Wilcox 41 
 
 Hymn for the African Colonization Society, . ... Pi'erpont. 42 
 
 Dedication Hjmn. ....•.•• ..... Pierpont, 43 
 
 Evening Music of the Angels Hillhov^e 14 
 
 Vernal Melody in the Forest. ....... Carlos Wilcox. 45 
 
 Close of the Vision of Judgment Hillhouss. 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. O. 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. 55 
 
 *^ And fare thee well, my own green, c^uiet Vale." .... Dana. 56 
 
 Sonnet. The Free Mind W. L, Ganison. 57 
 
 Marco Bozzaris F. G. Halleck. 58 
 
 Weohawken F. G. Halleck. 60 
 
 On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument. Pierpont. 61 
 
8 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Rviusseau and Cowper . . , . Carlos Wilcox. Gl 
 
 To the Dead . Brainard. 63 
 
 The Deep . Brainard. 64 
 
 Scene after a Summer Shower Andrews JSTorton. 65 
 
 The Child's Wish in June Mrs. Oilman. 66 
 
 From '« The Minstrel Girl." J. Q. Whittier. 65 
 
 Description of a sultry Summer's Noon Carlos Wilcox. 63 
 
 The Dying Child Christian Examiner. 70 
 
 Looking unto Jesus Christian Examiner. 71 
 
 Scene from Hadad Hillhouse. 72 
 
 Roman Catholic Chaunt. From " Percy's Masque." . Hillhouse. 76 
 
 Song ... From the Talisman. 77 
 
 September Carlos Wilcox. 77 
 
 (3n the Loss of Professor Fisher Brainard. 78 
 
 Idle Words Anonymous. 79 
 
 ** He knoweth our Frame, He reraembereth we are Dust." R. H. Dana. 80 
 
 Immortality R. H. Dana. 80 
 
 The mysterious Music of Ocean. . . . Walshes JVational Gazette. 82 
 
 Summer Wind. ... Bryant. S^ 
 
 Summer Evening Lightning Carlos Wilcox. 8'. 
 
 Spring JV. P. Willis. 85 
 
 To Seneca Lake Percival. 85 
 
 Mount Washington , N. H G. Mellen. 86 
 
 To the Dying Year J, Q. 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 Departt«re of the Senior Class of 
 
 Yale College, in 1826. ; JST. 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 
 
 Sonnet 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. 9 
 
 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 Bralnard. 109 
 
 From " The Minstrel Girl." J. G. Whittier. 110 
 
 7'he Torn Hat JV. P. Willis. Ill 
 
 " The Memory of the Just is blessed." .... Mrs. Sigourney. 112 
 
 The Wife JNT. F. Daily Advertiser. 113 
 
 Song of the Stars Bryant. 114 
 
 Summer Evening at a short Distance from the City. . Jllonzo Lewis. 115 
 Jntroduction to the Poem of " Yamoyden." . . . Robert C. Sands. 116 
 
 Dawn JV. P. Willis. 119 
 
 The Restoration of Israel J. W. Eastburn. 120 
 
 The Buried Love Rufus Dawes. 121 
 
 The Missionary. . W. B. Tappan. 12.3 
 
 Missions J\l7'S. 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 
 
 Bisiiop Ravenscroft G. W. Doanc. 128 
 
 The Life of God in the Soul of Man R. H. Dana. 130 
 
 To Pneuma J. W. Eastburn. 133 
 
 To a Star Lucretia Maria Davidson. 134 
 
 Thanatopsis • Bryant. 135 
 
 Sacred Melody JV. F. Ameiican. 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. 1^ 
 
 Reasons 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 li. 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." Hill hou^e. 152 
 
 Extract from " The Airs of Palestine." Pierpont. 155 
 
 The Falls of Niagara Brainard. 157 
 
 At Musing Hour T. Wells. 15? 
 
 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 Tiast Wish. Anonymous. 161 
 
iO TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Fa?6 
 
 The Winged Wccshippers Charles Sprague. 162 
 
 Death of an Infan", Mrs. Slgourney. 163 
 
 Burns F. O. Halleck. 163 
 
 Mary Magdalen. Fiom the Spanish Bryant. i6G 
 
 Be Humble Jones. 167 
 
 Sabbath Evening Twilight Anonymous. 168 
 
 Tho Burial of Arnold . JST. P. Willis. W} 
 
 Lines to a Child on his Voyage to France, &c. . . Henry Ware, Jr. MQ 
 
 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. 177 
 
 Absalom J^. P. Willis. 178 
 
 Hymn of Nature. . W. 0. B. Peabody. 181 
 
 The Garden of Gethsemane • Pierijont. 183 
 
 Trust in God Percival. 183 
 
 Heaven Christian Examiner. 184 
 
 Geehale. An Indian Lament Anonymous. 185 
 
 Scene from "Percy's Masque." Hillhouse. 186 
 
 To S****, weeping . . Jlvnnymous 191 
 
 Autumn , Longfellow. 193 
 
 The Bucket ^aniuel Woodworth. 194 
 
 The Snow-Flake Hannah F. Qould. 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. , O. Mellen. 200 
 To the Hon. Theodore Frelinghuysen, on reading his eloquent Speech 
 
 in Defence of Indian Rights . W. L. Oarrlson. 291 
 
 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. JSTeal. 209 
 Lines 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 Jr. 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. 'H.H 
 The Land of the Blest W. 0. B. Peabody. Qi^ 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 11 
 
 Page. 
 
 To the Moon Massachusetts Spy. 210 
 
 Song. ... .■ From Yamoyden, 217 
 
 The Light of Home Mrs. Hale. 218 
 
 The American Flag F. O. Hallcck. 218 
 
 To the Ursa Major. . Henry Ware, Jr. 220 
 
 ' Look not upon the Wine when it is red." .... J\r. P. Willis. 224 
 
 To ****, on the Death of a Friend Andrews A'^orton. 225 
 
 Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth Edward Everett. 225 
 
 Apostrophe to the Sun Percival. 228 
 
 *' I thought it slept." .... .... Henry Pickering. 230 
 
 The Snow-Storm Anonymous. 231 
 
 *' I went and washed, and I received sight." JVfew York Evening Post. 232 
 
 The Hnma Louisa P. Smth. 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. 246 
 
 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. 25G 
 
 To the Moon Walsh'*s JSTational Gazette. 251 
 
 My native Land — My nativa Place Anonymous. 252 
 
 " Awake^ Psaltery and Harp ; I myself will awake etivly.'" Anonymous. 253 
 
 Isaiah xxxv Brainard. 254 
 
 On listening to a Cricket Andrews JSTorton. 255 
 
 March Bryant. 255 
 
 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 J^orton. 269 
 
 Redemption W. B. Tappan. 269 
 
 On the Close of the Year . . Christian Examiner. ^1^ 
 
 Haturday Afternoon, , , ^N'. P. Wdlis. 271 
 
12 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Fags. 
 
 Fall of Tecumseh J^ew York Statesman. 27? 
 
 Tbe Missionaries' Farewell. . Anonyvious. 274 
 
 Mozaris Requiem Ruf us Dawes. 275 
 
 " I will be glad in the Lord." P&alm civ. 34 Anonymous. 21 Q 
 
 To the Memory of a Brother. . . Anonymous. 277 
 
 A Home everywhere S. Graham. 278 
 
 The Time to Weep Anonymous. 280 
 
 The Autumn Evening W. 0. B. Pcabody. ^Sl 
 
 Lines on revisiting the Country Bryant. 282 
 
 The Spirit's Song of Consolation. ... F. W. P. Greenwood. 283 
 
 Colonization of Africa Brainard. 284 
 
 fabib of the Wood Rose and the Laurel. . . Monthly Anthology. '2&A 
 
 A Castle in the Air Professor Frisbie. 286 
 
 The Consumptive ... Rockingham, Gazette. 288 
 
 Lines to the Western Mummy. W. E. Gallaudet. 289 
 
 Song Anonymous. 2'jI 
 
 The Life of the Blessed. From the Spanish Bryant. 0.91 
 
 The Sunday School Mrs. Sigourney. 292 
 
 " They went oat into the Mount of Olives.'' . . . , Pier pont. 093 
 
 The Lily. ^ Percival. 294 
 
 The Last Evening before Eternity. . Hillhouse. 294 
 
 Wyoming Halleck. 296 
 
 Sonnet to Bryant. 298 
 
 Daybreak -R. ^. Dana. 298 
 
 iSonnet Bryant. 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. 308 
 
 The Raising of Jairus's Daughter J\r. A. Review. 207 
 
 Departure of the Pioneer Brainard. 308 
 
 The Alpine Flowers Mrs. Sigourney. 309 
 
 A Child's first Impression of a Star. ...... JV. P. Willis. 610 
 
 The Leper. JV. P. Willis. 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. 3U 
 
 Fragment of an Epistle written while recovering from severe Illness. 
 
 72. H. Dana. 3Jf 
 
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. :^\ 
 
 Hymn to the North Star Bryant. 322 
 
 Connecticut. From an unpublished Poem F. O. Halleck. 3i2,3 
 
 The Rising Moon fF. 0. B. Peabody. 325 
 
 America to Great Britain TV. ALlston. 32d 
 
 The Night-flowering Cereus Unitarian Miscellany. 32/ 
 
 God is Good Anonymous. 'J^S 
 
 Blanifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. Jinonymous. 220 
 
 The Dying Child Carlos fVilcoz. 33;) 
 
 T o a Musquito . JSTeio York Review. 331 
 
 Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God Longfellow. 33? 
 
 Tl/D Blind Man's Lament J. M^. Kastburn. 33^ 
 
 The Dying Girl Mrs. Hale^s Magazine. 335 
 
 Autumn W. 0. B. Peabody. 336 
 
 Spring. . W. O.B. Peabody. 33G 
 
 Summer W. 0. B. Peabody. 337 
 
 Rosalie Mrs. HaWs Magazine. 338 
 
 To a young Invalid, condemned, by accidental Lameness, to perpetual 
 
 Confinement Henry Pickering. 339 
 
 The Sage of Caucasus Hillhouse. 340 
 
 The Re:jolution 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. O. B. Peabody. 34.5 
 
 Part of the 19th Psalm J. W. Eastburn 347 
 
 " What is that, Mother ?» Q. W. Doane. 347 
 
 Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson, . . . Mrs. Sigourney. 348 
 
 The Indian's Tale J. G. IVliittler. 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. 35Q 
 
 Lines to a Lady of great musical Talent Mrs. Child. 356 
 
 Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of '^he Settlement of Charles- 
 town Pierpont, 357 
 
 The Family Bible j^nonymous. 359 
 
 The Notes of the Birds L McLellan, Jr. 35Q 
 
 Sentimftntal Music . F. G. Halleck. 36:2 
 
 The Silk Worm. ' . Mrs. Hale. 36J 
 
 2 *' 
 
\i TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 The Reverie. 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. 363 
 
 The Death of Napoleon I. McLellanj Jr. 3Q9 
 
 Jerusalem • Brainard. 370 
 
 The Angler's Song /. McLellan, Jr. 37a 
 
 Who is my Neighbor ?... Anonymous. 373 
 
 Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 6—13 Ckristian Mirror. 374 
 
 * Broken-hearted, weep no more." .... Episcopal Watchmav 375 
 
 The Sweet Brier Brainard 376 
 
 Mother, What is Death? Mrs. Oilman. 376 
 
 Last Prayers. . Mary Ann Browne. 377 
 
 A Noon Scene Bryant. 379 
 
 New England's Dead , /. McLcllan^ Jr. 381 
 
 Installation Hymn. Pierpont. 382 
 
 The Wanderer of Africa Alonzo Lewis. 383 
 
 A Legend J. G. JV/iittier. 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 
 
 Tlie Farewell. . Anonymous. 389 
 
 Sunrise on the Hills Anojiymous. 390 
 
 Lmes on passing the Grave of my Sister Micali P. Flint. 391 
 
 The Revellers Ohio Backiooodsman. 393 
 
 " I would not live always." B. B. Thatcher. 394 
 
 The Disimbodied Spirit W. O. B. Peahody. 395 
 
 Lines on hearing of the Death of Garafilia Mohalbi. Mrs. Sigourney. 396 
 
 Crossing the Ford 0. TV. H. 395 
 
 Hymn of the Cherokee Indian /. McLellan^ Jr. 397 
 
 Lake Superior . . S. O. Goodrich. 393 
 
 Oriental Mysticism . Leonard Woods. 400 
 
 To a Sister about to embark on a Missionary Enterprise. 
 
 B B. Thatcher. 401 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers. ... . ... Charles Sprague 40'J 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Page. 
 Allston, W . 233,303,326 
 
 Anonymous. 17, 51, 79, 94, 96, 125, 
 158, 161, 168, ]85, 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, 
 29], 298, 300, 322, 379 
 
 Child, Mrs 321,356 
 
 Christian Disciple. . . . 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 
 
 DoanOjG, W . .198,347 
 
 P.ige 
 Eastburn. J. W. 
 
 120, 133, 334, 347, 3:,5 
 Episcopal Watchman. . . . 375 
 
 Everett, E. . . . . . 225, 250 
 
 Everett, A. IJ 314 
 
 Flint, M 259 
 
 Flint, M. P 39i 
 
 Frisbie, L 286, 3t>l 
 
 Gallaudet,W. E 289 
 
 Garrison, W. L. . . . 57, 2CI 
 
 Gilman, Mrs 66, 276 
 
 Goodrich, S. G 398 
 
 Gould, Hannah F. . . . 193 
 
 Graham, S 278 
 
 Greenwood, \V. P. .• . . 2^3 
 
 Hale, Mrs 213,303 
 
 Hallcck, F, G. 58, 60, 163, 2H, 240, 
 
 296, 323, t?G2 
 Hillhouse, J. A. 22, 25, 44, 46, 73, 
 
 76, 152, 186,214,294,340 
 Huntington, D. . . . 218,316 
 
 Idle Man 218 
 
 Jones 167 
 
 Ladies' Magazine (Mrs. Hale's). 
 
 335, 338 
 
 Lewis, A 115,38;^ 
 
 Longfellow, G. W. 160, 193, 90ii, 
 257, 260, 306, 31^? 
 
16 INDEX OP 
 
 Page. 
 
 Massacliusetts Spy 216 
 
 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, 255, 269 
 
 Ohio Backwoodsman, 
 O. W. H 
 
 . 393 
 
 . 396 
 
 Peabody, W. O. B. 181, 215, 281, 
 
 325, 336, 336, 337, 345, 395 
 Pcrcival, 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. 197 
 
 Sands, R. C 116 
 
 Sigourney, Mrs. 38, 48, 48, 112, 123, 
 
 127, 163, 175, 292, 309, 348, 336, 
 
 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 
 
THE 
 
 POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 Hght 
 
 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 siihli7ne 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 ambieul air 
 2* 
 
18 CHEEVER'S poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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 thjr 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 lieaven ? 
 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 w^ould 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, 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 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. — Buyant 
 
 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 sti]l tlie 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 cnjcy 
 
20 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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 (h'eam 
 Shaped in that emptiest thing — a doubter's scheme. 
 Think'st in a universal soul will merge 
 Thv soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge ? 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 arc the pure in heart. Would'st thou be blest ? 
 He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Would'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 cheevek's poets of America. 
 
 To whose cleared sight the night is turned to dayj 
 And that but changing Ufe, 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. — O, Power Divine, 
 Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine ? 
 Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go ! 
 Would 1 could quit earth, sin, and care, and wo ! 
 Nay, rather let me use the world aright : 
 Thus make me ready for my upward flight. 
 
 # Jl Demon- s false Description of his Race of fallen IntelU 
 gences. A Scene from Hadad. — Hillhouse. 
 
 Tamar. I shudder. 
 Lest some dark Minister be near us now. 
 
 Hadad. You wrong them. They are bright Intelligence) 
 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 heaped in one immeasurable chain 
 Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms 
 
CHEEVER'S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 splendof ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Tam. Wondrous ! — What intercourse have they with men 'i 
 
 Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix with man. 
 But oft with woman. 
 
 Tam. 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. 
 
 Tam, That surpasses all 
 You yet have told me. 
 
 Had. This the sage affirms ; 
 And Moses, darkly. * 
 
 Tam. 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 
 l4ike mortals. 
 
 Tam. Frightful to be so beloved i 
 
24 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tam. 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 .J 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 25 
 
 — ^Oh I 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,'] 
 
 B.adad's Description of the City of David, — Hii^iiHousE. 
 
 '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 alou, 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 frankinfcense. 
 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.'* 
 
 Whejv 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 
 ^*jrthe vohuTie appeared sooa after in the Ijoiuion Quarterly : we are not 
 3 
 
26 cheever's poets of America^ 
 
 When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
 Arl 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 ail this world can give^ 
 
 O, sister, sing the song I love, 
 And tears of gratitude receive. 
 
 The song which thr'lls my bosom's core, 
 A.-d, hovering, trembles half afraid, 
 
 O, sister, sing the song mice 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-grov/n bed, 
 Shouldst thou still linger here abave, 
 
 Wilt thou not kneel beside my head. 
 And, sister, sing the song i love ? 
 
 aware that it has been noticed in any periodical m this country. SoutJiey 
 has rendered himself distinguished for liis attention tO youthful genius. 
 Except the case^ of Chatterton and Henry Kirke White, he thinks there ia 
 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 5 nor can any person rise 
 from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of hunjan 
 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 flmcy ; she 
 wished to hear it only at twilight ; thus, with that same perilous iove of 
 excitement which made her place the windharp in the window wlien she 
 was composing, seeking to increase the effect whicii the song produced 
 upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible; for it is said, 
 that, v/henever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost 
 fainting ; yet it was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to thes© 
 verses, addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister. 
 
 " To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses, irs 
 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- 
 \n2 of a mind essentially poetical." The piece here referred to, is thac 
 extracted above. Ed. 
 
'^/^/?>Z^^ 
 
 z^ 
 
 T^x. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 lip 
 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 the 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, 
 
CIIEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 29 
 
 And the bright pUimage 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 ciose, 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 ; 
 1 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. 
 
 * 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 ! 
 
80 CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 * And ROW the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, 
 And thy white, deUcate Umbs 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 !' 
 
 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 oi 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 plaj'ing 
 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 > our 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." 
 
€Heever's poets of amekica. 31 
 
 And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer, 
 He fled repentance, it' 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 
 
22 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 arid wheel with deaPning screams i 
 
 Now dark,— and now their wings and breasts- 
 
 Flash back disastrous gleams. 
 O, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth ? 
 The world, O 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 y 
 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 ? 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. S3 
 
 He drops his cup ; his lips are stiff with fright. 
 Nay, sit thee down ! — It is thy banquet night. 
 
 " 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 ! — " O, 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 I' " 
 
 He's now astride th<i spectre's back. 
 
 With rein of silk, and curb of gold. 
 
 'Tis fearful speed I —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 forlorni 
 
 He goes with speed ; he goe%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 lights 
 
 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 " 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 v/rapt 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 ; 
 
CHESVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 35 
 
 The sea-birds cali, and wheel, and skim — 
 
 0, 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 ! 
 
 The Death of the Flowers. — Bryant. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest cf the year, 
 Of wailing v/inds, 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 liown, 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 liaht 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. 
 
 \nd now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days 
 
 will come. 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, 
 
36 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 tho 
 
 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, sweUing 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. 
 
CHEEVEr's rOETS OF AMERICA. 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 ain. 
 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 GirlJ''' — 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 lier 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 cheever's roETS of America. 
 
 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 ! 
 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, en 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. 
 
 ** Weep for Yourselves, and for your Children.^^- 
 Mrs. Sigourkey. 
 
 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 more ? 
 
 We mourn for those v/ho weep. 
 Whom stern afflictions bend 
 
CHF.EVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 89 
 
 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 by 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 rays 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, 
 V/as 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 
 fts lowest, e'en its cultivated, peaks. 
 
40 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 v/ith delight refined. 
 
 And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout. 
 
 Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and bu<x- 
 
 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 last, '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 shower«. 
 
 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, 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 While, in that nation, — shameful to relate, — 
 
 One man in five is born 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 untiniely 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, 
 
 Tiiat 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. — Pierpokt 
 
 With thy pure dews and rains. 
 Wash out, God, the stains 
 
 From Afric's shore \ 
 Aiid, while her palm-trees bud, 
 
CHEEVEr's POET^ of AMKxilCA. 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, O God, those chains. 
 Clanking on Freedom's plams. 
 
 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 gams, 
 
 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 1 
 
 Wilt thou not. Lord, at last. 
 From thine own image, cast 
 
 Away all cords. 
 But that of love, which brings 
 Man, from his wanderuigs, 
 Back to the King of kings, 
 
 The Lord of lords ! 
 
 Dedication Hywn.— PierpoJ^t. 
 
 O THOU, to whom, in ancient time. 
 The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung. 
 
 Whom kings adored in songs s^^^^"^^^^^^^^,,^ 
 And prophets praised with glowmg tongue,- 
 
44 riTEEVER's POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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. — Hili^ house. 
 
 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. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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.— Caki^os 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 foUage 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 ditferent notes, 
 
 *He was a true poet, and deeply interesting in his character, both aa 
 a man and a Christian. He resembled Cowper in many respects j— in 
 the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities-in tiie 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 lie had given himself to poetry as his chiet occupation, he 
 might have been the Cowper of New England. W e pretend not to place 
 his unlinished and broken compositions on a level with the works ot 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 tiction and passion, for those of real life and simple nature, 
 and for the develonement of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral 
 and reli'aous truth." Amidst the throngs of imitators, whose names 
 have crowded the pages of the annuals and magazines, hi.- 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 proot and a 
 consequence of his original powers and his elevated feelings, that, instead 
 of devoting his mind to the composition of short, artihcia pieces for the 
 public eve, lie started at once upon a wide and noble subject, \yith the 
 outline in his mind of a magnificent moral poem. 1 he lnstory, the see. 
 nerv. and the public and domestic manners in this country, aliorded scope 
 for the composition of another 'J'ask, 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 ana 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 Ins merits are so little 
 known and appreciated beyond a small circle of affectionate Christian 
 friends. — Ed. 
 
46 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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.— B.ili.uouss, 
 
 As when, from some proud capital that crowns 
 Imperial Ganges, 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-trelhsed minarets, 
 Piigods 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 sv/eetest jubilee ; then, swift 
 Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left. 
 That shot forth horrid Kghtnings, 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 
 Ot triumph mingUng as they mounted, trumpets. 
 And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet. 
 And many a strange and deep-toned instrument 
 
CIIEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 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 gloamings, 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 portal i closed. Undone, 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 
 
CHE EVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 " As thy Day, so shall thy Strength beJ*^ — 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 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. Sigourney. 
 
 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, 
 
r'HEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 4U 
 
 And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave. 
 
 Who hush the waiUng 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 I — 
 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 r — 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-pressj gave the tyrant host 
 5 
 
60 CHEEVER's FOETS of AMERICA. 
 
 A draught of deadly wine. O, 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 v/reck on shore ; 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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. 
 
 ** 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul. 
 Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee rolJ. 
 
 Be FREE— not chiefly from the iron chain, 
 
 But from the one which passion forges ; he 
 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, J 
 
 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, liave 
 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 Hfter up of proud 
 Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. 
 Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 
 Irees 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 of him. 
 And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 53 
 
 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 tne 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 c^ 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 — v/ide 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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, — 
 
 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 b§nd 
 
 Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
€HEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 • 
 
 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 JVature 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 hom« \ 
 And I am w^eak, and toil-worn is my frame ; 
 But all this vale shuts in is still the same : 
 'Tis I alone am changed; they know me noti 
 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 ! — 1 look upon the ground : 
 IMyriads 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, 
 W^ith whom I talked — but I have talked with men! 
 With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts I've met; 
 ^een 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 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA^ 
 
 And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale. — Dana, 
 
 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 galden 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 ; 
 Nar 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 nat stay 
 YM 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 caliA 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 ; 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 thouglit, a corresponding ease and 
 orijjjinality 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 possiWo result of the Colonization Society, and the success 
 <vhich 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 
 Bpeak, every editor who can influence the public mind, should certainly bo 
 doing all in his power to hasten forward the period of complete emancipa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Speed it, O Father \ Let thy kingdom come !'* 
 
 Ed. 
 
58 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Yet scorns the immortal mind this hase control I 
 
 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. 
 'T is 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 PlataBa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His 
 last words were — " To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."] 
 
 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 !" 
 
CHEETER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 proi;d hurrah. 
 
 And the red field was won ; 
 Then saw in death his eyeUds 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 ihou 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 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 Weehawken. — F. G. Halle ck. 
 
 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. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 61 
 
 On laying the. Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monur 
 ment. — Pierpont. 
 
 0, 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 i 
 
 Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, 
 And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 
 
 Rousseau and Cowper. — Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 RoTTssEAu could wcop ; 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 sky, 
 6 
 
62 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 j5ne 
 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 v/herefore 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. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 63 
 
 *Twas thus, in nature's bloom and solitude. 
 He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage ; 
 '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. — Braik-ard. 
 
 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 
 1 1n 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 cheever's poets of America, 
 
 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. — Braiij ard. 
 
 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-gem^ 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 surfs 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 : 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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 Nortox. 
 
 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 I 
 
 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^ 
 
65 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 Child's Wish in, June. — Mrs. Gilmaw. 
 
 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. 
 
 T wish, oh, I wish, I was yonder cloud. 
 That sails about- with its misty shroud ; 
 Books and work I no more should see, 
 And IM come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. 
 
 From ''TJie 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 
 
CIIEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 67 
 
 Around the bloom and greenness there, 
 
 Awaking aH to Ufe 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 cheever's poets of America^ 
 
 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 JVoon.* — 
 Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 A SULTRY N00JN-, 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 
 O^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 I Several of its most expressive 
 images are entirely new, and the whole graphic combination is original — 
 a quality very difficult to attain after Thomson and Cowper. The thistle 
 alighting sleepily on the grass, the yellow-ha'mmer 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. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OP AMERICA. 69 
 
 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 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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. 
 
 7%e JDying 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 1 
 
 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. 
 
^HEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 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 CHEEVER^S POETS OP AMERICA* 
 
 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 f torn Hadad. — Hill house. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Tam. 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 hill^. 
 
CKEEVEKS POETS OF AMERICA. 73 
 
 Tarn. The sounds I mean 
 Floated like mournful muac round my head^ 
 From unseen fingers. 
 
 Had, When? 
 
 Tarn, Now, as thou camest. 
 
 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. 
 
 Tarn. 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 m rest and peace ; — the watchman's caH 
 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 ! 
 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 maVe ete-mal. 
 7 
 
74 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Tam. Ah, Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend 
 Who gave so muchy 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. 
 
 Tam, Our Prophet teaches so, till man rehelled. 
 
 Had. Mighty rehellion ! 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 sorrow, toil, and pain, and death. 
 Cleave to him by an everlasting curse. 
 
 Tam. 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. 
 
 Tam. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams. 
 
 Had, These deities 
 They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites. 
 Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines 
 
 ■sf 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 75 
 
 I 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 tiies 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. say not so. 
 Beloved princess. Why distrust my faith ? 
 
 Tarn, Thou know'st, alas ! my weakness ; but remember, 
 1 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 ** Fercy^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. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 77 
 
 Joy from my darklincf 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. 
 
 Ami the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, — 
 How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim! 
 
 Oh, tis 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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. — Brainard. 
 
 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. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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.— Alt oNYMous. 
 
 J have a "high sonso of the virtue and dignity of the female character ; and 
 would not, hy any means, be tliought to attribute to the ladiis 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. 
 
 " 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 — 
 
 Ov disappointment's pang 1 
 
80 CHEEVER's poets of AlVTEEICA* 
 
 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 knoweth our Frame, He remembtreth we are Bust,- 
 Dana. 
 
 Thou, who didst form us with my^terimis powers*. 
 Didst give a conscious souJ, and call it ours, 
 'Tis thou alone who know'st the strife within ; 
 Thou'lt kindly judge, noi* 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 overthrows 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!" 
 
 l7n7nartaUty.—'T>ANA,* 
 
 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 ^ especiaUv in the noble paragraph commencing '* O, 
 listen, man I" — Ei>. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 81 
 
 Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? — 
 Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, 
 Which One, with gentle hand the vail of liesh 
 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 Luds, 
 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 sounds 
 are heard from the ocean." — Mavor^s 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, restless main ! 
 Who are the dwellers in thy world beneath, 
 That thus the watery realm cannot contain 
 
 The joy they breathe ? 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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 finer mould ! 
 
 'Tis vain the reckless waves 
 Join with loud revel the dim ages flown. 
 But k«ep 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 rustling 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 fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
 With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, 
 As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
 Were 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 cheever's poets of America^ 
 
 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 comes ! 
 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, 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 85 
 
 The lighted taper shine ; thaugh 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 th« 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/eeZ. 
 
 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 (ana 
 there seem to be many such) cannot but admire it. — Ed. 
 
 8 
 
86 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 sheet of silver spreads below. 
 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
 Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 ! 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^ JV. H. — G. Mellen. 
 
 Mount of the clouds, on whose Olympian heighc 
 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 ; 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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.'^ — Braiward. 
 
 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 q\ en speak it! Up jib, Josey, 
 And make for Bridgeport ! There, where Stratford Point, 
 Long Beach, Fair weather Island, and the buoy, 
 Are safe from such encounters, we^W 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." 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 89 
 
 '* They that seek me early shall find me." — Coltimbiaw 
 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* 
 
91 CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 ^ Son^s Farewell to his Mother, and Departure from Homt. 
 — Connect J. CUT Observeii. 
 
 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 m_ore 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 ofJudaNs Mirth. A Sacred Melody. — 
 From the Port-Folio.* 
 
 ** 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'vS minstrels, too, are gone ; 
 
 * We are not sensible that this piece is inferior, in any respect whatever, 
 Ut Moore's celebrated and beautiful Sacred Melodies We lately saw it 
 quoted, and v.Tongly ascribed to the English poet. It was written iii 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 its 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 wr the deeper sky. 
 And, in the very fetters of your flesh. 
 Mating with the pure essences of heaven ! 
 Press on ! — ' 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 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 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 ! 
 
 T-ius 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 
 
 CPJEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA'. 
 
 Upon the paths of nature, and, when all 
 Its voices whisper, and its silent things 
 Are hreathing 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 praj'er 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." 
 
 Cowper , 
 
 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. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets op AMERICA. 05 
 
 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 Arve. — TalismAw. 
 
 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 mo, I would light my hearth 
 Here, where with God's own majesty 
 
 Are touched the features of the earth. 
 By th«se 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 cheever's poets op America* 
 
 The BuriaU — Anonymous. 
 «« We therefore commit his body to the ground."— 5itnaZ Scrvioe. 
 
 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. — Braijptard. 
 
 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 awavi 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 07 
 
 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 tlie Port-Folio, was written, ^^'^ 
 h^kve, by Rev. J. W. Eastburn.— Ed. 
 9 
 
98 CKEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 The heaving surge received him as he fell. 
 While sadder moaned the unaccustomed swell ; 
 The Nereids caught him on the trembling wave?. 
 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 birdv 
 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 t 
 
 Sunset in September* — Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 The sun naw rests upon the mountain tops- 
 Begins to sink behind — is half concealed — 
 And now is gone : the last faint twinkling beam 
 Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. 
 
 * Every person J who has witnessed the splendor of the sunset scenery 
 In Andover, will iecogT»ise 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 mucb 
 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 5 the perfect outline of the iiorizon j 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 sceno 
 on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sua 
 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 purpIe*^ 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 aver 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 invdAidy. at lea^t, sigh for a 
 more congenial climate. — Ed. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 f&w 
 
 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 slov/ly 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 
 
 .oFC. 
 
100 CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 poHshed 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 " Tlie Buccaneer J'^ — Dana, 
 
 A SOUND is in the Pyrenees ! 
 
 Whirling and dark, 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 \\ith 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. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 101 
 
 Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low. 
 
 'Twould 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 v/ash 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 deadlv breath into the firmament. 
 9* 
 
102 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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, s-uffering 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, 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. 
 
€ht:ever''s poets or America. 103 
 
 Though all around is heautiful. 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 thou 
 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 v/ood for flowers 
 
 Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 
 
104 cheever's poets of amertca.. 
 
 For here are eyes that shame the violet, 
 Or the dark drop that on the pansy Hes ; 
 
 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 I' 
 
 Wha curls of every glossy color keepest. 
 
 And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest ! 
 
 And well thau mayst ; for Italy's brown maids 
 
 Send the dark locks with which their brows are drest ; 
 
 And Tuscan lasses from t5eir 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 af 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 
 Hajd blushed outdone, and awned 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 feel 
 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 Juna 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 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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.— CaujuOs 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, iong spring to come. 
 To everjT- 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 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd 
 
 To sudden vision. Such is oft her power 
 
 In God's own house, which, in the ahsorbiftg 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 pleads 
 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. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 107 
 
 Consolations of Religion to the Poor. — Per civ al. 
 
 There is a mourner, and her heart is brolcen ; 
 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 being's night ? 
 
 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 v/rithe 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 she 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. 
 
108 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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. Tempo 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 Haemus, 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 dwell. 
 
 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 ray. 
 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, 
 Tnwreathed 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. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 109 
 
 To weave a garland, will not let it wither 5— 
 
 Wond'ring, i listen to the strain sublime, 
 
 That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time, . 
 
 Wafted in grand simplicity along. 
 
 The undying breath, the very soul of song. 
 
 On the Death of Mr, Woodward, at Edinburgh, — 
 Brainard. 
 
 *' The spider's most attenuated thread 
 Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie 
 On earthly bliss 5 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 U rife 
 With grief and sorrow : all that we would prop, 
 Or would be propped with, falls ; when shall the ruin stop I 
 
 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 CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 From ''The Minstrel GirV — James G. Whittieu. 
 
 Agaiw 'tv/as 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 passior.ate 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. 
 
CIIEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. HI 
 
 But she is sometimes liappy 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.—N. 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 sm.ile. 
 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 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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. Sigourney. 
 
 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. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 113 
 
 Who was with Martyn, when he 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 Advertised. 
 
 '* She flung her white arms around him — Thou art all 
 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. 
 1 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 grovv stronger, 
 10* 
 
114 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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. 
 
 Whek 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 chorus 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, 
 V/ith 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'erflows 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 oirr 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 ; 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 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." 
 
 Summer Evening at a sliort Distance from the City.- 
 Alonzo Lewis. 
 
 AwD 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. 
 
 High 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 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 Around our heads the bat, on leathern winc;s, 
 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. 
 
 Introduction 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 boners 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 ; 
 Vf here 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 Unger 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 ; 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA, 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 v/hen the tempest roared, with voices rude. 
 Or fierce, red lightning fired 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 CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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 knev^^ 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, lor 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 vrould 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, 8,nd gathered chaplets wild with thee ; 
 When, rcckle.'js of the world, alone and free, 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 119 
 
 Like two proud barks? we Jcept 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 socm, 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 avf ay ! 
 Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay 
 Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove ; 
 Whence, w^rapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way 
 Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove. 
 That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and tilled his courts above! 
 
 Bright choir ! with lips untenipted, and with zone 
 Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane ; 
 Ye, to w^hose gladsome bosoms ne'er was knov/n 
 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^ 
 
 Throvt 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 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 creatures 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 ; 
 Gould 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. 
 
 MouivTAiivs 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, 
 
tlHEEVER^S POETS OP AMElRlCA. 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 strength : 
 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. 
 
 ^* I have often thought that flowers were the alpliabet 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 CKEEVERS POETS OF AMERICil. 
 
 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 heurty 
 
 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 star 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 ! 
 
GHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 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 ; his 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 heauty 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, O 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 I 
 
 Missions. — Mrs. Sigournet. 
 
 Light for the dreary vales 
 Of ice-bound Labrador ! 
 Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails. 
 
124 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 ofpeace^ 
 
 Can ye grudge your boon sublime 7 
 
 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 Bur man vales ! 
 
 For the islands of the sea ! 
 For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails 
 
 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. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 gloom. 
 For the aged to rest his weary head. 
 
 TJie Fear of Madness.'^ — TiUCRETiA 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 
 
 '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 I 
 
 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 ! 
 
SCHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 127 
 
 Song.^ — From Yamoydejv. 
 
 Si.E^EP, child of my love ! be tliy 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 fhe 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 fathers 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 daj^ 
 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 
 Sind in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. Ho and 
 liis friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed j the 
 fj^mei- being but twenty-two^ the latter only eighteen. — Ed. 
 
128 CHEEVEr's poets of AMEUiCA. 
 
 There without witness. But the violet's eye 
 
 liOoked up upon me, — the fresh wild- rose smiled. 
 
 And th« 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 ane. 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 aione, and silent m 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 athers' grief. 
 Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round 
 Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams, 
 Are social and benevolent ; and he 
 Who 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. 
 
 Sishop JRavenscroft. — George Washington Dqane^ 
 
 " 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 taii» 
 The servant of the Lord i 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 129 
 
 And I sav/ 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, 
 
 A nd 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 f 
 
 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 bis MSS. for publication. By them, though 
 dead, he will yet speak. 
 
130 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 The Life of God in the 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, m 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 V- 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 •, and we think this is the judgment which 
 posterity will pass upon his writings. Not because he is superior to all 
 others in the elegance of his language, and in the polished beauty and 
 finish of his compositions : in these respects, Bryant has, in this country, no 
 equal : and Mr. Dana is often careless in the dross of his tiioughts. Not be- 
 cause, in the same kind and class of composition to which Bryant has prin- 
 cipally confined his genius, he would bo superior, or even equal to this de- 
 lightful writer: for the genius and style of Bryant are j)eculiarly 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 the 
 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 j he exhibits loftier powers, and 
 his compositions agitate the soul with a deeper emotion. His language, 
 without being so 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, but 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 ; 
 
 *' But when the light winds lie at rest, 
 
 Jindj on the glassy^ heaving sea, 
 The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
 
 Sits swinging silently.''^ 
 
 " The ship works hard ; the seas run high ; 
 Their white tops, flashing through the nighty 
 
 And again ; 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 181 
 
 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 thine 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. 
 7'hen let the feehng in thy breast be given 
 To honest ends ; this, sanctified by Heaven, 
 And springing into life, new life imparts, 
 l^ill 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 eagcr^ straining eije, 
 A wild and shifting light.' ^ 
 
 Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one j speaking of 
 die prospect of immortality : — 
 
 " 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 
 ^is floating 'midst day's setting glories 5 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 choids 
 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 ol 
 chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation, — he re- 
 minds U9 both of Collins and of Milton. We have not space hero, 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 
 tlie soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him, 
 because his poetry is full of benevolent, affectionate, domestic feeling 5 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 oar 
 rest in Him." — Ed. 
 
132 cheevi^ir'b poets of America, 
 
 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 dulll 
 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 knoPf 
 Something of what is life, shakj 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, " 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- 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 183 
 
 Bright on the holy mountain, round the throne, 
 
 Bright where in borrowed Ught the far stars shone. 
 
 Look down ! the depths are bright ! and hear them ery, 
 
 *• Light ! hght !"— Look up ! 'tis rushing down from high ! 
 
 Regions on regions — far away they shine : 
 
 'Tis hght 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 I — 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 mijvd 
 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 
 
184 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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. — Lucretia Maria Davidson. 
 
 Written in her fifteenth year. 
 
 Thou brightly glittering star of even, 
 
 Thou gem upon the brov/ of heaven ! 
 
 Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, 
 
 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 u-nregretted by the soul. 
 
 Thou little sparkling star of even. 
 Thou gem upon an azure heaven! 
 How sw^iftly will I soar to thee. 
 When this imprisoned soul is free ! 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 135 
 
 Thanatopsis/^ — 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 ail around — 
 Karth 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 
 
 * 'l\'i is poein, 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 j 
 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 from 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.'' 
 
1-36 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Thy imago. 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 decoirations 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 destinj^ 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, emd shall come, 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERir'A. 137 
 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
 
 The youth in Ufe'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 America]^. 
 
 "Sing to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously 5 the horse and his rid- 
 er hath he thrown into the sea." Exodus 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 fire ! 
 
 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Wlio boldest the earth and the sea in thine hand, 
 And rulest Eternity's shadowy land — 
 
 To thee let our-lhoughts 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. — Percivai.. 
 
 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. 
 Th.eir feelings were all nature, and they need 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. ISO 
 
 No art to make them known. They Hve in us. 
 While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, 
 Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts, 
 And the one universal Lord. They need 
 Nc 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, Hymii. — 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 flow *, 
 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. 
 
 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 CHEEVER'S rOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 of distant 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. 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OP AMERICA. 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. 
 
 1 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 undefiled. 
 
 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 ihe 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 fail 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 ndld 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. 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERJtCi^. 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. 
 
 I'll 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 ! 
 
 Seasons o/*Pra?/er.— 'Henky Ware, Jh. 
 
 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 eyes. 
 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies. 
 
 O, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows 
 
 With rapture a mother only knows. 
 
 liCt 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 thoughts in her bosom swell. 
 As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! 
 
144 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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— 
 O, 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 5 
 
 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. 
 
CHE EVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 145 
 
 Effect of the Ocean und Us 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 tliO!i diist lord it bravely round this shore ! 
 
 And o» the shingles now he sits. 
 
 And roMs 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 !" 
 
 He views the ships that come and go. 
 
 Looking so like to living things. 
 
 ! '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 cheever'^s poets of AMERICA- 
 
 Into the air ; then rush to mimic strife : — 
 
 Glad creatures of the sea ! How all seems life ! — 
 
 But not to Lee. He sits alone j 
 
 No fellowship nor joy for him. 
 
 Borne down by wo, he makes no moan, 
 
 Though tears will sometimes dim 
 That asking eye. — O, how his worn thoughts crave- 
 Not joy again, but rest within the grave. 
 
 The rocks are dripping in the mist 
 
 That lies so heavy offlhe shore. 
 
 Scarce seen the running breakers ; — list 
 
 Their dull and smothered roar ! 
 Lee hearker.s 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 escape ; 
 
 'Tis clo je 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 stany 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 \yith 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. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 147 
 
 But thou no more shalt haunt the beachj 
 
 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 ckeever's poets of America. 
 
 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 door. 
 
 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 stilJ they stand ! — that man and horse. 
 
 — " Thine hour is almost past." 
 " O, spare me," cries the wretch, " thou fearful one !" — 
 •* My time is full — I must not go alone." 
 
 " I'm weak and faint. O, let me stay !" 
 
 — " Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee !" 
 
 The horse and man are on their way j 
 
 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! 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 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, whither on its waters rideth Lee ? 
 
 God's first Temples. A Hymn.—BiiYANT, 
 
 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 wood. 
 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 we, 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, 
 Oifer 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 CHEEVEIl's P0ET3 OF AMERICA, 
 
 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 thj^ 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 see, again, 
 
€HEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 151 
 
 lluw, on the faltering footsteps of decay, 
 Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
 Jn 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 ghastsy foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
 From thine- own bosom, and shall ha\;e 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 bjDrn 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, 
 Sn these calm shades, thy milder majesty. 
 And, to the beautiful order of thy works, 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
152 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Scene from Hadad. — HilltHouse. 
 
 An apartmfint in Absalom's house. Nathan and Tamar. 
 
 JSTathan. Thoxj'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. 
 
 Tamctr. Have I not thus, ever .? 
 
 JYatk. But I would probe the tenderest of thy h-eart. 
 Touch its disease, and give it strength again, 
 And yet inflict no pain. 
 
 Tarn. What means my lord ? 
 
 JVath. I 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 lin^. 
 
 Tarn, {averting her eyes.) 
 If I can answer 
 
 JVath. Maiden, need I ask, — 
 
 I fear T 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 meik? — 
 Hereafter you shall knaw 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. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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 ahyss, pervade, hke hght, 
 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 daj^-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 ! the peace which dwells 
 But with our fathers' God. 
 
 JVath. And canst thou love 
 One who loves not Jehovah ? 
 
 Tain. O, ask not. 
 
 JVath. (fervently.) 
 My child, thou wouldst not wed an infidel ? 
 
 Tarn, (in tears.) O no ! no ! 
 
 JVath. 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 holj'' ordinances ? 
 
 Tarn. He promises observance. 
 
154 cheever's poets of amekica, 
 
 J\rath. Two full years 
 Hath he abode in Jewry. 
 
 Tarn. Prophet, thirk 
 How he was nurtured- in the faith of idols. — 
 That impious worship 1 -ng 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 ? 
 
 Tarn. 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. 
 
 JSTath. 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. 
 
 Tain. 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 unfrequent. 
 
 JVath. Only 
 When thou'rt alone ? 
 
 Tain. 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 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 155 
 
 B}'' skilful fingers. Wailing in the air, 
 
 it seems around me, and withdraws as when 
 
 Gne looks and lingers for a last adieu. 
 
 jYatJi. Just ere he enters ? 
 
 Tam. At his step it dies. 
 
 JSTath, Mark me. — ^I'hou 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 ? 
 
 JYath. Time may reveal : meanwhile, I warn thee. 
 Trust not thyself alone with Hadad. 
 
 Tarn. Father, — 
 
 JS'^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. 
 
 Tam. Seer, 
 1 will avoid it. 
 
 JYath. All is ominous : 
 The oracles are mute, dreams warn no more, 
 Urim and Thummim 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, 
 Lu^t 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 JS^ath,] 
 
 Tain. 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 CHEEVER's POfTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 Tyrian in the stormy sea. 
 
 Extract from " The Airs of Palestine.^'' — PiERPOifT. 
 
 On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows. 
 And his cool arms round Vallombrosa 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, 
 
-J 
 
 L^vt-h-.C!^ '■J'lt-0'-''^- L. '. .'JOJ::/'JI-i/y 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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 loveher scene, a sweeter song, than this ? 
 
 The Falls of JViagara. — Brainard. 
 
 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 in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 
 " The sound of many waters ;" and had bade 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. 
 And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks. 
 
 Deep calleth 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. 
 
 At 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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. — Pinkjvey. 
 
 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, 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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 off in 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 Examijver. 
 
 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 CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 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 belov/ 
 
 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. 
 
 O God of mercy, make me know 
 The gift which thou hast given, 
 
 Nor let me idly spend it so. 
 But make it ht for heaven ! 
 
 Woods in Winter. — Lon^gfellow. 
 
 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. 
 
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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 ' 
 
 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 J^lue 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. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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. Sigotjrney. 
 
 D^]ATH 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 ci?:rtaining 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 
 
 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 wlia 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 youth, 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. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 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 homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, 
 
 The last, the hallowed home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories. 
 Though with the 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 Biightiest 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, 
 My own green forest-land. 
 
166 CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 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 dovv^n 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 : 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 167 
 
 The perished plant, set out by living fountains. 
 Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise^ 
 For ever, towards the skies. 
 
 Be humble. — Joi^j-es. 
 
 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Sabbath Evening Twilight. — Anonymovs. 
 
 Delightfui. 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 ;— 
 
 This 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, 
 
€HEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 169 
 
 Ere yet despair's eternal shroud 
 
 Wrapped every vision hope had giv-ea. 
 
 When these deep purpUng shades came dowii> 
 
 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, w-e would meet, 
 
 And urge to Heaven our mutual plea. 
 
 O, 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 : 
 ^T would soothe this weary heart to know 
 
 That thine responded every prayer. 
 
 The Burial qf Arnold* — N. P. Wii^lis. 
 
 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, 
 O, 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 
 
170 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 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 hi» 
 J^a^Aer.— -Henry 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, 
 
CttEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 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 unawed, 
 
 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 a sea 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 7?iay suffer wreck. 
 The fooHsh must. O, 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, 
 
11^2 CHEteVteR^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Which, though it trembles 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. 
 
 .YeifJ 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 l3ed5 
 
 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 hireling brood, 
 
 In desperate fight ! 
 O, 'twas a proud, exulting day. 
 For even our fallen fortunes lay 
 
 In light. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 173 
 
 There is no other land like the«, 
 
 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 of 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 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below. 
 Had rushed the Christians hke 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." 
 
€HEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 175 
 
 Power of Maternal Piety,— Uns. Sigourney. 
 
 ^^ When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother Tise_d to bid 
 ^e kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head while sUe 
 S)ravod Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was leti 
 looruch fo my own guidancl Like others, I was inclined to evil passions^ 
 i,ut often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand 
 i^pon my head When a young man, I travelled in f()reign lands, and was 
 .Tosed'to many temptatioL ; fut when I would ^ave yielded t^^^^^^ 
 was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as n t^ie 
 ^lavs of mv happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my 
 foeartfa/oicePthat must^be obeyed,--0, do not this wickedness, my son, 
 ffijor 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 ; 
 
 1 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, . , i. « 
 
 And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, 
 For no fond voice repUed. 
 
 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 cheever's poets of amekic^^ 
 
 Fierce passions shook me like a reed v 
 
 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 y. 
 
 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, 
 
 Medntained its mystic sway. 
 As when, amid my cur\3 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, perchan<ie, 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 
 Ttiese 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-v 
 
. CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 177 
 
 JViagara. — U. States Review and Literary Gazette. 
 
 From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredia. 
 
 Tremejvdous 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. 
 [ 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 fierce 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 
 
178 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 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 his omnipotent hand. 
 Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice 
 To thy down-rushing waters ; he hath girt 
 Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. 
 I see thy never-resting waters run. 
 And I bethink me how the tide of time 
 Sweeps to eternity. So pass, of man, — 
 Pass, like a noon-day dream, — the blossoming days, 
 And he awakes to sorrow. * * * * 
 
 Hear, dread Niagara ! my latest voice. 
 Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
 Over the bones of him who sings thee now 
 Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse. 
 Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile. 
 Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, 
 Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds 
 To listen to the echoes of my fame. 
 
 Absalom, — N. P. Willis. 
 
 The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
 The reeds bent down the stream : the willow leaves, 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 
 Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 179 
 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
 And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells. 
 By its light heed of human suffering. 
 That it was fashioned for a happier world! 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far Jerusalem ; and now he' stood. 
 With his faint people, for a little rest 
 Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gathered round him on the fresh green bank. 
 And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. 
 And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance. 
 And the poor common words of courtesy 
 Are such a very mockery — how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! 
 He prayed for Israel ; and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those 
 Whose love had been his shield ; and his deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
 The proud, bright being, who had burst away 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherished him — for him he poured, 
 In agony that would not be controlled, 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there. 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 ***** 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds 
 Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
 To the admitted air, as glossy now 
 As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
 The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. 
 His helm was at his feet : his banner, soiled 
 
180 CHEEVER'S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
 
 Reversed, beside him : and the jewelled hilt, 
 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade. 
 
 Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. 
 
 The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. 
 
 Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief. 
 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. 
 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. 
 
 As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
 
 A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
 
 As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
 
 Of David entered, and he gave command, 
 
 In a low tone, to his few followers. 
 
 And left him with his dead. The king stood still 
 
 Till the last echo died : then, throwing off 
 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
 
 The pall from the still features of his child. 
 
 He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
 
 In the resistless eloquence of wo : — 
 
 " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou should'st die! 
 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
 That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb. 
 My proud boy Absalom ! 
 
 *« Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill. 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 
 
 How was 1 wont to feel my pulses thrill. 
 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee. 
 
 And hear thy sweet " my father'' from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 " The grave hath won thee. J shall hear the gush 
 
 Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
 And life will pass me in the mantlirg blush, 
 ^ And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 "And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken. 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ) 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 181 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up. 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on thee : — 
 
 And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup. 
 If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 
 
 May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home. 
 My erring Absalom !" 
 
 He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
 A moment on his child : then, giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
 His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 
 And, as a strength were given him of God, 
 He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently, and left him there. 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 Hymn of JVature. — W. 0. B. Peabody. 
 
 God of the earth's extended plains ! 
 
 The dark green fields contented lie : 
 The mountains rise like holy towers, 
 
 W here man might commune with the sky : 
 The tall cliff challenges the storm 
 
 That lowers upon the vale below. 
 Where shaded fountains send their streams. 
 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
 God of the dai'k and heavy deep ! 
 
 The waves lie sleeping on the sands. 
 Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 
 
 Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; 
 Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 
 
 Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. 
 Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 
 
 Serenely breathes. Depart in peace. 
 
 God of the forest's solemn shade ! 
 
 The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
 That wrestles singly with the gale. 
 
 Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
 16 
 
182 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 But more majestic far they stand, 
 
 When, side by side, their ranks they form, 
 
 To wave on high their plumes of green, 
 And fight their battles with the storm. 
 
 God of the light and viewless air ! 
 
 Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
 Or, gathering in their angry might. 
 
 The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
 All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. 
 
 That hardly lifts the drooping flower. 
 To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 
 
 Breathe forth the language of thy power. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 
 How gloriously above us springs 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue. 
 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
 Each brilliant star, that sparkles through. 
 
 Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
 In evening's purple radiance, gives 
 
 The beauty of its praise to thee. 
 
 God of the rolling orbs above ! 
 
 Thy name is written clearly bright 
 In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 
 
 Or evening's golden shower of light. 
 For every fire that fronts the sun. 
 
 And every spark that walks alone 
 Around the utmost verge of heaven. 
 
 Were kindled at thy burning throne. 
 
 God of the world ! the hour must come. 
 
 And nature's self to dust return ; 
 Her crumbhng altars must decay ; 
 
 Her incense fires shall cease to burn ; 
 But still her grand and lovely scenes 
 
 Have made man's warmest praises flow ; 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace 
 
 The beauty of the world below. 
 
CHflEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 183 
 
 The Garden of Gethsemane, — J. Pikrpont. 
 
 O'er Kedron's stream, and Salem's height. 
 
 And OUvet's brown steep, 
 Moves the majestic queen of night. 
 And throws from heaven her silver light, 
 
 And sees the world asleep ; — 
 
 All but the children of distress. 
 
 Of sorrow, grief, and care — 
 Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless ;- 
 These leave the couch of restlessness, 
 
 To breathe the cool, calm air. 
 
 For those who shun the glare of day, 
 
 There's a composing power. 
 That meets them, on their lonely way, 
 In the still air, the sober ray 
 
 Of this religious hour. 
 
 'Tis a religious hour ; — for he. 
 
 Who many a grief shall bear, 
 In his own body on the tree. 
 Is kneeling in Gethsemane, 
 
 In agony and prayer. 
 
 O, Holy Father, when the light 
 
 Of earthly joy grows dim, 
 May hope in Christ grow strong and bright. 
 To all who kneel, in sorrow's night, 
 
 In trust and prayer like him. 
 
 Trust in God. — Percival.. 
 
 Thou art, Lord, my only trust, 
 When friends are mingled with the dust, 
 
 And all my loves are gone. 
 When earth has nothing to bestow. 
 And every flower is dead below, 
 
 I look to thee alone. 
 
184 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Thou wilt not leave, in doubt and fear. 
 The humble soul, who loves to hear 
 
 The lessons of thy word. 
 When foes around us thickly press. 
 And all is danger and distress. 
 
 There's safety in the Lord. 
 
 The bosom friend may sleep below 
 The churchyard turf, and we may go 
 
 To close a loved one's eyes : 
 They will not always slumber there ; 
 We see a world more bright and fair, 
 
 A home beyond the skies. 
 
 And we may feel the bitter dart. 
 Most keenly rankling in the heart. 
 
 By some dark ingrate driven : 
 In us revenge can never burn ; 
 We pity, pardon ; then we turn. 
 
 And rest our souls in heaven. 
 
 'Tis thou, O Lord, who shield'st my head, 
 And draw'st thy curtains round my bed ; 
 
 I sleep secure in thee ; 
 And, 0, may soon that time arrive. 
 When we before thy face shall live 
 
 Through all eternity. 
 
 Heaven. — Christian Examiner. 
 
 The earth, all light and loveliness, in summer's golden hours. 
 Smiles, in her bridal vesture clad, and crowned with festal 
 
 flowers. 
 So radiantly beautiful, so like to heaven above. 
 We scarce can deem more fair that world of perfect bliss and 
 love. 
 
 Is this a shadow, faint and dim, of that which is to come ? 
 What shall the unveiled glaries be of our celestial home. 
 Where waves the glorious tree of life, where streams of bliss 
 
 gush free. 
 And all is glowing in the light of immortality ! 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 185 
 
 To see again the home of youth, when weary years have 
 
 passed, 
 Serenely bright, as when we turned and looked upon it last; 
 To hear the voice of love, to meet the rapturous embrace, 
 To gaze, through tears of gladness, on each dear familiar face — 
 
 Oh ! this indeed is joy, though here we meet again to part 
 But what transporting bliss awaits the pure and faithful heart* 
 Where it shall find the loved and lost, those who have gone 
 
 before, 
 "Where every tear is wiped away, where partings come no 
 
 more! 
 
 When, on Devotion's seraph wings, the spirit soars above, 
 And feels thy presence. Father, Friend, God of eternal love, — 
 Joys of the earth, ye fade away before that living ray. 
 Which gives to the rapt soul a glimpse of pure and perfect 
 day— 
 
 A gleam of heaven's own light — though now its brightness 
 
 scarce appears 
 Through the dim shadows, which are spread around this vale 
 
 of tears ; 
 But thine unclouded smile, O God, fills that all glorious place. 
 Where we shall know as we are known, and see thee face to 
 
 face ! 
 
 Geehale. An Indian Lament. — Anoi^ymous. 
 
 The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 
 As sweetly and gayly as ever before ; 
 For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, 
 And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. 
 The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright. 
 And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light. 
 As it ever reflected, or ever expressed, 
 When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best. 
 
 The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, 
 Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, 
 And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, 
 For they know that their mates are expecting them back. 
 Each bird, and each beast, it is blessed in degree : 
 All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me, 
 16* 
 
186 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; 
 1 will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; 
 1 will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows. 
 And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; 
 1 will weep for a season, on bitterness fed. 
 For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; 
 But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; 
 The steel of the white man hath swept them away. 
 
 This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, 
 I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore : 
 Its charms I no longer obey or invoke ; 
 Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
 I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; 
 I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night; 
 I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, 
 And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves ; 
 And will take a new Manito — such as shall seem 
 To be kind and propitious in every dream. 
 
 O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, 
 And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes; 
 I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain ; 
 Red — red shall, alone, on my visage remain ! 
 I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; 
 By night and by day I will follow the foe ; 
 Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows ;- 
 His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose. 
 
 They came to my cabin when heaven was black : 
 I heard not their coming, I knew not their track; 
 But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees. 
 They were people engendered beyond the big seas : 
 My wife and my children, — O, spare me the tale ! — 
 For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ! 
 
 Scene from " Percy^s Masque.'"^ — Hillhouse. 
 
 ScENF. — A high-wood walk in a park. The towers of Warkworth castle, 
 in Northumberland, seen over the trees. — Enter Arthur, in a huntsman's 
 diess. 
 
 Arthur. Here let me pause, and breathe awhile, and wi{)3 
 These servile drops from off my burning brow. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 187 
 
 Amidst these venerable trees, the air 
 Seems hallowed by the breath of other times. — 
 Companions of my fathers, ye have marked 
 Their generations pass. Your giant arms 
 Shadowed their youth, and proudly canopied 
 Their silver hairs, when, ripe in years and glory, 
 These walks they trod to meditate on heaven. 
 What warlike pageants have ye seen ! what trains 
 Of captives, and what heaps of spoil ! what pomp. 
 When the victorious chief, war's tempest o'er. 
 In Warkworth's bowers unbound his panoply ! 
 What floods of splendor, bursts of jocund din, 
 Startled the slumbering tenants of these shades. 
 When night awoke the tumult of the feast. 
 The song of damsels, and the sweet-toned lyre ! 
 Then, princely Percy reigned amidst his halls. 
 Champion, and judge, and father of the North. 
 O, days of ancient grandeur, are ye gone ? 
 For ever gone ? Do these same scenes behold 
 His offspring here, the hireling of a foe ! 
 O, that I knew my fate ! that I could read 
 The destiny that Heaven has marked for me ! 
 Enter a Forester. 
 
 Forester, A benison upon thee, gentle huntsman ! 
 Whose towers are these that overlook the wood ? 
 
 Ar. Earl Westmoreland's. 
 
 For. The Neville's towers I seek. 
 By dreams I learn, and prophecies most strange, 
 A noble youth lurks here, whose horoscope 
 Declares him fated to amazing deeds. 
 
 Ar. {starting hack.) Douglas ! — 
 
 Douglas. Now do I clasp thee, Percy ; and I swear 
 By my dear soul, and by the blood of Douglas, 
 Linked to thy side, through every chance, I go. 
 Till here thou rul'st, or death and night end all. 
 
 Percy. Amazement ! Whence ? — or how ? — 
 
 Doug. And didst thou think 
 Thus to elude me ? 
 
 Per. Answer how thou found'st me. 
 What miracle directed here thy steps ? 
 
 Doug. Where should I look for thee, but in the post 
 Where birth, fame, fortune, wrongs, and honor call thee! 
 Returning from the isles, I found thee gone. 
 Awhile in doubt, each circumstance I weighed ; 
 Thy difficulties, wrongs, and daring spirit ; 
 
188 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 The gay, delusive show, so long maintained 
 To lull observers ; then set forth, resolved 
 Never to enter more my native towers 
 Till I had found and searched thee to the soul. 
 
 Per. Still must I wonder ; for so dark a cloud — 
 
 Doug. 0, deeper than thou think'st I've read thy heart. 
 A gilded insect to the world you seemed ; 
 The fashion's idol ; person, pen, and lyre. 
 The soft, devoted darling of the fair. 
 By slow degrees, I found Herculean nerve 
 Hid in thy tuneful arm ; that hunger, thirst, , 
 
 The sultry chase, the bleakest mountain bed. 
 The dark, rough, winter torrent, were to thee 
 But pastime ; more were courted than repose. 
 To others, your discourse still wild and vain 
 To me, when none else heard thee, seemed the voice 
 Of heavenly oracles. 
 
 Par. 0, partial friendship ! 
 
 Doug. Yet had I never guessed your brooded purpose. — 
 Rememberest thou the regent's masque ? the birth night ? 
 
 Per. Well. 
 
 Doug. That night you glittered through the crowded halls, 
 Gay and capricious as a sprite of air. 
 Apollo rapt us when you touched the lyre ; 
 Cupid fanned odors from your purple wings ; 
 Or Mercury amused with magic wand. 
 Mocking our senses with your feathered heel. 
 In every fancy, shape, and hue, you moved. 
 The admiration, pity, theme of all. — 
 One bed received us. Soon your moaning voice 
 Disturbed me. Dreaming, heavily you groaned, 
 " O, Percy! Percy ! Hotspur! O, my father! 
 Upbraid me not! hide, hide those ghastly wounds! 
 Usurper ! traitor ! thou shalt feel me !" 
 
 Per. Heavens ! 
 
 Doug. 'Tis true : — and more than I can now remember. 
 
 Per. And never speak of it ? 
 
 Doug. Inly I burned ; 
 But honor, pride, forbade. Pilfer from dreams ! 
 Thou knew'st the ear, arm, life of Douglas, thine — 
 
 Per. And long ago I had disclosed to thee 
 My troubled bosom ; but my enterprise 
 So rife with peril seemed — to hearts less touched, 
 So hopeless ! Knowing thy impetuous soul. 
 How could I justify the deed to Heaven ? 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 189 
 
 How to thine aged sire ? Armed proof I stand. 
 
 To fate : come what will come— the wide earth hears 
 
 No heart of kindred blood to mourn my fall. 
 
 Doug. The heart of Douglas beats not with thy blood ; 
 But never will I trust in meicy more> 
 In justice, truth, or Heaven, if it forsake thee. 
 
 Per, Douglas, thy friendship is my choicest treasure ;— * 
 Has been a radiant star on my dark way ; 
 And never did I doubt thy zeal to serve me* 
 Lend, now, a patient ear. — -While with my doom 
 Alone I strive, no dread or doubt distracts me. 
 No precious fate with mine involved, my heart 
 Is fearless, firm my step. Exposing thee j 
 The adamantine buckler falls> and leaves me^ 
 Naked and trembling, to a double death. 
 
 Doug. Thou lov'st me not* 
 
 Per. Let Heaven be witness there !— 
 The thought of bringing down thy father's hairs 
 With sorrow to the grave, would weigh like guilt, 
 Palsy my soul, and cripple all my powers. 
 
 Doug. So ! — have I wandered o'er the hills for this ? 
 
 Per. I would not wound thee, Douglas, well thou know'st ; 
 But thus to hazard on a desperate cast 
 Thy golden fortunes — 
 
 Doug. Cursed be the blood within me, 
 Plagues and the grave o'ertake me, if I leave thee ; 
 Though gulfs yawned under thee, and roaring seas 
 Threatened to whelm thee. 
 
 Per. For thy father's sake— 
 
 Doug. Peace ! I'd not go if staying here would strew 
 His hoar hairs in the tomb — not stir, by Heaven ! 
 Must I toss counters ? sum the odds of life. 
 When honor points the way ? — When was the blood 
 Of Douglas precious in a noble cause ? 
 
 Per. Nay, hear me, hear me, Douglas — 
 
 Doug. Talk to me 
 Of dangers .'' Death and shame ! Is not my race 
 As high, as ancient, and as proud as thine ? 
 
 Per. I've done. 
 
 Doug. By Heaven, it grieves me, Harry Percy, 
 Preaching such craven arguments to me. 
 Now tell me how thou stand'st ; thy cause how prospered. 
 What has been done ? What projects are afoot ? 
 Acquaint me quickly. 
 
 Per. Gently ; lest some busy ear 
 
190 cheever's roETs of America. 
 
 Be near us. Little have I yet to tell thee. 
 Thinking my rival's coat would best conceal me, 
 I won his favor by a tale scarce feigned. 
 
 Doug, A keeper of his chase thy garb bespeaks. 
 
 Per. Chief huntsman. Thus disguised, I day by day 
 Traverse my native hills, viewing the strength 
 And features of the land ; its holds of safety ; 
 And searching patriot spirits out. For, still. 
 Though kings and gaudy courts remember not, 
 Still, in the cottage and the peasant's heart, 
 The memory of my fathers lives. When there. 
 The old, the good old day is cited, tears 
 Roll down their reverend oeards, and genuine love 
 Glows in their praises of my sires« 
 
 Doug, I long 
 To press the sons, and tell them what a lord '' 
 Lives yet to rule them. 
 
 Per. When first I mixed among them, oft I struck, 
 Unwittingly, a spark of this same fire. 
 Encouraged thus, I sought its latent seeds. 
 Seized opportunities to draw the chase 
 Into the bosom of the hills, and spent 
 Nights in their hospitable, happy cots. 
 There, to high strains, the minstrel harp I tuned, 
 Chanting the glories of the ancient day. 
 When their brave fathers, scorning to be slaves, 
 Rushed with their chieftain to the battle field, 
 Trod his bold footsteps in the ranks of death, 
 And shared his triumphs in the festal hall. 
 
 Doug, That lulled them, as the north wind does the sea^ 
 
 Per, From man to man, from house to house, like fire, 
 The kindling impulse flew ; till every hind, 
 Scarce conscious why, handles his targe and bow ; 
 Still talks of change ; starts if the banished name 
 By chance he hears ; and supplicates his saint. 
 The true-born offspring may his banner rear 
 With speed upon the hills. 
 
 Doug, What lack we ? Spread 
 The warlike ensign. On the border side. 
 Two hundred veteran spears await your summons. 
 
 Per, What say'st thou } 
 
 Doug, Sinews of the house ; 
 Ready to tread in every track of Douglas. 
 By stealth I drew them in from distant points, 
 And hid amidst a wood in Chevy- Chace, 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 191 
 
 Per. O, Douglas ! Douglas ! even such a friend. 
 For death or life, was thy great sire to mine. 
 
 Doug, Straight, let us turn our trumpets to the hills ; 
 Declare aloud thy name and wrongs ; in swarms 
 Call down the warlike tenantry, and teach 
 Aspiring Neville fatal is the day 
 The Percy and the Douglas lead in arms. 
 
 Per. If he were all — Remember haughty Henry, 
 The nephew of his wife, whose word could speed 
 A veteran army to his kinsman's aid. 
 
 Doug. Come one, come all ; leave us to welcome them. 
 
 [Exit Dougla», 
 * 4t * « * « * 
 
 Per. Too long, too long a huntsman, Arthur comes, 
 Stripped of disguise, this night, to execute 
 His father's testament, — whose blood lies spilt ; 
 Whose murmurs from the tomb are in his ears ; 
 Whose injuries are treasured in a scroll 
 Steeped in a mother's and an orphan's tears. 
 O'er that cursed record has my spirit groaned, 
 Since dawning reason, in unuttered anguish. 
 When others danced, struck the glad vs^ire, or caught 
 The thrilling murmurs of loved lips, I've roamed 
 Where the hill-foxes howl, and eagles cry. 
 Brooding o'er wrongs that haunted me for vengeance. 
 A}^ ! — I have been an outcast from my cradle ; 
 Poor, and in exile, while an alien called 
 My birth-right home. Halls founded by my sires 
 Have blazed and rudely rung with stranger triumphs ; 
 Their honorable name cowards have stained ; 
 Their laurels trampled on ; their bones profaned. 
 Hence have I labored ; watched while others slept ; 
 Known not the spring of life, nor ever plucked 
 One vernal blossom in the day of youth. — 
 The harvest of my toils this night I reap ; 
 For death, this night, or better life awaits me. 
 
 T(0 <Sf ^ * * *, weeping.-^ANONYMovs. 
 
 Why shouldst thou weep ? No cause hast thou 
 
 For one desponding sigh ; 
 No care has marked that polished brow. 
 
 Nor dimmed thy radiant eye. 
 
192 
 
 Why shouldst thou weep ? Around thee glows 
 
 The purple light of youth, 
 And all thy looks the calm disclose 
 
 Of innocence and truth. 
 
 Nay, weep not while thy sun shines bright, 
 
 And cloudless is thy day. 
 While past and present joys unite 
 
 To cheer thee on thy way ; 
 
 While fond companions round thee move, 
 
 To youth and nature true. 
 And friends, whose looks of anxious love 
 
 Thy every step pursue. 
 
 Nay, weep not now : reserve thy tears 
 
 For that approaching hour. 
 When o^er the scenes of other years 
 
 The clouds of time shall lower ; 
 
 When thou, alas! no more canst see. 
 
 But in the realms above, 
 The friends who ever looked on thee 
 
 Unutterable love ; 
 
 When some, thy fond companions now. 
 
 And constant to thy side. 
 View thee with anger-darkening brow, 
 
 Or cold, repulsive pride ; 
 
 Or some, the faithful of that band, 
 Bless thee with faltering breath. 
 
 While from their lips thy trembling hand 
 Wipes the chill dews of death. 
 
 Nay, weep not now : reserve thy tears 
 
 For that approaching day, 
 When, through the gradual lapse of years. 
 
 All joys have stol'n away ; 
 
 When Memory a wavering light 
 
 Sheds dimly o'er the past. 
 And Hope no longer veils from sight 
 
 The horrors of the last. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 193 
 
 Nay, weep not then : let but the ray 
 
 Of heavenly peace be thine, 
 Crlorious shall be thy summer's day. 
 
 Unclouded its decline. 
 
 Then Memory's light, though dim, shall show 
 
 How pure thy former years. 
 While Hope her holiest ray shall throw 
 
 On realms beyond the spheres. 
 
 Autumn, — H. W. Longfei^low. 
 
 O, WITH what glory comes and goes the year! — 
 The buds of spring — those beautiful harbingers 
 Of sunny skies and cloudless times — enjoy 
 Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
 And when the silver habit of the clouds 
 Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with 
 A sober gladness, the old year takes up 
 His bright i<nheritance of golden fruits, 
 A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 
 
 There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
 its mellow richness on the clustered trees. 
 And, from a beaker full of richest dyes. 
 Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
 And dipping in ;prarm light the pillared clouds. 
 Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird. 
 Lifts up her purple wing ; and in the vales 
 The gentle wind — a sweet and passionate wooer — 
 Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up liie 
 Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
 And silver beach, and maple yellow-rleaved, — 
 Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
 By tho way-side a- weary. Through the trees 
 The golden robin moves ; the purple finch. 
 That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, — 
 A winter bird, — comes with its plantive whistle. 
 And pecks by the witch-hazel ; whilst aloud. 
 From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings ; 
 And merrily, with oft- repeated stroke, 
 Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flaiL 
 17 
 
194 CHEEVERS POETS DP AMERICA. 
 
 O, whut a glory doth this world put on 
 For him,- that,, with a fervent hearty goes forth 
 Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
 On duties well pevformedj and days well spent f 
 For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves^ 
 Shall have a vcice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
 He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
 Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
 To his loiig resting-place without a tear. 
 
 Hie Bucket. — Samuel. Woodworth. 
 
 How^ dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
 
 When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood. 
 
 And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
 The wide -spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, 
 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it. 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ! 
 The old oaken bucket, the rron-bound bucket, 
 The moss- covered bucket, which hung in the well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 
 
 For ofteuy at noon, when returned from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 
 
 And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. 
 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. 
 
 As poised on the. curb it inclined to my lips ! 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. 
 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips 
 And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well y 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well. 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 19j 
 
 TTie Snow Flake, — Hannah F. Gould. 
 
 " Now, if I fall, will it be my lot 
 
 To be cast in some low and lonely spot. 
 
 To melt, and to sink unseen or forgot ? 
 
 And then will my course be ended ?" 
 'Twas thus a feathery Snow-Flake said, 
 As down through the measureless space it strayed, 
 Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid. 
 
 It seemed in mid air suspended. 
 
 ** O, no," said the Earth, " thou shalt not lie. 
 Neglected and lone, on my lap to die. 
 Thou pure and delicate child of the sky ; 
 
 For thou wilt be safe in my keeping; 
 But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form ; 
 ThouUt not be a part of the wintry storm, 
 But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm. 
 
 And the flowers from my bosom are peeping. 
 
 *' And then thou shalt have thy choice to be 
 Restored in the lily that decks the lea, 
 In the jessamine bloom, the anemone. 
 
 Or aught of thy spotless whiteness ; 
 To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead. 
 With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead 
 In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed. 
 
 Regaining thy dazzling brightness ;• — 
 
 *' To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, 
 When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep. 
 In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap 
 
 In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; 
 Or, leaving the valley, the meadow and heath. 
 The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath. 
 To go and be wove in the silvery wreath 
 
 Encircling the brow of the mountain. 
 
 *' Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, 
 To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise, 
 And appear in the many and glorious dyes 
 
 A pencil of sunbeams is blending. 
 But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, 
 Til give thee a new and vernal birth. 
 
When thou shall recover thy primal worth, 
 And never regret descending !*' 
 
 " Then I will drop," said the trusting flake ; 
 " But bear it in mind that the choice I make 
 Is not in the flowers nor the dew to awake. 
 
 Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning : 
 For, things of thyself, they expire with thee ; 
 But those that are lent from on high, like me, 
 They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, 
 
 To the regions above returning. 
 
 " And if true to thy word, and just thou art. 
 Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart. 
 Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart. 
 
 And return to my native heaven ; 
 For I would be placed in the beautiful bow. 
 From time to time, in thy sight to glow. 
 So thou may'st remember the Flake of Snow 
 
 By the promise that God hath given." 
 
 " I am the Way, and the Truth, and the LifeJ*'*- 
 Ajvonymotjs. 
 
 Thou art the Way — and he who sighs. 
 
 Amid this starless waste of wo. 
 To find a pathway to the skies, 
 
 A light from heaven's eternal glow. 
 By thee must come, thou gate of love. 
 
 Through which the saints undoubting trod ; 
 Till faith discovers, like the dove. 
 
 An ark, a resting place in God. 
 
 Thou art the Truth — whose steady day 
 
 Shines on through earthly blight and bloom, 
 The purcj the everlasting ray, 
 
 The lamp that shines e'en in the tomb ; 
 The light, that out of darkness springs. 
 
 And guideth those that blindly go ; 
 The word, whose precious radiance flings 
 
 Its lustre upon all below. 
 
 Thou art the Life — the blessed well, 
 With living waters gushing o'er. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 197 
 
 Which those who drink shall ever dwell 
 Where sin and thirst are known no more ; 
 
 Thou art the mystic pillar given, 
 
 Our lamp by night, our light by day ; 
 
 Thou art the sacred bread from heaven ; — 
 Thou art the Life— the Truth— the Way. 
 
 The Iceberg. — J. 0. RocKWELii. 
 
 'TwAs night — our anchored vessel slept 
 
 Out on the glassy sea ; 
 And still as heaven the waters kept, 
 
 And golden bright — as he, 
 The setting sun, went sinking slow 
 
 Beneath the eternal wave ; 
 And the ocean seemed a pall to throw 
 
 Over the monarch's grave. 
 
 There was no motion of the air 
 
 To raise the sleeper's tress, 
 And no wave-building winds were there. 
 
 On ocean's loveliness ; 
 But ocean mingled with the sky 
 
 With such an equal hue. 
 That vainly strove the 'wildered eye 
 
 To part their gold and blue. 
 
 And ne'er a ripple of the sea 
 
 Came on our steady gaze. 
 Save when some timorous fish stole out 
 
 To bathe in the woven blaze, — 
 When, flouting in the light that played 
 
 All over the resting main. 
 He would sink beneath the wave, and dart 
 
 To his deep, blue home again. 
 
 Vet, while we gazed, that sunny eve, 
 
 Across the twinkling deep, 
 A form came ploughing the golden wave. 
 
 And rending its holy sleep ; 
 It blushed bright red, while growing on 
 
 Our fixed, half-fearful gaze ; 
 17* 
 
198 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 But it wandered down, with its glow of light, 
 And its robe of sunny rays. 
 
 It seemed like molten silver, thrown 
 
 Together in floating flame ; 
 And as we looked, we named it, then, 
 
 The fount whence all colors came : 
 There were rainbows furled with a careless grace. 
 
 And the brightest red that glows ; 
 The purple amethyst there had place. 
 
 And the hues of a full-blown rose. 
 
 And the vivid green, as the sun-lit grass 
 
 Where the pleasant rain hath been ; 
 And the ideal hues, that, thought-like, pass 
 
 Through the minds of fanciful men ; 
 They beamed full clear — and that form moved on, 
 
 Like one from a burning grave ; 
 And we dared not think it a real thing, 
 
 But for the rustling wave. 
 
 The sun just lingered in our view, 
 
 From the burning edge of ocean. 
 When by our bark that bright one passed 
 
 With a deep, disturbing motion: 
 The far down waters shrank away. 
 
 With a gurgling rush upheaving, 
 And the lifted waves grew pale and sad, 
 
 Their mother's bosom leaving. 
 
 Vet, as it passed our bending stern, 
 
 In its throne-like glory going, 
 It crushed on a hidden rock, and turned 
 
 Like an empire's overthrowing. 
 The uptorn waves rolled hoar, — and, huge. 
 
 The far-thrown undulations 
 Swelled out in the sun's last, lingering smile. 
 
 And fell like battling nations. 
 
 Hymn. — J. Pierpont. 
 
 Borne by the tempest, on we sail 
 O'er ocean's billowy way ; 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 199 
 
 One glorious orb by day we hail, 
 By night one faithful ray. 
 
 Thus God his undi voided light 
 
 Pours on life's troubled wave ; 
 Thus hope, meek star, through death's still night, 
 
 Looks on the Christian's grave. 
 
 Monarch of heaven, Eternal One, 
 
 On thee our spirit calls ; 
 To thee, as followers of thy Son, 
 
 We consecrate these walls. 
 
 These arches, springing to the sky. 
 
 This lightly swelling dome. 
 That lifts to heaven its starry eye, — 
 
 Be these, O God, thy home. 
 
 And wilt thou, Omnipresent, deign 
 
 Within these walls to dwell ? — 
 Then shalt thou hear our holiest sti*ain, 
 
 Our organ's proudest swell. 
 
 Devotion's eye shall drink the light 
 
 That richly gushes through 
 Our simple dome of spotless white. 
 
 From thine, of cloudless blue. 
 
 And Faith, and Penitence, and Love, 
 
 And Gratitude, shall bend 
 To thee : — O hear them from above. 
 
 Our Father and our Friend. 
 
 The Bride, — Anonymous, 
 
 It hath passed, my daughter; fare thee well ! 
 
 Pledged is the faith, inscribed the vow ; 
 Yet let these gushing tear-drops speak, 
 
 Of all thy mother's anguish now ; 
 And when, on distant, stranger- shores. 
 
 Love beams from brighter eyes than mine, 
 When other hands thy tresses weave. 
 
 And other lips are pressed to thine,— 
 
200 cheever's poets of ameeica. 
 
 O, then remember her who grieves 
 
 With parent-fondness for her child ; 
 Whose lonely path, of thee bereft. 
 
 Is like some desert, lone and wild. 
 Where erst a simple floweret grew. 
 
 Where erst one timid wild bird sung ; 
 Now lonely, dark and desolate. 
 
 No bird nor flower its shades among. 
 
 And when thy children clinrb the knee. 
 
 And whisper, " Mother, mother dear !^' 
 O, then the thought of her recall 
 
 Thou leavest broken-hearted here ; 
 And as their sinless offerings rise 
 
 To God's own footstool, let them crave 
 A blessing on her memory. 
 
 Who slumbers in tho peaceful grave. 
 
 When care shall dim thy sunny eye, 
 
 And, one by one, the ties are broken 
 That bind thee to the earth, this kiss 
 
 Will linger yet — thy mother's token; 
 'Twill speak her changeless love for thee. 
 
 Speak what she strives in yarn to tell. 
 The yearning of a parent's heart 
 
 My only child, farewell I farewell I 
 
 On seeing an Eagle pass near me in Autumn Twilights- 
 G. Melle]v. 
 
 Sail on, thou lone imperial bird. 
 
 Of quenchless eye and tireless wing ; 
 How is thy distant coming heard 
 
 As the night's breezes round thee ring ! 
 Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun 
 
 In his extremest glory ! How ! 
 Is thy unequalled daring done. 
 
 Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now ? 
 
 Or hast thou left thy rocking dome. 
 Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine. 
 
 To find some secret, meaner home. 
 Less stormy and unsafe than thine J 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AxMERICA. 201 
 
 Else why thy dusky pinions bend 
 
 So closely to this shadowy world, 
 And round thy scorching glances send. 
 
 As wishing thy broad pens were furled ? 
 
 Yet lonely is thy shattered nest. 
 
 Thy eyry desolate, though high ; ♦ 
 
 And lonely thou, alike, at rest. 
 
 Or soaring in thy upper sky. 
 The golden light that bathes thy plumes. 
 
 On thine interminable flight. 
 Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs. 
 
 And makes the North's ice-mountains bright. 
 
 So come the eagle-hearted down. 
 
 So come the proud and high to earth. 
 When life's night-gathering tempests frown 
 
 Over their glory and their mirth ; 
 So quails the mind's undying eye. 
 
 That bore unveiled fame's noontide sun ; 
 So man seeks solitude, to die, 
 
 His high place left, his triumphs done. 
 
 So, round the residence of power, 
 
 A cold and joyless lustre shines. 
 And on life's pinnacles wi]l lower 
 
 Clouds dark as bathe the eagle's pines 
 But 0, the mellow light that pours 
 
 From God's pure throne — the light that saves ! 
 It warms the spirit as it soars, 
 
 And sheds deep radiance round our graves. 
 
 To the Hon. Theodore Frelinghuysen, on reading his elo- 
 quent Speech in defence of Indian Rights. — 
 W. L. Garrison. 
 
 If unto marble statues thou hadst spoken. 
 Or icy hearts, congealed by polar years, 
 
 The strength of thy pure eloquence had broken, 
 Its generous heat had melted them to tears ; 
 
 Which pearly drops had been a rainbow token, 
 Bidding the red men soothe their gloomy fears. 
 
202 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 If Honor, Justice, Truth, had not forsaken 
 
 The place long hallowed as their bright abode, 
 
 The faith of treaties never had been shaken. 
 
 Our country would have kept the trust she owed ; 
 
 Nor Violence nor Treachery had taken 
 
 Away those rights which nature's God bestowed. 
 
 Fruitless thy mighty efforts — vain appealing 
 To grasping Avarice, that ne'er relents ; 
 
 To Party Power, that shamelessly is stealing, 
 Banditti-like, whatever spoil it scents; 
 
 To base Intrigue, his cloven foot revealing, 
 That struts in Honesty's habiliments. 
 
 Our land — once green as Paradise — is hoary, 
 E'en in its youth, with tyranny and crime : 
 
 Its soil with blood of Afric's sons is gory. 
 Whose wrongs eternity can tell — not time ; 
 
 The red man's woes shall swell the damning story. 
 To be rehearsed in every age and clime. 
 
 Yet, Frelinghuysejv, gratitude is due thee. 
 And loftier praise than language can supply : 
 
 Guilt may denounce, and Calumny pursue thee. 
 And pensioned Impudence thy worth decry ; 
 
 Brilhant and pure posterity shall view thee, 
 As a fair planet in a troublous sky. 
 
 Be not dismayed. On God's own strength relying, 
 Stand boldly up, meek soldier of the cross ; 
 
 For thee, ten thousand prayers are heavenward flying*; 
 Thy soul is purged from earthly rust and dross. 
 
 Patriot and Christian, ardent, self-denying. 
 How could we bear resignedly thy loss ^ 
 
 Genius Slumbering. — Percival. 
 
 He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame ; 
 
 He has no feeling of the glory gone ; 
 He has no eye to catch the mounting flame. 
 
 That once in transport drew his spirit on ; 
 He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares 
 Who the wreathed laurel bears. 
 
CIIEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 203 
 
 And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there ; 
 
 There are who still remember how he bore 
 Upward his daring pinions, till the air 
 
 Seemed living with the crown of light he wore ; 
 There are who, now his early sun has set. 
 Nor can, nor will forget. 
 
 He sleeps, — and yet, around the sightless eye 
 And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays ; 
 
 Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie, 
 There hovers still the light of other days; 
 
 Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth. 
 
 Still struggles for its birth. 
 
 He will not sleep for ever, but will rise 
 
 Fresh to more daring labors ; now, even now. 
 
 As the close shrouding mist of morning flies. 
 The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow ; 
 
 From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams. 
 
 His wakened spirit streams. 
 
 Yes, he will break his sleep ; the spell is gone ; 
 
 The deadly charm departed ; see him fling 
 Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on. 
 
 Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing; 
 The goal is still before him, and the prize 
 Still woos his eager eyes. 
 
 He rushes forth to conquer : shall they take — 
 
 They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way, 
 
 When he forgot the contest — shall they take. 
 Now he renews the race, the victor's bay ? 
 
 Still let them strive — when he collects his might. 
 
 He will assert his right. 
 
 The spirit cannot always sleep in dust. 
 Whose essence is ethereal ; they may try 
 
 To darken and degrade it ; it may rust 
 Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die ; 
 
 And, when it wakens, it will send its fire 
 
 Intenser forth and higher. 
 
204 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Genius Waking. — Percival. 
 
 SliUmber's heavy chain hath bound thee- 
 
 Where is now thy fire ? 
 Feebler wings are gathering round thee — 
 
 Shall they hover higher ? 
 Can no power, no spell, recall thee 
 
 From inglorious dreams ? 
 O, could glory so appal thee, 
 
 With his burning beams ! 
 
 Thine was once the highest pinion 
 
 In the midway air ; 
 With a proud and sure dominion, 
 
 Thou didst upward bear. 
 Like the herald, winged with lightning. 
 
 From the Olympian throne. 
 Ever mounting, ever brightening, 
 
 Thou wert there alone. -^ 
 
 Where the pillared props of heaven 
 ■ Glitter with eternal snows. 
 Where no darkling clouds are driven, 
 
 Where no fountain flows — 
 Far above the rolling thunder. 
 
 When the surging storm 
 Rent its sulphury folds asunder. 
 
 We beheld thy form. 
 
 O, what rare and heavenly brightness 
 
 Flowed around thy plumes. 
 As a cascade's foamy whiteness 
 
 Lights a cavern's glooms ! 
 Wheeling through the shadowy ocean, 
 
 Like a shape of light, 
 With serene and placid motion, 
 
 Thou wert dazzling bright. 
 
 From that cloudless region stooping, 
 
 Downward thou didst rush. 
 Not with pinion faint and drooping 
 
 But the tempest's gush. 
 Up again undaunted soaring. 
 
 Thou didst pierce the cloud. 
 
CHEEVEK S POETS OF AMERICA. 205 
 
 When the warring winds were roaring 
 Fearfully and loud. 
 
 Where is now that restless longing 
 
 After higher things ? 
 Come they not, like visions, thronging 
 
 On their airy wings ? 
 Why should not their glow enchant thee 
 
 Upward to their bliss ? 
 Surely danger cannot daunt thee 
 
 From a heaven like this. 
 
 But thou slumberest ; faint and quivering 
 
 Hangs thy ruffled wing; 
 Like a dove in winter shivering. 
 
 Or a feebler thing. 
 Where is now thy might and motion, 
 
 Thy imperial flight ? 
 Where is now thy heart's devotion ? 
 
 Where thy spirit's light ? 
 
 Hark ! his rustling plumage gathers 
 
 Closer to his side, 
 Close, as when the storm-bird weathers 
 
 Ocean's hurrying tide. 
 Now his nodding beak is steady — 
 
 Wide his burning eye — 
 Now his opening wings are ready, 
 
 And his aim — how high ! 
 
 Now he curves his neck, and proudly 
 
 Now is stretched for flight — 
 Hark ! his wings — they thunder loudly, 
 
 And their flash — ^liow bright ! 
 Onward — onward over mountains. 
 
 Through the rock and storm, 
 Now, like sunset over fountains. 
 
 Flits his glancing form. 
 
 Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee — 
 
 Thou hast reached thy heaven — 
 Lingering slumber hath not reft thee 
 
 Of the glory given. 
 With a bold, a fearless pinion, 
 
 On thy starry road. 
 None, to fame's supreme dominion, 
 
 Mightier ever trode. 
 18 
 
206 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 The Spirit of Poetry, — Longfellow. 
 
 There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
 That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows — 
 Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, 
 The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air. 
 The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
 With what a tender and impassioned voice 
 It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought. 
 When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 
 O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 
 Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled eve. 
 In mourning weeds, from out the western gate. 
 Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
 In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
 From its full laver, pours the white cascade. 
 And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 
 Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 
 And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 
 Its feet go forth,, when it doth wrap itself 
 In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 
 And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 
 The silent majesty of these deep woods. 
 Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 
 As to the sunshine and the pure bright air 
 Their tops the green trees lift. 
 
 Hence gifted bards 
 
 Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
 
 For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
 
 The sylvan pomp of woods — the golden sun — 
 
 The flowers — the leaves — the river on its way — 
 
 Blue skies — and silver clouds — and gentle winds — 
 
 The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
 
 Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes — 
 
 Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in — 
 
 Mountain — and shattered cliff^— and sunny vale — 
 
 The distant lake — fountains — and mighty trees — 
 
 In many a lazy syllable repeating 
 
 Their old poetic legenas to the wind. 
 
 And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill 
 
 The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
 
 My busy fancy oft imbodies it^ 
 
 As a bright image of the light and beauty 
 
 That dwell in nature — of the heavenly forms 
 
C;U(?n.'s Li^^tX 
 
 
 ^t^^^XDv KSiJh^^^ ^J 
 
 JL>-. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OP AMERICA. 207 
 
 We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
 
 That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 
 
 When the sun sets. Within her eye 
 
 The heaven of April, with its changing light, 
 
 And v/hen it wears the blue of May, was hung. 
 
 And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hair 
 
 Was as the summer tresses of the trees. 
 
 When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 
 
 Blushed all the richness of an autumn sky. 
 
 With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath — 
 
 It was so like the gentle air of spring. 
 
 As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 
 
 Full of their fragrance, that it was a joy 
 
 To have it round us — and her silver voice 
 
 Was the rich music of a summer bird. 
 
 Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 
 
 Incomprehensibility of God.^—Miss Elizabeth Towijsend. 
 
 " I go forward, but he is not there j and backward, but I cannot perceive 
 him." 
 
 Where art thou ? — Thou ! Source and Support of all 
 That is or seen or felt ; Thyself unseen, 
 Unfelt, unknown, — alas ! unknowable ! 
 I look abroad among thy works — the sky, 
 Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns, — 
 Life-giving earth, — and ever-moving main, — 
 And speaking winds, — and ask if these are Thee ! 
 The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills, 
 The restless tide's outgoing and return. 
 The omnipresent and deep-breathing air— 
 
 * To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth 
 volume of the Unitarian Miscellany, would repay us for the toil of looking 
 through whole libraries. It is equal in grandeur to the celebrated produc- 
 tion of Bryant — " Thanatopsis ;" nor will it suffer by a comparison with 
 tlie most sublime pieces either of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. The latter 
 (with a feeling akin to the elevated inspiration which animates these noble 
 lines) has said, 
 
 *'For never guiltless may I speak of Him, 
 
 The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
 
 I praise Him, and with Faith, that inly feels ; 
 
 Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
 
 A sinful and most miserable man." Ed. 
 
208 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Though hailed as gods of old, and only less — 
 
 Are not the Power I seek ; are thine, not Thee ! 
 
 I ask Thee from the past ; if in the years. 
 
 Since first intelligence could search its source, 
 
 Or in some former unremembered being, 
 
 (If such, perchance, were mine) did they behold Thee ? 
 
 And next interrogate futurity — 
 
 So fondly tenanted with better things 
 
 Than e'er experience owned — but both are mute ; 
 
 And past and future, vocal on all else, 
 
 So full of memories and phantasies. 
 
 Are deaf and speechless here ! Fatigued, I turn 
 
 From all vain parley with the elements ; 
 
 And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward. 
 
 From each material thing its anxious guest. 
 
 If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, 
 
 He may vouchsafe himself — Spirit to spirit ! 
 
 O Thou, at once most dreaded and desired. 
 
 Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee ? 
 
 What though the rash request be fraught with fate. 
 
 Nor human eye may look on thine and live ? 
 
 Welcome the penalty ! let that come now. 
 
 Which soon or late must come. For light like this 
 
 Who would not dare to die ? 
 
 Peace, my proud aim, 
 And hush the wish that knows not what it asks. 
 Await his will, who hath appointed this. 
 With every other trial. Be that will 
 Done now, as ever. For thy curious search. 
 And unprepared solicitude to gaze 
 On Him — the Unrevealed — learn hence, instead, 
 To temper highest hope with humbleness. 
 Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts. 
 Till rent the veil, no longer separating 
 The Holiest of all — as erst, disclosing 
 A brighter dispensation ; whose results 
 Ineffable, interminable, tend 
 E'en to the perfecting thyself — thy kind — 
 Till meet for that sublime beatitude. 
 By the firm promise of a voice from heaven 
 Pledged to the pure in heart ! 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 209 
 
 Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau,— 
 
 J. Neal. 
 
 Switzerland, my country, 'tis to thee 
 
 1 strike my harp in agony. 
 My country, nurse of Liberty, 
 Home of the gallant, great, and free. 
 My sullen harp I strike to thee. 
 
 O ! I have lost you all ! 
 Parents, and home, and friends: 
 
 Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall ; 
 A mountain's plumage o'er you bends. 
 The cliff-yew of funereal gloom 
 Is now the only mourning plume 
 That nods above a people's tomb. 
 Of the echoes that swim o'er. thy bright blue lake, 
 And> deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake. 
 
 And repeat the young huntsman's cry — 
 That clatter and laugh when the goatherds take 
 Their browzing flocks, at the morning's break. 
 Far over the hills, — not one is awake 
 
 In the swell of thy peaceable sky. 
 They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, 
 And their cymbals are mute ; and the desert birds sing 
 Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky. 
 As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by : 
 For deep, in that blue-bosomed water, is laid 
 As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid 
 As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song, 
 In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along. 
 The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge 
 Is frothily laved by a whispering surge, 
 That heaves, incessant, a tranquil dirge. 
 To lull the pale forms that sleep below — 
 Forms that rock as the waters flow. 
 
 That bright lake is still as a liquid sky ; 
 And when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly. 
 They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye. 
 The fringe of thin foam that their sepulchre binds 
 Is as light as the clouds that are borne by the winds. 
 Soft over its bosom the dim vapors hover 
 In morning's first light ; and the snowy-winged plover. 
 That skims o'er the deep. 
 Where my loved ones sleep, 
 18* 'm^ 
 
210 . CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 No note of joy on this solitude flings. 
 
 Nor sliakes the mist from his drooping wings. 
 
 * * ^ * * * 
 
 No chariots of fire on the clouds careered ; 
 No warrior's arm on the hills was reared ; 
 No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown; 
 No mantle of wrath over heaven was thrown ; 
 No armies of light, with their banners of flame, 
 On neighing steeds, through the sunset came. 
 
 Or leaping from space appeared ; 
 No earthquake reeled ; no Thunderer stormed ; 
 No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed ; 
 
 No voices in heaven were heard. 
 But the hour when the sun in his pride went down. 
 
 While his parting hung rich o'er the world, 
 While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown. 
 And his streamers of gold were unfurled, 
 An everlasting hill was torn 
 From its primeval base, and borne, 
 In gold and crimson vapors dressed, 
 To where a people are at rest. 
 Slowly it came in its mountain wrath ; 
 And the forest vanished before its path ; 
 And the rude cliffs bowed ; and the waters fled ; 
 And the living were buried, while, over their head. 
 They heard the full march of their foe as he sped; — 
 And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead — 
 The mountain sepulchre of all I loved ! 
 The village sank, and the giant trees 
 Leaned back from the encountering breeze. 
 As this tremendous pageant moved. 
 The mountain forsook his perpetual throne. 
 And came down in his. pomp ; and his path is shown 
 In barrenness and ruin : — there 
 His ancient mysteries lay bare ; 
 His rocks in nakedness arise ; 
 His desolations mock the skies. 
 Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell ! 
 An Alpine monument may dwell 
 Upon thy bosom, O my home ! 
 The mountain — thy pall and thy prison — may keep thee : 
 i shall see thee no more ; but till death I will weep lite \ 
 Of thy blue dwelling dream wherever I roam, 
 And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 21J 
 
 Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying- ground at 
 JYew Haven. — Christian Disciple. 
 
 O, WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give, 
 
 Beneath these senseless marbles disappeared ? 
 Where even they who taught these stones to grieve — 
 
 The hands that hewed them, and the hearts that reared ? 
 
 Such the poor bounds of all that's hoped or feared. 
 Within the griefs and smiles of this short day ! 
 
 Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared ; 
 This the last tribute love to love could pay — 
 An idle, pageant pile to graces passed away. 
 
 Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb ? 
 
 Why, victims, garland thus the spoiler's fane ? 
 Hope ye by these to avert oblivion's doom. 
 
 In grief ambitious, and in ashes vain ? 
 
 Go, rather, bid the sand the trace retain. 
 Of all that parted virtue felt and did ! 
 
 Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign ; 
 
 Hence blazoned flattery mocks pride's coffin lid ; 
 
 Hence towered on Egypt's plains the giant pyramid. 
 
 Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die ; 
 
 Be lowly as the relics ye o'erspread ; 
 Nor lift your funeral forms so gorgeously. 
 
 To tell who slumbers in each narrow bed : 
 
 I would not honor thus the sainted dead. 
 Nor to each stranger's careless ear declare 
 
 My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled. 
 O, let me hide the names of those that were 
 Deep in my stricken heart, and shrine them only there ! 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers. — Pierpont. 
 
 The pilgrim fathers — where are they ? 
 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore ; 
 Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day. 
 
 When the May-Flower moored below, 
 
212 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep. 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale. 
 
 When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; — 
 As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud. 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 
 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame. 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hill-side and the sea. 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; — 
 
 But the pilgrim — where is he ? 
 
 The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 
 
 When Summer's throned on high. 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed. 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world. 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The pilgrim spirit has not fled : 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light ; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With the holy stars, by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled. 
 
 And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, 
 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 Song of the Pilgrims. — T. C. Upham. 
 
 The breeze has swelled the whitening sail. 
 The blue waves curl beneath the gale. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OP AMERICA. 213 
 
 And, bounding with the wave and wind, 
 Wc leave Old England's shores behind— 
 
 Leave behind our native shore, 
 
 Homes, and all we loved before. 
 
 The deep may dash, the winds may blow, 
 The storm spread out its wings of wo, 
 Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud 
 Hung in the folds of every cloud ; 
 
 Still, as long as life shall last, 
 
 From that shore we'll speed us fast. 
 
 For we would rather never be. 
 Than dwell where mind cannot be free. 
 But bows beneath a despot's rod 
 Even where it seeks to worship God. 
 
 Blasts of heaven, onward sweep ! 
 
 Bear us o'er the troubled deep ! 
 
 O, see what wonders meet our eyes ! 
 Another land, and other skies ! 
 Columbian hills have met our view ! 
 Adieu ! Old England's shores, adieu I 
 
 Here, at length, our feet shall rest. 
 
 Hearts be free, and homes be blessed. 
 
 As long as yonder firs shall spread 
 Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,—* 
 As long as yonder cliffs shall stand. 
 Where join the ocean and the land, — 
 
 Shall those clififs and mountains be 
 
 Proud retreats for liberty. 
 
 Now to the King of kings we'll raise 
 The paean loud of sacred praise ; 
 More loud than sounds the swelling breeze. 
 More loud than speak the rolling seas ! 
 
 Happier lands have met our view ! 
 
 England's shores, adieu ! adieu ! 
 
 Dedication Hymn. — N. P. Willis. 
 
 The perfect world by Adam trod 
 Was the first temple— built by God : 
 
214 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 His fiat laid the corner stone. 
 And heaved its pillars, one by one. 
 
 He hung its starry roof on high — - 
 
 The broad illimitable sky ; 
 
 He spread its pavement, green and bright. 
 
 And curtained it with morning light. 
 
 The mountains in their places stood — 
 The sea — the sky — and " all was good ;" 
 And, when its first pure praises rang, 
 The '*' morning stars together sang." 
 
 Lord, 'tis not ours to make the sea, 
 And earth, and sky, a house for thee ; 
 But in thy sight our offering stands — 
 A humbler temple, " made with hands." 
 
 Extract from a Poem written on reading an A<:count of the 
 Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had re- 
 ceived Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, 
 and Stars. — Hill house. 
 
 Ajvd didst thou fear the queen of night, 
 
 Poor mute and musing child ? 
 She who, with pure and silver light. 
 
 Gladdens the loneliest wild ? 
 Yet her the savage marks serene. 
 Chequering his clay-built cabin's scene : 
 
 Her the polar natives bless. 
 
 Bowing low in gentleness. 
 To bathe with liquid beams their rayless night : 
 Her the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps, 
 HaiLs, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps, 
 Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps : 
 E'en the lost maniac loves her light. 
 Uttering to her, with fixed eye, 
 Wild symphonies, he knows not why. — 
 
 Sad was thy fate, my child, to see. 
 
 In nature's gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 215 
 
 Being of lonely thought, the world to thee 
 Was a deep maze, and all things moving on 
 
 In darkness and in mystery. But He, 
 
 Who made these beauteous forms that fade anon, 
 
 What was He ? — From thy brow the roses fled 
 
 At that eternal question, fathomless and dread ! 
 
 O, snatched from ignorance and pain, 
 
 And taught, with seraph eye, 
 At yon unmeasured orbs to gaze, 
 And trace, amid their quenchless blaze, 
 Thine own high destiny ! 
 Forever bless the hands that burst thy chain. 
 And led thy doubtful steps to learning's hallowed fane. 
 
 Though from thy guarded lips may press 
 No word of gratitude or tenderness, — 
 In the starting tear, the glowing cheek. 
 With tuneful tongue, the soul can speak ; 
 Her tone is in the sigh. 
 Her language in the eye, 
 Her voice of harmony, a life of praise. 
 Well understood by Him who notes our searching ways . 
 
 The tomb shall burst thy fetters. Death sublime 
 Shall bear away the seal of time. 
 
 So long in wo bewailed ! 
 Thou, who no melody of earth hast known. 
 Nor chirp of birds, their wind-rocked cell that rear, 
 Nor waters murmuring lone. 
 Nor organ's solemn peal, nor viol clear. 
 Nor warbling breath of man, that joins the hymning sphere—' 
 Can speech of mortals tell 
 What tides of bliss shall swell. 
 If the first summons to thy wakened ear 
 Should be the plaudits of thy Savior's love. 
 The full, enraptured choir of the redeemed above ? 
 
 The Land of the Blest.— W. O. B. Peabody. 
 
 O, WHEN the hours of life are past. 
 And death's dark shade arrives at last^ 
 
216 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 It is not sleep, it is not rest ; 
 'Tis glory opening to the blest. 
 
 Their way to heaven was pure from sin, 
 And Christ shall there receive them in : 
 There, each shall wear a robe of light, 
 Like his, divinely fair and bright. 
 
 There, parted hearts again shall meet, 
 In union holy, calm, and sweet ; 
 There, grief find rest ; and never more 
 Shall sorrow call them to deplore. 
 
 There, angels will unite their prayers 
 With spirits bright and blest as theirs ; 
 And light shall glance on every crown, 
 From suns that never more go down. 
 
 No storms shall ride the troubled air ; 
 No voice of passion enter there ; 
 But all be peaceful as the sigh 
 Of evening gales, that breathe, and die. 
 
 For there the God of mercy sheds 
 His purest influence on their heads, 
 * And gilds the spirits round the throne 
 
 With glory radiant as his own. 
 
 To the Moon. — Massachusetts Spy. 
 
 Queen of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam. 
 
 Alone, and pensive, I delight to stray, 
 And watch thy shadow, trembling in the stream, 
 
 Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way ; 
 And, while I gaze, thy mild and placid light 
 
 Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast ; 
 And oft I think, fair planet of the night. 
 
 That m thy orb the wretched may have rest. 
 
 The sufferers of the earth, perhaps, may go. 
 Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, 
 
CHEt:VER's POETS OF AMERICA. 217 
 
 And the sad children of despair and wo 
 
 Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. 
 O, that I soon may reach that world serene, 
 Poor weary pilgrim in this toiling scene I 
 
 Song. — From Yamoyden, 
 
 "They say, that, afar in the land of the west, 
 Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 
 'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, 
 A fair lake, unruffled and sparkling, is spread ; 
 Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, 
 in distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers. 
 
 There verdure fades never ; immortal in bloom, 
 Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume ; 
 And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed. 
 All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east ; 
 There the bright eye of nature in mild glory hovers : 
 'Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green isle of lovers. 
 
 Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss 
 The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss ; 
 W^here, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs 
 Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires 
 The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover. 
 On high, with their shade, the green isle of the lover. 
 
 But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire. 
 When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire. 
 Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle. 
 Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile; 
 From beauty, there, valor and strength are not rovers, 
 And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers. 
 
 And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, 
 In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more ; 
 It fleets on the vision, deluding the view ; % 
 Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue : 
 O, who, in this vain world of wo, shall discover 
 The home undisturbed, the green isle of the lover! 
 19 
 
218 CHEEVEr'^S poets of AMERIC^i, 
 
 The Light of Home.— M:rs. Hal.b. 
 
 My boy^ thou wilt dream the world is fanv 
 
 And thy spirit will sigh to roam ; 
 And thou must go ; but never, when theFe, 
 
 Forget tlie light of home. 
 
 Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright. 
 
 It dazzles to lead astray : 
 Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the mght, 
 
 When thou treadest the lonely way. 
 
 But the hearth of home has a constant flame, 
 
 And pure as vestal fire : 
 'Twill burn, 'twill burn, for ever the same. 
 
 For nature feeds the pyre. 
 
 The sea of ambition is tempest tost. 
 And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; 
 
 But when sails are shivered and rudder lost. 
 Then look to the light of home ; — 
 
 And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, 
 
 Thou shalt see the beacon bright ; 
 For never, till shining on thy shroud. 
 
 Can be quenched its holy light. 
 
 The sun of fame, ^twill gild the name ; 
 
 But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 
 And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim. 
 
 Are but beams of a wintry day. 
 
 And how cold and dim those beams must be. 
 Should life's wretched wanderer come ! 
 
 But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee, 
 Then turn to the light of home. 
 
 The American Flag, — ^F. G. HAiiiiBcs. 
 
 When Freedom, from her mountain heigh*, 
 Unfurled her standard to the air^ 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 219 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 
 And set the stars of glory there ; 
 She mingled with the gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 And striped its pure celestial white, 
 With streakings of the morning light ; 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun. 
 She called her eagle-bearer down, ^ 
 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thj' regal form. 
 To hear the tempest trumping loud. 
 And see the lightning-lances driven. 
 
 When stride the warriors of the storm 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the Sun, to thee 'tis given. 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
 To ward away the battle stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 
 The harbinger of victory. 
 
 Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph, high. 
 When speaks the signal trumpet- tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on, 
 (Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
 Has dimmed the glist'ning bayonet,) 
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy meteor-glories burn. 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance 
 And, when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave, in wild wreaths, the battle shroud, 
 And glory, — sabres rise and fall. 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall ! 
 There shall thy victor-glances glow. 
 
 And cowering foes shall sink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas, on ocean's wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, 
 
220 CHEEVEH S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And Irightened waves rush wildly back. 
 Before the broad-side's reeling rack ; 
 The dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly, 
 In triumph, o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free hearts' only home. 
 
 By angel-hands to valor given. 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe, but falls before us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? 
 
 To the Ursa Major, — Henry Ware, Jr.^ 
 
 With what a stately and majestic step 
 That glorious constellation of the north 
 Treads its eternal circle ! going forth 
 Its princely way amongst the stars in slow 
 And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail! 
 I joy to see thee on thy glowing path 
 Walk, like some stout and girded giant — stern, 
 Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot 
 Disdains to loiter on its destined way. 
 The other tribes forsake their midnight track. 
 And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave ; 
 But thou dost never close thy burning eye. 
 Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on. 
 While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds 
 Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. 
 The near horizon tempts to rest in vain. 
 Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit 
 Thy long appointed watch ; but, sleepless still. 
 Dost guard the fixed light of the universe. 
 And bid the north forever know its place. 
 
 * We have read this piece with regret, that one who can write in a strain 
 so truly sul)lime, should have given his mind so sparingly, and, as it were, 
 by stealth, to the effort of poetical composition. — Ed. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 221 
 
 Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust. 
 Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God 
 Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven. 
 And echoed from the outer spheres that bound 
 The inimitable universe, thy voice 
 Joined the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs 
 The glad cry sounded, swelhng to His praise. 
 Who thus had cast another sparkUng gem. 
 Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd 
 Of splendors that enrich his firmament. 
 As thou art now, so wast thou then the same. 
 Ages have rolled their course, and time grown gray; 
 The earth has gathered to her womb again. 
 And yet again, the myriads that were born 
 Of her uncounted, unremembered tribes. 
 The seas have changed their beds — the eternal hills 
 Have stooped with age — the solid continents 
 Have left their banks — and man's imperial works — 
 The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung 
 Their haughty honors in the face of heaven, 
 As if immortal — have been swept away — 
 Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot. 
 But time has shed no dimness on thy front, 
 Nor touched the firmness of thy tread ; youth, strength, 
 And beauty still are thine — as clear, as bright. 
 As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth. 
 Beautiful offspring of his curious skill, 
 To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim 
 The eternal chorus of eternal Love. 
 
 I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, 
 Undimmed, unquenched, — just as I see it now, — 
 Has issued from those dazzling points, through years 
 That go back far into eternity. 
 Exhaustless flood ! forever spent, renewed 
 Forever ! Yea, and those refulgent drops, 
 Which now descend upon my lifted eye. 
 Left their far fountain twice three years ago. 
 While those winged particles, whose speed outstrips 
 The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth 
 Compassed its tedious circuit round and round, 
 And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld 
 Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom. 
 So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve ! 
 So vast the void through which their beams descend ! 
 19* 
 
222 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Yea, glorious lamps of God i He may have quenched 
 Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night 
 Rest on your spheres; and yet no tidings reach 
 This distant planet. Messengers still come 
 Laden with your far fire, and we may seem 
 To see your lights still burning ; while their blaze 
 But hides the black wreck of extinguished realms, 
 Where anarchy and darkness long have reigned. 
 
 Yet what is this, which to the astonished mind 
 Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought 
 Confounds ? A span, a point, in those domains 
 Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars 
 Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight 
 Embraces all at once ; yet each from each 
 Recedes as far as each of them from earth. 
 And every star from every other burns 
 No less remote. From the profound of heaven, 
 Untravelled even in thought, keen, piercing rays 
 Dart through the void, revealing to the sense 
 Systems and worlds unnumbered. Take the glass, 
 And search the skies. The opening skies piour down 
 Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire — 
 Stars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote. 
 That their swift beams — the swiftest things that be — 
 Have travelled centuries on their flight to earth. 
 Earth, sun, and nearer constellations ! what 
 Are ye, amid this infinite extent 
 And multitude of God's most infinite works! 
 
 And these are suns ! — vast, central, living fires, 
 Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds 
 That wait as satellites upon their power. 
 And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, 
 And meditate the wonder ! Countless suns 
 Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds! — 
 Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice, 
 And drink the bliss of being from the fount 
 Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know, 
 What tongue can utter, all their multitudes! 
 Thus numberless in numberless abodes ! 
 Known but to thee, blessed Father! Thine they are, 
 Thy children, and thy care — and none o'erlooked 
 Of (hec ! No, not the humblest soul that dwells 
 Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course 
 Amid the giant glories of the sky, 
 Like the mean mote that dances in the beam 
 
€HEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 223 
 
 Amongst the mirrored lamps, which fling 
 Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall 
 None, none escape the kindness of thy care ; 
 All compassed underneath thy spacious wing. 
 Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand* 
 
 Tell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne. 
 Ye mark the rolling provinces that owrl ^ 
 
 Your sway — what beings fill those bright abodes ? 
 How formed, how gifted? what their powers, their state, 
 Their happiness, their wisdom ? Do they bear 
 The stamp of human nature ? Or has God 
 Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms 
 And more celestial minds ? Does Innocence 
 Still wear her native and untainted bloom ? 
 Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad. 
 And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers ? 
 Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire ? 
 And Slavery forged his chains; and Wrath, and Hate, 
 And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust, 
 Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, 
 And scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy ? 
 Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen 
 And uncorrupt ? existence one long joy. 
 Without disease upon the frame, or sin 
 Upon the heart, or weariness of life — 
 Hope never quenched, and age unknown. 
 And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth 
 Glows in the light from God's near throne of love ? 
 
 Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! 
 Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds 
 Unfold ! — No language ? Everlasting light, 
 And everlasting silence ? — Yet the eye 
 May read and understand. Tiie hand of God 
 Has written legibly what man may know. 
 The glory of the Maker. There it shines, 
 Ineffable, unchangeable ; and man, 
 Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe. 
 May know and ask no more. In other days, 
 When death shall give the encumbered spirit wings, 
 Its range shall be extended ; it shall roam, 
 Perchance, amongst those vast mysterious spheres. 
 Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each 
 Familiar with its children — learn their laws. 
 And share their state, and study and adore 
 The infinite varieties of bliss 
 
224 cheever's poets of America^ 
 
 And beauty, by the hand of Power divine 
 Lavished on all its works. Eternity 
 Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight ; 
 No pause of pleasure or improvement; world 
 On world still opening to the itistructed mind 
 An unexhausted universe, and time 
 But adding to its glories. While the soul. 
 Advancing ever to the Source of light 
 And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns 
 In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. 
 
 ^* Look not upon the Wine when it is re^i.'*— -N. P. Wii*i.3s„ 
 
 Look not upon the wine when it 
 
 Is red within the cup ! 
 Stay not for Pleasure when she fills 
 
 Her tempting beaker up ! 
 Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, 
 A spell of madness lurks below. 
 
 They say 'tis pleasant on the lip. 
 
 And merry on the brain : 
 They say it stirs the sluggish blood,. 
 
 And dulls the tooth of pain. 
 Ay — but within its glowing deeps 
 A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps. 
 
 Its rosy lights will turn to fire. 
 
 Its coolness change to thirst ; 
 And, by its mirth, within the brain 
 
 A sleepless worm is nursed. 
 There's not a bubble at the brim 
 That does not carry food for him. 
 
 Then dash the brimming cup aside. 
 
 And spill its purple wine : 
 Take not its madness to thy lip — ' 
 
 Let not its curse be thine. 
 'Tis red and rich — ^but grief and wo 
 Are hid those rosy depths below. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 225 
 
 Tb * * * *, 071 the Death of a Friend. — Andrews Norton". 
 
 O STAY thy tears ; for they are blessed, 
 
 Whose days are passed, whose toil is done; 
 
 Here midnight care disturbs our rest. 
 Here sorrow dims the noon-day sun. 
 
 For laboring virtue's anxious toil, 
 
 For patient sorrow's stifled sigh. 
 For faith that marks the conqueror's spoil, 
 
 Heaven grants the recompense, to die. 
 
 How blessed are they, whose transient years 
 Pass like an evening meteor's flight; 
 
 Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears ; 
 Whose course is short, unclouded, bright. 
 
 O cheerless were our lengthened way ; 
 
 But heaven's own light dispels the gloom, 
 Streams downward from eternal day, 
 
 And casts a glory round the tomb. 
 
 Then stay thy tears ; the blessed above 
 Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth. 
 
 Sung a new song of joy and love ; 
 
 And why should anguish reign on earth 7 
 
 Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth. — Edward Everett. 
 
 Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in 
 the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted 
 from its course that the body might be interred. 
 
 When I am dead, no pageant train 
 Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, 
 
 Nor worthless pomp of homage vain 
 Stain it with hypocritic tear ; 
 
 For T will die as I did live. 
 
 Nor take the boon I cannot give. 
 
 Te shall not raise a marble bust 
 Upon the spot where I repose ; 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 Ye shall not fawn before my dust, 
 In hollow circumstance of woes ; 
 Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, 
 Insult the clay that moulds "beneath. 
 
 Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, 
 Your monuments upon my breast. 
 
 Nor yet within the common soil 
 
 Lay down the wreck of power to rest ; 
 
 Where man can boast that he has trod 
 
 On him that was *' the scourge of God." 
 
 But ye the mountain stream shall turn, 
 And lay its secret channel bare. 
 
 And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, 
 A resting-place for ever there : 
 
 Then bid its everlasting springs 
 
 Flow back upon the king of kings ; 
 
 And never be the secret said, 
 
 Until the deep give up his dead. 
 
 My gold and silver ye shall fling 
 
 Back to the clods, that gave them birth •,- 
 
 The captured crowns of many a king, 
 The ransom of a conquered earth : 
 
 For, e'en though dead, will I control 
 
 The trophies of the capitol. 
 
 But when, beneath the mountain tide, 
 Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, 
 
 Ye shall not rear upon its side 
 Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; 
 
 For long enough the world has shook 
 
 Beneath the terrors of my look ; 
 
 And, now that I have run my race, 
 
 The astonished realms shall rest a space. 
 
 My course was like a river deep. 
 And from the northern hills I burst. 
 
 Across the world, in wrath to sweep. 
 And where I went the spot was cursed, 
 
 Nor blade of grass again was seen 
 
 Where Alaric and his hosts had been. 
 
 See how their haughty barriers fail 
 Beneath the terror of the Goth, 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 227 
 
 Their iron-breasted legions quail 
 
 Before my ruthless sabaoth, 
 And low the queen of empires kneels. 
 And grovels at my chariot- wheels. 
 
 Not for myself did I ascend 
 
 In judgment my triumphal car; 
 'Twas God alone on high did send 
 
 The avenging Scythian to the war. 
 To shake abroad, with iron hand, 
 The appointed scourge of his command. 
 
 With iron hand that scourge I reared 
 
 O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; 
 Destruction was the ship I steered. 
 
 And vengeance sat upon the helm. 
 When, launched in fury on the flood, 
 I ploughed my way through seas of blood, 
 And, in the stream their hearts had spilt. 
 Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 
 
 Across the everlasting Alp 
 
 I poured the torrent of my powers, 
 And feeble Caesars shrieked for help. 
 
 In vain, within their seven-hilled towers; 
 I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
 That glittered in their diadem, 
 And struck a darker, deeper die 
 In the purple of their majesty. 
 And bade my northern banners shine 
 Upon the conquered Palatine. 
 
 My course is run, my errand done ; 
 
 I go to Him from whom I came ; 
 But never yet shall set the sun 
 
 Of glory that adorns my name ; 
 And Roman hearts shall long be sick, 
 When men shall think of Alaric. 
 
 My course is run, my errand done ; 
 
 But darker ministers of fate. 
 Impatient, round the eternal throne, 
 
 And in the caves of vengeance, wait; 
 And soon mankind shall blench away 
 Before the name of Attil? • 
 
228 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Apostrophe to the Sun. — J. G. PERCivAii. 
 
 Centre of lig;ht and energy, thy way 
 
 Is through the unknown void ; thou hast thy throne. 
 Morning, and evening, and at noon of day. 
 
 Far in the blue, untended and alone : 
 
 Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown, 
 On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light ; 
 
 Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown 
 Wide through the never-ending worlds of night. 
 And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright 
 
 Thy path is high in heaven ; — we cannot gaze 
 On the intense of light that girds thy car ; 
 
 There is a crown of glory in thy rays. 
 Which bears thy pure divinity afar. 
 To mingle with the equal light of star ; 
 
 For thou, so vast to us, art, in the whole. 
 One of the sparks of night that fire the air ; 
 
 And, as around thy centre planets roll, 
 So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul. 
 
 Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles ; 
 
 Thy light is hid, — and all things droop and mourn ; 
 Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles. 
 
 When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; 
 
 Thou wheel'st away thy flight, — the woods are shorn 
 Of all their waving locks, and storms awake ; 
 
 All, that was once so beautiful, is torn 
 By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake. 
 And, in their maddening rush, the crested mountains shake. 
 
 The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow ; 
 
 Life lingers, and would die, but thy return 
 Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow 
 
 Of all the power, that brooded in the urn 
 
 Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn 
 All bands that would confine, and give to air 
 
 Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty till they burn. 
 When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there 
 Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 229 
 
 The vales are thine : — and when the touch of spring 
 Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light 
 
 They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing 
 Dashes the water in his winding flight, 
 And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright. 
 
 And widens outward to the pebbled shore ; — 
 
 The vales are thine ; and, when they wake from night. 
 
 The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er 
 Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore. 
 
 The hills are thine : — they catch thy newest beam. 
 And gladden in thy parting, where the wood 
 
 Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream. 
 That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood 
 Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food 
 
 Of nations in its waters ; so thy rays 
 
 Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud. 
 
 When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze 
 Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. 
 
 Thine are the mountains, — where they purely lift 
 
 Snows that have never wasted, in a sky 
 Which hath no stain ; below, the storm may drift 
 
 Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by ; — 
 
 Aloft, in thy eternal smile, they lie, 
 Dazzling, but cold ; — thy farewell glance looks there, 
 
 And when below thy hues of beauty die. 
 Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear. 
 Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair. 
 
 The clouds are thine ; and all their magic hues 
 Are pencilled by thee ; when thou bendest low. 
 
 Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues 
 Their waving folds with such a perfect glow 
 Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw 
 
 Shame on the proudest art ; * * * 
 
 These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, 
 The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine, 
 
 Where the spent storm is hasting on its march ; 
 And there the glories of thy light combine. 
 And form, with perfect curve, a lifted line 
 
 Striding the earth and air ;— man looks and tells 
 How peace and mercy in its beauty shine, 
 20 
 
230 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 And how the heavenly messenger impels 
 Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells. 
 
 The ocean is thy vassal : — thou dost sway 
 
 His waves to thy dominion, and they go 
 Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, 
 
 Rising and falling in eternal flow ; 
 
 Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow. 
 And take them wings and spring aloft in air, 
 
 And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw 
 Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear 
 The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. 
 
 In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, 
 
 When the quick winds uprear it in a swell. 
 That rolls in glittering green around the isles. 
 
 Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell. 
 
 O, with a joy no gifted tongue can tell, 
 I hurry o'er the waters when the sail 
 
 Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well 
 Over the curling billow, and the gale 
 Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale. 
 
 " I thought it slept*''' — Henry Pickering. 
 
 From Recollections of Childhood. 
 
 I SAW the infant cherub — soft it lay, 
 As it was wont, within its cradle, now 
 Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange 
 Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed 
 Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept — 
 And yet its little bosom did not move ! 
 I bent me down to look into its eyes, 
 But they were closed ; then softly clasp ad its hand ; 
 But mine it would not clasp. What should I do ? 
 " Wake, brother, wake !" I then, impatient, cried ; 
 " Open thine eyes, and look on me again !" 
 He would not hear my voice. All pale beside 
 My v/eeping mother sat, " and gazed and looked 
 Unutterable things." " Will he not v/ake ?" 
 I eager asked. She answered but with tears. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 231 
 
 Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look. 
 
 Were cast — now on the babe once more were fixed— 
 
 And now on me : then, with convulsive sigh 
 
 And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms, 
 
 And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said — 
 
 " My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep ; 
 
 Alas! he's dead ; he never will awake." 
 
 He's dead ! I knew not what it meant, but more 
 
 To know I sought not. For the words so sad — 
 
 " He never will awake" — sunk in my soul : 
 
 I felt a pang unknown before ; and tears. 
 
 That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.* 
 
 The Snow- Storm. — AjfONYMous. 
 
 The cold winds swept the mountain's height. 
 
 And pathless was the dreary wild. 
 And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night, 
 
 A mother wandered with her child. 
 As through the drifted snows she pressed, 
 The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
 
 And colder still the winds did blew. 
 
 And darker hours of night came on, 
 And deeper grew the drifts of snow — 
 
 Her limbs were chilled, her strength was-gone — 
 " O God," she cried, in accents wild, 
 " If I must perish, save my child !" 
 
 She stripped her mantle from her breast, 
 
 And bared her bosom to the storm. 
 And round the child she wrapped the vest, 
 
 And smiled to think her babe was warm. 
 With one cold kiss, one tear she shed. 
 And sunk upon a snowy bed. 
 
 At dawn, a traveller passed by : 
 She lay beneath a snowy veil ; 
 
 * From this little tale of unaffected, childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an esti- 
 mable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. 
 ft was exhibited at the National Academy in that city. 
 
232 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 The frost of death was in her eye ; 
 
 Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; — 
 He moved the robe from off the child; 
 The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. 
 
 *^ I went and washed, and I received sight,^'—N^w York 
 Evening Post. 
 
 When the great Master spoke. 
 
 He touched his withered eyes. 
 And, at one gleam, upon him broke 
 
 The glad earth and the skies. 
 
 And he saw the city's walls, 
 
 And king's and prophet's tomb, 
 And arches proud, and vaulted halls, 
 
 And the temple's lofty dome. 
 
 He looked on the river's flood. 
 
 And the flash of mountain rills. 
 And the gentle wave of the palms, that stood 
 
 Upon Judea's hills. 
 
 He saw, on heights and plains, 
 
 Creatures of every race ; 
 But a mighty thrill ran through his veins 
 
 When he met the human face. 
 
 And his virgin sight beheld 
 
 The ruddy glow of even. 
 And the thousand shining orbs that filled 
 
 The azure depths of heaven. 
 
 And woman's voice before 
 
 Had cheered his gloomy night. 
 But to see the angel form she wore 
 
 Made deeper the delight. 
 
 And his heart, at daylight's close. 
 For the bright world where he trod. 
 
 And when the yellow morning rose, 
 Gave speechless thanks to God. 
 
233 
 
 The Huma* — Louisa P. Smith. 
 
 Fly on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird. 
 
 Too near our shaded earth, 
 Or the warbUng, now so sweetly heard. 
 
 May lose its note of mirth. 
 Fly on, nor seek a place of rest 
 
 In the home of" care-worn things:" 
 'Twould dim the light of thy shining crest. 
 
 And thy brightly burnished wings, 
 To dip them where the waters glide 
 That flow from a troubled earthly tide. 
 
 The fields of upper air are thine. 
 
 Thy place where stars shine free ; 
 I would thy home, bright one, were mine. 
 
 Above life's stormy sea. 
 I would never wander, bird, like thee, 
 
 So near this place again ; 
 With wing and spirit once light and free. 
 
 They should wear no more the chain 
 With which they are bound and fettered here. 
 For ever struggling for skies more clear 
 
 There are many things like thee, bright bird; 
 
 Hopes as thy plumage gay ; 
 Our air is with them for ever stirred. 
 
 But still in air they stay. 
 And Happiness, like thee, fair one. 
 
 Is ever hovering o'er. 
 But rests in a land of brighter sun. 
 
 On a waveless, peaceful shore. 
 And stoops to lave her weary wings, 
 Where the fount of " living waters" springs. 
 
 77ie Paint King. — Washington Alls ton. 
 
 Fair Ellen was long the delight of the young; 
 No damsel could with her compare ; 
 
 * " A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in tbe 
 a-lr, and never touch the ground." 
 
 20* 
 
234 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, 
 And bards without number, in ecstasies, sung 
 The beauties of Ellen the fair. 
 
 Yet cold was the maid ; and, though legions advanced. 
 
 All drilled by Ovidean art. 
 And languished and ogled, protested and danced, 
 Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced 
 
 From the hard, polished ice of her heart. 
 
 Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore 
 
 A something that could not be found ; 
 Like a sailor she seemed on a desolate shore. 
 With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound but the roar 
 
 Of breakers high dashing around. 
 
 From object to object still, still would she veer. 
 
 Though nothing, alas ! could she find ; 
 Like the moon, without atmosphere, brilliant and clear, 
 Yet doomed, like the moon, with no being to cheer 
 The bright barren waste of her mind. 
 
 But, rather than sit like a statue so still. 
 
 When the rain made her mansion a pound. 
 Up and down would she go, like the sails of a mill. 
 And pat every stair, like a woodpecker's bill. 
 From the tiles of the roof to the ground. 
 
 One morn, as the maid from her casement inclined. 
 
 Passed a youth with a frame in his hand. 
 The casement she closed, not the eye of her mind. 
 For, do all she could, no, she could not be blind ; 
 Still before her she saw the youth stand. 
 
 " Ah, what can he do" — said the languishing maid, 
 
 "Ah, what with that frame can he do ?" 
 And she knelt to the goddess of secrets, and prayed. 
 When the youth passed again, and again he displayed 
 The frame and a picture to view. 
 
 ** Oh, beautiful picture !" the fair Ellen cried, 
 
 " I must see thee again, or I die." 
 Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, 
 A nd after the youth and the picture she hied, 
 
 W^hen the youth, looking back, met her eye. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 235 
 
 *' Fair damsel," said he, (and he chuckled the while,) 
 
 " This picture, I see, you admire : 
 Then take it, I pray you ; perhaps 'twill beguile 
 Some moments of sorrow, (nay, pardon my smile,) 
 
 Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." 
 
 Then Ellen the gift, with dehght and surprise, 
 
 From the cunning young stripling received. 
 But she knew not the poison that entered her eyes, 
 When, sparkling with rapture, they gazed on her prize — 
 Thus, alas, are fair maidens deceived ! 
 
 'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclined. 
 And the sculptor he seemed of the stone ; 
 
 Yet he languished as though for its beauty he pined. 
 
 And gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind 
 Reflected the beams of his own. 
 
 'Twas the tale of the sculptor Pygmalion of old; 
 
 Fair Ellen remembered, and sighed : 
 " Ah, couldst thou but lift from that marble, so cold, 
 Thine eyes too imploring, thy arms should enfold. 
 
 And press me this day as thy bride." 
 
 She said : when, behold, from the canvas arose 
 The youth, and he stepped from the frame : 
 With a furious transport his arms did enclose 
 The love-plighted Ellen ; and, clasping, he froze 
 The blood of the maid with his flame. 
 
 She turned, and beheld on each shoulder a wing. 
 
 " O heaven! cried she, who art thou ?" 
 From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring. 
 As, frowning, he thundered," I am the Paint-King! 
 
 And mine, lovely maid, thou art now !" 
 
 Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift 
 
 The loud-screaming maid like a blast ; 
 And he sped through the air like a meteor swift, 
 While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift 
 
 To the right and the left as he passed. 
 
 Now suddenly sloping his hurricane flight. 
 
 With an eddying whirl he descends ; 
 The air all below him becomes black as night, 
 
236 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 And the ground where he treads, as if moved with affright. 
 Like the surge of the Caspian bends. 
 
 " I am here !" said the fiend, and he thundering knocked 
 
 At the gates of a mountainous cave ; 
 The gates open flew, as by magic unlocked, 
 While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rocked 
 
 Like an island of ice on the wave. 
 
 " O, mercy !" cried Ellen, and swooned in his arms; 
 
 But the Paint-King, he scoffed at her pain. 
 ** Prithee, love," said the monster, " what mean these alarms ?'' 
 She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms. 
 
 That work her to horror again. 
 
 She opens her lids, but no longer her eyes 
 
 Behold the fair youth she would woo ; 
 Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise ; 
 His face, like a palette of villanous dies, 
 
 Black and white, red and yisllow, and blue. 
 
 On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defiedj 
 
 Sat the fiend, like the grim giant Gog, 
 While aloft to his mouth a huge pipe he applied, 
 Twice as big as the Eddystone lighthouse, descried 
 
 As it looms through an easterly fog. 
 
 And anon, as he puffed the vast volumes, were seen, 
 
 In horrid festoons on the wall. 
 Legs and arms, heads and bodies emerging between. 
 Like the drawing-room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane, 
 
 By the devil dressed out for a ball. 
 
 *' Ah me !" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet. 
 
 " Must I hang on these walls to be dried ?" 
 " O, no," said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat, 
 " A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet , 
 
 Into paint will I grind thee, my bride !" 
 
 Then seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair. 
 
 An oil jug he plunged her within. 
 Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair, 
 Did Ellen in torment convulse the dun air, 
 
 All covered with oil to the chin. 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OP AMERICA. 237 
 
 On the morn of the eighth, on a huge sable stone 
 
 Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid ; 
 With a rock for his muller, he crushed every bone, 
 But, though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan ; 
 
 For life had forsook not the maid. 
 
 Now reaching his palette, with masterly care 
 
 Each tint on its surface he spread ; 
 The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, 
 And the pearl and the white of her forehead so fair. 
 
 And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red. • 
 
 Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, 
 
 " Now I brave, cruel fairy, thy scorn!" 
 When, lo ! from a chasm wide-yawning there came 
 A light tiny chariot of rose-colored flame. 
 
 By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. * 
 
 Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright, 
 
 Fair Geraldine sat without peer ; 
 Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light. 
 And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, 
 
 And a beam of the moon was her spear. 
 
 In an accent that stole on the still charmed air 
 
 Like the first gentle language of Eve, 
 Thus spake from her chariot the fairy so fair : 
 " I come at thy call, but, O Paint-King, beware. 
 
 Beware if again you deceive." 
 
 " 'Tis true," said the monster, " thou queen of my heart, 
 
 Thy portrait I oft have essayed ; 
 Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art 
 The least of thy wonderful beauties impart ; 
 
 And my failure with scorn you repaid. 
 
 " Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail," — 
 And he towered with pride as he spoke, — 
 
 *' If again with these magical colors I fail. 
 
 The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, 
 And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. 
 
 " But if I succeed, then, O fair Geraldine, 
 
 Thy promise with justice I claim. 
 And thou, queen of fairies, shalt ever be mine. 
 
238 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 The bride of my bed ; and thy portrait divine 
 Shall fill all the earth with my fame." 
 
 ^ He spake ; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form 
 
 On the canvas enchantingly glowed ; 
 
 His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm ; 
 
 And the pure pearly white, and the carnation warm, 
 Contending in harmony, flowed. 
 
 And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem 
 
 To the figure of Geraldine fair : 
 With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem 
 Each muscle, each feature ; in short, not a gleam 
 ^ Was lost of her beautiful hair. 
 
 'Twas the fairy herself ! but, alas, her blue eyes 
 
 Still a pupil did ruefully lack ; 
 And who shall describe the terrific surprise 
 That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries 
 
 Not a speck of his palette of black! 
 
 ** I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; 
 ' * When, casting his eyes to the ground. 
 
 He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief 
 In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief 
 Whisk away from his sight with a bound. 
 
 " I am lost !" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone ; 
 
 Then, rising, the fairy, in ire, 
 With a touch of her finger, she loosened her zone, 
 (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) 
 
 And she swelled to a column of fire. 
 
 Her spear now a thunder-bolt flashed in the air. 
 
 And sulphur the vault filled around ; 
 She smote the grim monster : and now, by the hair 
 High-lifting, she hurled him, in speechless despair, 
 Down the depths of the chasm profound. 
 
 Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, 
 
 ** Come forth !" said the good Geraldine ; 
 When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear 
 Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er, 
 With grace more than ever divine ! 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 239 
 
 The murdered Trave/Zer.— Bryawt. 
 
 When Spring, to woods and wastes around, 
 
 Brought bloom and joy again. 
 The murdered traveller's bones were found, 
 
 Far down a narrow glen. 
 
 The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
 
 Her tassels in the sky ; 
 And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
 
 And nodded, careless, by. 
 
 The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
 
 His hanging nest o'erhead. 
 And, fearless, near the fatal spot. 
 
 Her young the partridge led. 
 
 But there was weeping far away. 
 
 And gentle eyes, for him, 
 With watching many an anxious day. 
 
 Grew sorrowful and dim. 
 
 They little knew, who loved him so, 
 
 The fearful death he met. 
 When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
 
 Unarmed, and hard beset ; 
 
 Nor how, when, round the frosty pole. 
 
 The northern dawn was red, 
 The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
 
 To banquet on the dead ; 
 
 Nor how, when strangers found his bones. 
 
 They dressed the hasty bier. 
 And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
 
 Unmoistened by a tear. 
 
 But long they looked, and feared, and wept. 
 
 Within his distant home ; 
 And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
 
 For joy that he was come. 
 
 So long they looked — ^but never #spied 
 
 His welcome step again. 
 Nor knew the fearful death he died 
 
 Far down that narrow glen. 
 
240 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake. — F. G. Halleck. 
 
 Green be the turf above thee, 
 
 Friend of my better days ! 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
 
 From eyes unused to weep. 
 And long, where thou art lying. 
 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
 
 Like thine, are laid in earth. 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 
 To tell the world their worth. 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 
 
 Whose weal and wo were thine, — 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around thy faded brow ; ^ 
 
 But I've in vain essayed it, 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee, , 
 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
 To H . — Christian Examiner. 
 
 Sweet child, that wasted form. 
 
 That pale and mournful brow. 
 O'er which thy long, dark tresses 
 
 In shadowy beauty flow — 
 That eye, whence soul is darting 
 
 With such strange brilliancy. 
 Tell us thou art departing — 
 
 This world is not for thee. 
 
tlHEEVEH's POETS OF AMERICA. 241 
 
 No ! not for thee is woven 
 
 That wreath of joy and wo, 
 That crown of thorns and flowers, 
 
 Which all must wear below ! 
 We bend in anguish o'er thee, 
 
 Yet feel that thou art blessed. 
 Loved one, so early summoned 
 
 To enter into rest. 
 
 Soon shall thy bright young spirit 
 
 From earth's cold chains be free ; 
 Soon shalt thou meet that Savior, 
 
 Who gave himself for thee. 
 Soon shalt thou be rejoicing, 
 
 Unsullied as thou art, 
 In the blessed vision promised 
 
 Unto the pure in heart. 
 
 Yes, thou art going home. 
 
 Our Father's face to see. 
 In perfect bliss and glory ; 
 
 But we, 0, where are we ? 
 While that celestial country 
 
 Thick clouds and darkness hide. 
 In a strange land of exile, 
 
 Still, still must we abide. 
 
 O Father of our spirits. 
 
 We can but look to thee ; 
 Though chastened, not forsaken, 
 
 Shall we thy children be. 
 We take the cup of sorrow. 
 
 As did thy blessed Son — 
 Teach us to say, with Jesus, 
 
 **' 'Thy will, not ours, be done !" 
 
 The dying jRaven.— Richard H. Dana. 
 
 Come to these lonely woods to die alone ? 
 It seems not many days since thou wast heard. 
 From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, 
 Calling unto thy mates — and their clear answers 
 The earth was brown, then ; and the infant leaves 
 21 
 
242 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 Had not put farth to warm them in the sun, 
 
 Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice. 
 
 Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone. 
 
 And prophesying Hfe to the sealed ground. 
 
 Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties. 
 
 And now they're all around us ; — offspring bright 
 
 Of earth, — a mother, who, with constant care. 
 
 Doth feed and clothe them all.— Now o'er her fields. 
 
 In blessed bands, or single, they are gone, 
 
 Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream ; 
 
 Or peering o'er it—vanity well feigned— 
 
 In quaint approval seem to glow and nod 
 
 At their reflected graces. — Morn to meet. 
 
 They in fantastic labors pass the night. 
 
 Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops 
 
 To deck their bosoms. — There, on tall, bald trees, 
 
 From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs 
 
 Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds. 
 
 Over my head the winds and they make music ; 
 
 And, grateful, in return for what they take. 
 
 Bright hues and odors to the air they give. 
 
 Thus mutual love brings mutual delight — 
 Brings beauty, life ; — for love is life ; — hate, death. 
 
 Thou prophet of so fair a revelation, — 
 Thou who abod'st with us the winter long. 
 Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft, 
 From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow, — 
 Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days 
 Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth 
 From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell. 
 To speak of comfort unto lonely man, — 
 Didst say to him, — though seemingly alone 
 'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees. 
 Or the more silent ground, — that 'twas not death. 
 But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair ; — 
 That thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him 
 The winter's night, and, patient of the day, 
 And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in thee,) 
 Waitedst return of summer. 
 
 More thou saidst, 
 Thou priest of nature, priest of God, to man I 
 Thou spok'st of faith, (than instinct no less sure,) 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 243 
 
 Of spirits near him, though he saw them not : 
 
 Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye, 
 
 And see his solitude all populous : 
 
 Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers; 
 
 And didst him pray to listen to the flow 
 
 Of living waters. 
 
 Preacher to man's spirit ! 
 Emblem of Hope ! Companion ! Comforter ! 
 Thou faithful one ! is this thine end ? 'Twas thou. 
 When summer birds were gone, and no form seen 
 In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong. 
 On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds. 
 And of thy long enduring, this the close ! 
 Thy kingly strength brought down, of storms 
 Thou conqueror ! 
 
 The year's mild, cheering dawn 
 Upon thee shone a momentary light. 
 The gales of spring upbore thee for a day. 
 And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now ; 
 And liest amongst thy hopes and promises — 
 Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades — 
 Gasping thy life out. — Here for thee the grass 
 Tenderly makes a bed ; and the young buds 
 In silence open their fair, painted folds — 
 To ease thy pain, the one — to cheer thee, these. 
 But thou art restless ; and thy once keen eye 
 Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs, 
 Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee. 
 Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds. 
 And asks for thee. No answer give they back. 
 As I look up to their bright, angel faces. 
 Intelligent and capable of voice 
 They seem to me. Their silence to my soul 
 Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird. 
 Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound, 
 No silence. — Near thee stands the shadow. Death ; — 
 And now he slowly draws his sable veil 
 Over thine eyes. Thy senses soft he lulls 
 Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call 
 Thou'lt hear no longer. 'Neath sun-lighted clouds. 
 With beating wing, or steady poise aslant, 
 Thou'lt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws 
 
244 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death 
 Are on thee. 
 
 Laid thus low hy age ? Or is't 
 All-grudging man has brought thee to this end ? 
 Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound 
 Around the grain God gives thee for thy food. 
 Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain. 
 
 I needs must mourn for thee. For I — who have 
 No fields, nor gather into garners — I 
 Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate. 
 
 And now, farewell ! The falling leaves, ere long. 
 Will give thee decent covering. Till then, 
 Tliine own black plumage, which will now no more 
 Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, 
 Like armor of steeled knight of Palestine, 
 Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon 
 As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him fade 
 In living man. 
 
 Who scoffs these sympathies 
 Makes mock of the divinity within ; 
 Nor feels he, gently breathing through his soul, 
 The universal spirit. — Hear it cry, 
 " How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man ! 
 How deaden thee to universal love. 
 And joy of kindred, with all humble things — 
 God's creatures all !" 
 
 And surely it is so. 
 He who the lily clothes in simple glory. 
 He who doth hear the ravens cry for food, 
 Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible, 
 In signs mysterious, written what alone 
 Our hearts may read. — Death bring thee rest, poor bird. 
 
 After a Tempest. — Bryajvt. 
 
 The day had been a day of wind and storm ;• — 
 The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 245 
 
 And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm. 
 Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 
 I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
 
 My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
 
 Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast. 
 
 And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green. 
 
 With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between. 
 
 The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 
 
 Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred. 
 Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground. 
 
 Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 
 
 For birds were warbhng round, and bees were heard 
 About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 
 
 And gossiped, as he hastened ocean- ward ; 
 To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung. 
 And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. 
 
 And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry. 
 
 Flew many a glittering insect here and there. 
 And darted up and down the butterfly. 
 
 That seemed a living blossom of the air. 
 
 The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
 The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 
 
 Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; 
 The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay. 
 And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. 
 
 It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell. 
 
 Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
 Upon the motionless wood that clothed the cell. 
 
 And precipice upspringing like a wall. 
 
 And glassy river, and white waterfall. 
 And happy living things that trod the bright 
 
 And beauteous scene ; while, far beyond them all. 
 On many a lovely valley, out of sight. 
 Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, golden light 
 
 I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
 
 An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
 When o'er earth's continents, and isles between. 
 
 The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea. 
 
 And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
 When millions, crouching in the dust to one. 
 
 No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, '^ 
 
 21^ 
 
246 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
 
 The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. 
 
 Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers. 
 And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
 
 The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
 And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 
 The storm ; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past ; 
 
 Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 
 And, like the glorious light of summer > cast 
 
 O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
 
 On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. 
 
 A Winter Scene. — Idle Maw. 
 
 But Winter has yet brighter scenes ; — he boasts 
 Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows, 
 Or Autumn, with his many fruits and woods 
 All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains 
 Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice. 
 When the slant sun of February pours 
 Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! 
 The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps. 
 And the broad, arching portals of the grove 
 Welcome thy entering. Look, the massy trunks 
 Are cased in the pure crystal ; branch and twig 
 Shine in the lucid covering ; each light rod, 
 Nodding and twinkling in the stirring breeze, 
 Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 
 Still streaming, as they move, with colored light. 
 But round the parent stem the long, low boughs 
 Bend in a glittering ring, and arbors hide 
 The glassy floor. O ! you might deem the spot 
 The spncious cavern of some virgin mine. 
 Deep in the womb of Earth, where the gems grow. 
 And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud 
 With amethyst and topaz, and the place 
 Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam 
 That dwells in tbem ; or, haply, the vast hall 
 Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, 
 And fades not in the glory of the sun ; 
 Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts 
 And crossing arches, and fantastic aisles 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 247 
 
 Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 
 Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye : — 
 Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault; 
 There the blue sky, and the white drifting cloud 
 Look in. 'Agam the wildered fancy dreams 
 Of sporting fountains, frozen as they rose, 
 And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air. 
 And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light, 
 Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
 With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks. 
 Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound 
 Like the far roar of rivers ; and the eve 
 Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont 
 
 Description of the Quiet Island, From the Poem of '* The 
 Buccaneer" — Richard H, Dana. 
 
 The island lies nine leagues away. 
 
 Along its solitary shore. 
 Of craggy rock and sandy bay. 
 No sound but ocean's roar, 
 Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, 
 Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. 
 
 But when the light winds lie at rest, 
 
 And on the glassy, heaving sea. 
 The black duck, with her glossy breast. 
 Sits swinging silently, 
 How beautiful ! No ripples break the reach. 
 And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 
 
 And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 
 
 The brook comes tinkling down its side ; 
 From out the trees the Sabbath bell 
 Rings cheerful, far and wide. 
 Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks. 
 That feed about the vale amongst the rocks. 
 
 Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat. 
 
 In former days within the vale *, 
 Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; 
 
 Curses were on the gale ; 
 
248 cheever's poets of America, 
 
 Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; 
 Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then* 
 
 But calm, low voices, words of grace. 
 
 Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
 A quiet look is in each face. 
 Subdued and holy fear : 
 Each motion's gentle ; all is kindly done — 
 Come, listen, how from crime this isle was wo». 
 
 The religious Cottage. — D. Huntingtow. 
 
 Seest thou yon lonely cottage in the grove, 
 
 With little garden neatly planned before, 
 Its roof deep shaded by the ejms above. 
 
 Moss-grown, and decked with velvet verdure o'er? 
 
 Go lift the willing latch — the scene explore — 
 Sweet peace, and love, and joy, thou there shalt find ; 
 
 For there Religion dwells ; whose sacred lore 
 Leaves the proud wisdom of the world behind. 
 And pours a heavenly ray on every humble mind. 
 
 When the bright morning gilds the eastern skies. 
 Up springs the peasant from his calm repose ; 
 
 Forth to his honest toil he cheerful hies. 
 
 And tastes the sweets of nature as he goes — 
 But first, of Sharon's fairest, sweetest rose, 
 
 He breathes the fragrance, and pours forth the praise ; 
 Looks to the source whence every blessing flows. 
 
 Ponders the page which heavenly truth conveys, 
 \.nd to its Author's hand commits his future ways. 
 
 Nor yet in solitude his prayers ascend ; 
 
 His faithful partner and their blooming train. 
 The precious word, with reverent minds, attend, 
 
 The heaven-directed path of life to gain. 
 
 Their voices mingle in the grateful strain — 
 The lay of love and joy together sing. 
 
 To Him whose bounty clothes the smiling plain. 
 Who spreads the beauties of the blooming spring. 
 And tunes the warbling throats that make the valleys rlag. 
 
s 
 
 CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 249 
 
 The two Homes. — Anonymous. 
 
 Seest thou my home ? 'Tis where yon woods are waving, 
 
 In their dark richness, to the sunny air ; 
 Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, 
 
 Leads down the hill a vein of light — 'tis there. 
 
 'Mid these green haunts how many a spring lies gleaming. 
 Fringed with the violet, colored by the skies ! — 
 
 My boyhood's haunts, through days of summer, dreaming. 
 Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 
 
 My home — the spirit of its love is breathing 
 
 In every wind that plays across my track ; 
 From its white walls, the very tendrils, wreathing, 
 
 Seem, with soft links, to draw the wanderer back. 
 
 There am I loved ! There prayed for ! There my mother 
 Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ! 
 
 There my young sisters watch to greet their brother — 
 Soon their glad footsteps down the path would fly ! 
 
 There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending. 
 All the home voices meet at day's decline ; 
 
 One are those tones, as from one heart ascending- 
 There laughs my home — Sad stranger, where is thine ? 
 
 Ask thou of mine? In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
 
 Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
 'Tis where I, too, am loved with love undying, 
 
 And fond hearts wait my step. But where are they ? 
 
 Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling, 
 Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ; 
 
 I know it not, yet trust the whisper telling 
 My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there. 
 
 And what is home ? and where but with the living ? 
 
 Happy thou art, and so canst gaze on thine : 
 My spirit feels, but in its weary roving, 
 
 That with the dead — where'er they be — is mine. 
 
 Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother; 
 
 Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene : 
 For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
 
 1 will believe — ^but dark seas roll between. «• 
 
250 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 To a Sister. — Edward Everett. 
 
 Yes, dear one, to the envied train 
 
 Of those around thy homage pay ; 
 But wilt thou never kindly deign 
 
 To think of him that's far away ? 
 Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile, 
 
 For many years I may not see ; 
 But wilt thou not sometimes the while, 
 
 My sister dear, remember me ? 
 
 But not in Fashion's brilliant hall, 
 
 Surrounded by the gay and fair. 
 And thou the fairest of them all, — 
 
 0, think not, think not of me there. 
 But w^hen the thoughtless crowd is gone, 
 
 And hushed the voice of senseless glee, 
 And all is silent, still and lone. 
 
 And thou art sad, remember me. 
 
 Remember me — but, loveliest, ne'er. 
 
 When, in his orbit fair and high, 
 The morning's glowing charioteer 
 
 Rides proudly up the blushing sky; 
 But when the waning moon-beam sleeps 
 
 At moon-light on that lonely lea, " 
 And nature's pensive spirit v/eeps 
 
 In all her dews, remember me. 
 
 Remember me, I pray — but not 
 
 In Flora's gay and blooming hour. 
 When every brake hath found its note. 
 
 And sunshine smiles in every flower ; 
 But when the falling leaf is sear, 
 
 And withers sadly from the tree. 
 And o'er the ruins of the year 
 
 Cold Autumn weeps, remember me. 
 
 Remember me — but choose not, dear. 
 The hour when, on the gentle lake, 
 
 The sportive wavelets, blue and clear. 
 Soft rippUng, to the margin break ; 
 
 But w^hen the deaf'ning billows foam 
 In madness o'er the pathless sea. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 251 
 
 Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam 
 Across them, and remember me. 
 
 Remember me — but not to join 
 
 If haply some thy friends should praise ; 
 'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine 
 
 To echo what the stranger says. 
 They know us not — but shouldst thou meet 
 
 Some faithful friend of me and thee. 
 Softly, sometimes, to him repeat 
 
 My name, and then remember me. 
 
 Remember me — not, I entreat. 
 
 In scenes of festal week-day joy. 
 For then it were not kind or meet. 
 
 Thy thought thy pleasure should alloy ; 
 But on the s-acred, solemn day. 
 
 And, dearest, on thy bended knee. 
 When thou for those thou lov'st dost pray, 
 
 Sweet spirit, then remember me. 
 
 Remember me — ^but not as I 
 
 On thee forever, ever dwell. 
 With anxious heart and drooping eye. 
 
 And doubts 'twould grieve thee should I tell ; 
 But in thy calm, unclouded heart. 
 
 Where dark and gloomy visions flee. 
 Oh there, my sister, be my part. 
 
 And kindly there remember me. 
 
 To the Moon. — Walsh's National Gazette. 
 
 When the gross cares of daylight end, 
 
 And selfish passions cease to be. 
 How will the exulting thought ascend 
 
 Bright mystery, to thee ! 
 
 Distant and calm, the spirit land, 
 
 To which is breathed hope's fondest prayer ; 
 Where seraph's wings their hues expand. 
 
 And harpings charm the air. 
 
252 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 0, glorious is the rising sun, 
 Pavilioned in his blushing glow. 
 
 When fairy winds have just begun 
 To wake the flowers below ; 
 
 Or shrined amid the western gold, 
 While evening's balmy odors rise, 
 
 And fancy can almost behold 
 The elysium of the skies. 
 
 Yet far surpassing the bright dawn 
 Of purple sunset is thy power ; 
 
 For death's dim veil is half withdrawn 
 At thy presiding hour. 
 
 Affection seeks, in thy calm sphere, 
 The soul beyond life's stormy sea; 
 
 And minds too pure to sorrow here, 
 Fair planet, dwell with thee. 
 
 The bright stars shine around the throne, 
 The lonely ocean greets thy ray ; 
 
 Air, sea, and earth, — all seem to own 
 Thy spiritual sway. 
 
 My native Land — My native Place. — Anonymous. 
 
 My thoughts are in my native land. 
 
 My heart is in my native place, 
 Where willows bend to breezes bland. 
 
 And kiss the river's rippling face ; 
 
 Where sunny shrubs disperse their scent. 
 And raise their blossoms high to heaven, 
 
 As if in calm acknowledgment 
 
 For brilliant hues and virtues given. 
 
 My thoughts are with my youthful days. 
 Where sin and grief were but a name ; 
 
 When every field had golden ways, 
 And pleasure with the day-light came. 
 
CHEEVER'S POETS OF AMERICA. 258 
 
 I bent the rushes to my feet. 
 
 And sought the water's silent flow, 
 1 moved along the thin ice fleet, 
 
 Nor thought upon the death below. 
 
 I culled the violet in the dell, 
 
 Whose wild- rose gave a chequered shade, 
 And listened to each village bell. 
 
 So sv/eet by answering echo made. 
 
 In God's ow n house, on God's own day. 
 
 In neat attire, I bent the knee ; 
 Pure sense of duty made me pray — 
 
 Joy made me join the melody. 
 
 Thus Memory, from her treasured urn, 
 Shakes o'er the mind her spring like rain : 
 
 Thus scenes turn up and palely burn. 
 Like night-lights in the ocean's train. 
 
 And still my soul shall these command, 
 
 While sorrow writes upon my face ; 
 My thoughts are on my native land. 
 
 My heart is in my native place. 
 
 Awake, Psaltery and Harp ; I myself will awake early .''^ 
 Psalms. — Ajvohymous. 
 
 Wake, when the mists of the blue mountains sleeping. 
 Like crowns of glory, in the distance lie ; — 
 
 When breathing from the south, o'er young buds sweeping. 
 The gale bears music through the sunny sky ; — 
 
 While lake and meadow, upland, grove and stream. 
 
 Rise like the glory of an Eden dream. 
 
 Wake while unfettered thoughts, like treasures springing. 
 Bid the heart leap within its prison-cell ; — 
 
 As birds and brooks through the pure air are flinging 
 The mellow chant of their beguiling spell; — 
 
 When earliest winds their anthems have begun, 
 
 And, incense-laden, their sweet journeys run. 
 22 
 
254 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 TTien, Psaltery, and Harp, a tone awaken, 
 
 Whereto the echoing bosom shall reply. 
 As earth's rich scenes, by shadowy night forsaken, 
 
 Unfold their beauty to the filling eye ; — 
 When, Hke the restless breeze, or wild-bird's lay. 
 Pure thoughts, on dove-like pinions, float away. 
 
 Wake then, too, man, when, from refreshing slumber. 
 And thy luxurious couch, thou dost arise. 
 
 Thanks for life's golden gifts — a countless number — 
 Calm dreams, and soaring hopes, and summer skies; 
 
 Wake ! — let thy heart's fine chords be touched in praise. 
 
 For the free spirit of undying Grace! 
 
 Isaiah xxxv. — Brainard. 
 
 A ROSE shall bloom in the lonely place, 
 A wild shall echo with sounds of joy. 
 
 For heaven's own gladness its bounds shall grace, 
 And forms angelic their songs employ. 
 
 And Lebanon's cedars shall rustle their boughs, 
 And fan their leaves in the scented air ; 
 
 And Carmel and Sharon shall pay their vows, 
 And shout, for the glory of God is there. 
 
 O say to the fearful. Be strong of heart; 
 
 He comes in vengeance, but not for thee ; 
 For thee He comes, his might to impart 
 
 To the trembling hand and the feeble knee. 
 
 The blind shall see, the deaf shall hear. 
 The dumb shall raise their notes for Him, 
 
 The lame shall leap like the unharmed deer. 
 And the thirsty shall drink of the holy stream. 
 
 And the parched ground shall become a pool. 
 And the thirsty land a dew- washed mead ; 
 
 And where the wildest beasts held rule, 
 The harmless of His fold shall feed. 
 
 There is a way, and a holy way. 
 
 Where the unclean foot shall never tread, 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 255 
 
 But from it the lowlj'^ shall not stray, 
 To it the penitent shall be led. 
 
 No lion shall rouse him from his lair, 
 
 Nor wild beast raven in foaming rage ; 
 But the redeemed of the earth shall there 
 
 Pusue their peaceful pilgrimage. 
 
 The ransomed of God shall return to him 
 
 With a chorus of joy to an angel's lay ; 
 With a tear of grief shall no eye be dim, 
 
 For sorrow and sighing shall flee away. 
 
 On listening to a Cricket. — Andrews Norton". 
 
 I LOVE, thou little chirping thing, 
 
 To hear thy melancholy noise ; 
 Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing 
 
 Of summer past and fading joys. 
 
 Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers. 
 
 Nor sport along the traveller's path. 
 But, through the winter's weary hours. 
 
 Shall warm thee at my lonely hearth. 
 
 And when my lamp's decaying beam 
 
 But dimly shows the lettered page, 
 Rich with some ancient poet's dream, 
 
 Or wisdom of a purer age, — 
 
 Then will I listen to thy sound. 
 
 And, musing o'er the embers pale, 
 With whitening ashes strewed around. 
 
 The forms of memory unveil ; 
 
 Recall the many colored dreams. 
 
 That Fancy fondly weaves for youth. 
 
 When all the bright illusion seems 
 The pictured promises of truth ; 
 
 Perchance, observe the fitful light. 
 And its faint flashes round the room. 
 
256 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 And think some pleasures, feebly bright. 
 May lighten thus life's varied gloom. 
 
 I love the quiet midnight hour. 
 
 When Care, and Hope, and Passion sleep, 
 And Reason, with untroubled power, 
 
 Can her late vigils duly keep ; — 
 
 I love the night : and sooth to say. 
 Before the merry birds, that sing 
 
 In all the glare and noise of day. 
 Prefer the cricket's grating wing. 
 
 But, see ! pale Autumn strews her leaves, 
 Her withered leaves, o'er Nature's grave. 
 
 While giant Winter she perceives. 
 Dark rushing from his icy cave ; 
 
 And in his train the sleety showers. 
 That beat upon the barren earth ; 
 
 Thou, cricket, through these weary hours, 
 Shalt warm thee at my lonely hearth. 
 
 - March. — Bryant. 
 
 The stormy March is come at last. 
 
 With wind, and cloud, and changing skies 
 
 I hear the rushing of the blast, 
 That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
 Ah ! passing few are they who speak. 
 Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee ; 
 
 Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak. 
 Thou art a welcome month to me. 
 
 For thou to northern lands again, 
 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bring. 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle train. 
 And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 
 
 And, in thy reign of blast and storm. 
 Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day. 
 
257 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm. 
 And heaven puts on the blue of May. 
 
 Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
 
 And the full springs, from frost set free, 
 
 That, brightly leaping down the hills, 
 Are just set out to meet the sea. 
 
 The year's departing beauty hides 
 Of wintry storms the sullen threat; 
 
 But in thy sternest frown abides 
 A look of kindly promise yet. 
 
 Thou bring'st the hope of those calra skies, 
 And that soft time of sunny showers, 
 
 When the wide bloom, on earth that lies. 
 Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
 
 April. — Longfellow. 
 
 When the warm sun, that brings 
 Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 
 
 The first flower of the plain. 
 
 I love the season well. 
 When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
 Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
 
 The coming-in of storms. 
 
 From the earth's loosened mould 
 The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : 
 Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 
 
 The drooping tree revives. 
 
 The softly- warbled song 
 Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
 Are glancing in the golden sun, along 
 
 The forest openings. 
 
 And when bright sunset fills 
 The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
 
 22^ 
 
258 cheever's poets or America 
 
 Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 
 And wide the upland glows. 
 
 And when the day is gone. 
 In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far. 
 Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn. 
 
 And twinkles many a star. 
 
 Inverted in the tide 
 Stand the gray rocks, and trembling sliadows throw, 
 And the fair trees look over, side by side. 
 
 And see themselves below. 
 
 Sweet April, many a thought 
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
 Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought. 
 
 Life's golden fruit is shed. 
 
 ^ May. — J. G. Percival. 
 
 I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 
 
 The winds, that fan the flowers. 
 And with their welcome breathings fill the sail. 
 Tell of serener hours, — 
 Of hours that glide unfelt away 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 The spirit of the gentle south- wind calls 
 
 From his blue throne of air, 
 And where his whispering voice in music falls. 
 Beauty is budding there ; 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 
 
 And the wide forest weaves, 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 A canopy of leaves ; 
 And from its darkening shadow floats 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 
 The tresses of the woods 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 259 
 
 With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; 
 And the full-brimming floods, 
 As gladly to their goal they run, 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 Mounds on the Western Rivers. — M. Flint. 
 
 The sun's last rays were fading from the west, 
 The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain. 
 
 The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest, 
 And all was silence, — save the mournful strain 
 With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain. 
 
 Her absent lover to her lonely nest. 
 
 Now, one by one, emerging to the sight. 
 
 The brighter stars assumed their seats on high ; 
 
 The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, 
 As the last twilight fled along the sky. 
 And all her train, in cloudless majesty, 
 
 Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night. 
 
 I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound. 
 And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene ; 
 
 From the dark summit of an Indian mound 
 I saw the plain, outspread in living green ; 
 Its fringe of cliffs was in the distance seen. 
 
 And the dark line of forest sweeping round. 
 
 I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose ; 
 
 Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay ; 
 There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes, 
 
 There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay; 
 
 And mighty tribes, swept from ^h^ face of day, 
 Forgot their wars, and found a long repose. 
 
 Ye mouldering relics of departed years, 
 
 Your names have perished ; not a trace remains. 
 
 Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears 
 From the green bosom of your native plains. 
 Say, do your spirits wear Oblivion's chains 1 
 
 Did Death forever quench your hopes and fears 1 
 
260 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Or did those fairy hopes of future hliss. 
 
 Which simple Nature to your bosoms gave, 
 
 Find other worlds, with fairer skies than this. 
 Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave. 
 In whose bright climes the virtuous and the brave 
 
 Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ? — 
 
 "Where the great hunter stills pursues the chase. 
 And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the deer ; 
 
 Or where he finds each long-extinguished race, 
 And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear 
 The giant form which lies embedded here. 
 
 Of other years the sole remaining trace. 
 
 Or, it may be, that still ye linger near 
 
 The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride ; 
 
 And, could your forms to mortal eye appear. 
 Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside, 
 Then might I see your restless shadows glide. 
 
 With watchful care, around these relics dear. 
 
 If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet 
 
 Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. 
 
 I would not thus profane their lone retreat. 
 
 Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head 
 Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed. 
 
 Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. 
 
 Farewell ! and may you still in peace repose ; 
 Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom. 
 
 And softly wave to every breeze that blows. 
 Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb, 
 In whidh your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, 
 
 And mingle with the clay from which they rose. 
 
 Burial of the Minnisink. — Longfellow. 
 
 On sunny slope and beechen swell 
 The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
 And when the maple's leaf was brown. 
 With soft and silent lapse came down 
 The glory that the wood receives, 
 At sunset, in its golden leaves. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 261 
 
 Far upward^ in the mellow light, 
 
 Rose the blue hills — one cloud of white ; 
 
 Around, a far uplifted cone 
 
 In the warm blush of evening shone — 
 
 An image of the silver lakes 
 
 By which the Indian soul awakes. 
 
 But soon a funeral hymn was heard, 
 Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
 The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
 Of stern in heart and strong in hand 
 Came winding down beside the wave, 
 To lay the red chief in his grave. 
 
 They sung, that by his native bowers 
 He stood, in the last moon of flowers, . 
 And thirty snows had not yet shed 
 Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
 But as the summer fruit decays. 
 So died he in those naked days. 
 
 A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
 Covered the warrior, and within 
 Its heavy folds, the weapons made 
 For the hard toils of war were laid ; 
 The cuirass woven of plaited reeds. 
 And the broad belt of shells and beads. 
 
 Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
 Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
 Behind, the long procession came 
 Of hoary men and chiefs of fame. 
 With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief. 
 Leading the war-horse of their chief. 
 
 Stripped of his proud and martial dress. 
 Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless. 
 With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
 And heavy and impatient tread. 
 He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
 Asked for his rider in the crowd. 
 
 They buried the dark chief; they freed 
 Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
 
262 cheever's poets op America. 
 
 And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
 To his stern heart : — One piercing neigh 
 Arose — and on the dead man's plain, 
 The rider grasps his steed again.* 
 
 To the Eagle, — Percivaij. 
 
 From the Atlantic Souvenir for 1827. 
 
 Bird of the hroad and sweeping wing, 
 
 Thy home is high in heaven, 
 Where wide the storms their banners fling. 
 
 And the tempest clouds are driven. 
 Thy throne is on the mountain top ; 
 
 Thy fields, the boundless air ; 
 And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 
 
 The skies, thy dwellings are. 
 
 Thou sittest like a thing of light. 
 
 Amid the noontide blaze : 
 The midway sun is clear and bright ; 
 
 It cannot dim thy gaze. 
 Thy pinions, to the rushing blast. 
 
 O'er the bursting billow, spread. 
 Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, 
 
 Like an angel of the dead. 
 
 Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, 
 
 And the waves are white below. 
 And on, with a haste that cannot lag, 
 
 They rush in an endless flow. 
 Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight 
 
 To lands beyond the sea. 
 And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, 
 
 Thou hurriest, wild and free. 
 
 Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, 
 And thou leavest them all behind ; 
 
 Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves. 
 Fleet as the tempest wind. 
 
 * Alluding to an Indian superstition. 
 
CHWEVER S POETS OP AMERICA. 263 
 
 When the night storm gathers dim and dark, 
 
 With a shrill and bcding scream, 
 Thou rushest by the foundering bark. 
 
 Quick as a passing dream. 
 
 Lord of the boundless realm of air, 
 
 In thy imperial name, 
 The hearts of the bold and ardent dare * 
 
 The dangerous path of fame. 
 Beneath the shade of thy golden wings. 
 
 The Roman legions bore. 
 From the river oi Egypt's cloudy springs. 
 
 Their pride, to the polar shore. 
 
 For thee they fought, for thee they fell, 
 
 And their oath was on thee laid ; 
 To thee the clarions raised their swell, 
 
 And the dying warrior prayed. 
 Thou wert, through an age of death and fears. 
 
 The image of pride and power. 
 Till the gathered rage of a thousand years 
 
 Burst forth in one awful hour. 
 
 And then a deluge of wrath it came, 
 
 And the nations shook with dread ; 
 And it swept the earth till its fields were flame. 
 
 And piled with the mingled dead. 
 Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood. 
 
 With the low and crouching slave ; 
 And together lay, in a shroud of blood. 
 
 The coward and the brave. 
 
 And where was then thy fearless flight ? 
 
 " O'er the dark, mysterious sea. 
 To the lands that caughtjhe setting light, 
 
 The cradle of Liberty. 
 There, on the silent and lonely shore, 
 
 For ages, I watched alone, 
 And the world, in its darkness, asked no more 
 
 Where the glorious bird had flown. 
 
 But then came a bold and hardy few. 
 And they breasted the unknown wave ; 
 
 I caught afar the wandering crew ; 
 
 And I knew they were high and brave. 
 
264 cheever's poets of amerioa. 
 
 I wheeled around the welcome bark, 
 
 As it sought the desolate shore, 
 And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, 
 
 My quivering pinions bore. 
 
 And now that bold and hardy few 
 
 Are a nation wide and strong ; 
 And danger and doubt I have led them through 
 
 And they worship me in song ; 
 And over their bright and glancing arms, 
 
 On field, and lake, and sea, 
 With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, 
 
 I guide them to victory." 
 
 Salmon River, '^ — Brain ard. 
 
 'Tis a sweet stream ; and so, 'tis true, are all 
 That, undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl 
 Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall. 
 
 Pursue their way 
 By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood. 
 By rock, that, since the deluge, fixed has stood, 
 Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood 
 
 By night and day. 
 
 But yet there's something in its humble rank. 
 Something in its pure wave and sloping bank. 
 Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank 
 
 With unscared look ; 
 There's much in its wild history, that teems 
 With all that's superstitious, and that seems 
 To match our fancy and eke out our dreams. 
 
 In that small brook. 
 
 Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, 
 
 And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain ; 
 
 The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain ; 
 
 And many a quiver. 
 Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hillj 
 
 * This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam. 
 
 r . 
 
tJHEEVER^S POETS OP AMERICA. ^65 
 
 Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still. 
 And whistling ploughboys oft tlieir runlets fill 
 From Salmon river. 
 
 Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made 
 Their spells by moonlight ; or beneath the shade 
 That shrouds sequestered rock, or dark'ning glade. 
 
 Or tangled dell. 
 Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, 
 And asked about their fortunes long ago. 
 As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show 
 
 Old Samuel. 
 
 And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook 
 His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook 
 Where they pursued their game, and him mistook 
 
 For earthly fox ; 
 Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear. 
 And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear, 
 Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair 
 
 Transfer him to a box. 
 
 Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme 
 About a little and unnoticed stream, 
 That few have heard of; but it is a theme 
 
 I chance to love : 
 And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed. 
 And whistle to the note of many a deed 
 Done on this river, which, if there be need, 
 
 I'll try to prove. 
 
 To the Evening Wind, — Bryant.* 
 
 j Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
 That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, 
 
 * The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of 
 its publication ; but this, — we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in 
 the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, 
 has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has 
 all the characteristics of Bryant's style — his chaste elegance, both in 
 thought and expression, — ornament enough, but not in profusion or dis- 
 play, — imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiar- 
 ly soothing, — select and melodious language, — harmony in the flow of the 
 stanza, — gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy.— Ed. 
 23 
 
266 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
 
 Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
 Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. 
 
 Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 
 And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
 To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 
 
 Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
 
 Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
 And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
 
 Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
 And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound. 
 
 Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 
 Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, 
 God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 
 
 Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. 
 
 Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 
 
 The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 
 Summoning from the innumerable boughs 
 
 The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
 
 The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
 
 And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass. 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
 To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep. 
 
 And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
 
 His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 
 
 And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 
 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 
 
 Go — but the circle of eternal change. 
 
 That is the life of nature, shall restore. 
 With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
 
 Thee to thy birth-place of the deep onoe more; 
 Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange. 
 
 Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; 
 And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
 He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 267 
 
 ITie Ghrave of the Indian Chief. — Percival. 
 
 They laid the corse of the wild and brave 
 On the sweet, fresh earth of the new day grave. 
 
 On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved. 
 And flowers and grass were flourishing. 
 
 They laid within the peaceful bed. 
 Close by the Indian chieftain's head. 
 
 His bow and arrows ; and they said, 
 
 That he had found new hunting grounds. 
 
 Where bounteous Nature only tills 
 The willing soil ; and o'er whose hills. 
 
 And down beside the shady rills. 
 The hero roams eternally. 
 
 And these fair isles to the westward He, 
 
 Beneath a golden sun-set sky. 
 Where youth and beauty never die. 
 
 And song and dance move endlessly. 
 
 They told of the feats of his dog and gun, 
 They told of the deeds his arm had done. 
 
 They sung of battles lost and won, 
 And so they paid his eulogy. 
 
 And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones. 
 They raised a simple pile of stones ; 
 
 Which, hallowed by their tears and moans, 
 Was all the Indian's monument. 
 
 And since the chieftain here has slept. 
 Full many a winter's winds have swept. 
 
 And many an age has softly crept 
 Over his humble sepulchre. 
 
 Escape from Winter, — Percival. 
 
 O, HAD I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly 
 Where the roses are blossoming all the year long ; 
 
268 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye, 
 And the bills of the warblers are ever in song ; 
 
 0, then I would fly from the cold and the snow. 
 And hie to the land of the orange and vine. 
 
 And carol the winter away in the glow 
 That rolls o'er the evergreen bowers of the line. 
 
 Indeed, I should gloomily steal o'er the deep. 
 
 Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there alone ; 
 I would take me a dear little martin to keep 
 
 A sociable flight to the tropical zone ; 
 How cheerily, wing by wing, over the sea. 
 
 We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away ! 
 And forever our song and our twitter should be, 
 
 " To the land where the year is eternally gay." 
 
 We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers, 
 
 And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm. 
 And live, like the bee, on its fruit and its flowers. 
 
 That always are flowing with honey and balm ; 
 And there we would stay, till the winter is o'er. 
 
 And April is chequered with sunshine and rain — 
 O, then we would fly from that far-distant shore. 
 
 Over island and wave, to our country again. 
 
 How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled 
 
 Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime. 
 And break on the beaches in surges of gold, 
 
 When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime ! 
 We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean, 
 
 At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore, 
 And winnow our wings, with an easier motion, 
 
 Through the breath of the cedar, that blows from the shore 
 
 And when we had rested our wings, and had fed 
 
 On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves. 
 By the spirit of home and of infancy led. 
 
 We would hurry again to the land of our loves ; 
 And when from the breast of the ocean would spring, 
 
 Far off in the distance, that dear native shore. 
 In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing, 
 
 " No land is so lovely, when winter is o'er." 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 269 
 
 Bury Me with my Fathers, — Aivdrews Norton. 
 
 O ne'er upon my grave be shed 
 
 The bitter tears of sinking age, 
 That mourns its cherished comforts dead, 
 
 With grief no human hopes assuage. 
 
 When, through the still and gazing street. 
 
 My funeral winds its sad array, 
 Ne'er may a father's faltering feet 
 
 Lead, with slow steps, the churchyard way. 
 
 'Tis a dread sight — the sunken eye, 
 The look of calm and fixed despair. 
 
 And the pale lips that breathe no sigh. 
 But quiver with th' unuttered prayer. 
 
 Ne'er may a mother hide her tears, 
 As the mute circle spreads around. 
 
 Or, turning from my grave, she hears 
 The clod fall fast with heavy sound. 
 
 Ne'er may she know the sinking heart. 
 
 The dreary loneliness of grief. 
 When all is o'er, when all depart. 
 
 And cease to yield their sad relief; 
 
 Nor, entering in my vacant room. 
 
 Feel, in its chill and heavy air. 
 As if the dampness of the tomb 
 
 And spirits of the dead were there. 
 
 O welcome, though with care and pain. 
 The power to glad a parent's heart ; 
 
 To bid a parent's joys remain. 
 And life's approaching ills depart. 
 
 Redemption, — W. B. Tappan. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the prophet of the skies 
 Proclaims redemption near ; 
 23* 
 
270 cheever's poets of America, 
 
 The night of death and bondage flies, 
 The dawning tints appear. 
 
 Zion, from deepest shades of gloom, 
 
 Awakes to glorious day ; 
 Her desert wastes with verdure bloom, 
 
 Her shadows flee away. 
 
 To heal her wounds, her night dispel. 
 The heralds* cross the main ; 
 
 On Calvary's awful brow they tell, 
 That Jesus lives again. 
 
 From Salem's towers, the Islam sign, 
 
 With holy zeal, is hurled : 
 'Tis there Immanuel's symbols shine. 
 
 His banner is unfurled. 
 
 The gladdening news, conveyed afar. 
 
 Remotest nations hear ; 
 To welcome Judah's rising star, 
 
 The ransomed tribes appear. 
 
 Again in Bethlehem swells the song. 
 
 The choral breaks again ; 
 While Jordan's shores the strains prolong, 
 
 " Good-will, and peace to men!" 
 
 On the Close of the Year. — Christian Examiner. 
 
 'Tis midnight — from the dark blue sky. 
 The stars, which now look down on earth, 
 ^ Have seen ten thousand centuries fly. 
 And give to countless changes birth. 
 
 And when the pyramids shall fall, 
 And, mouldering, mix as dust in air. 
 
 The dwellers on this altered ball 
 
 May still behold them glorious there. 
 
 * Missionaries to Palestine. 
 
OHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 27J 
 
 Shine on ! shine on ! with you I tread 
 
 The march of ages, orbs of light ; 
 A last eclipse may o'er you spread ; 
 
 To me, to me, there comes no night. 
 
 O, what concerns it him, whose way 
 
 Lies upward to the immortal dead. 
 That a few hairs are turning gray. 
 
 Or one more year of life has fled ? 
 
 Swift years, but teach me how to bear, 
 To feel, and act, with strength and skill, 
 
 To reason wisely, nobly dare. 
 
 And speed your courses as ye will. 
 
 When life's meridian toils are done. 
 
 How calm, how rich, the twilight glow ! 
 
 The morning twilight of a sun. 
 That shines not here — on things below. 
 
 But sorrow, sickness, death — the pain 
 To leave, or lose, wife, children, friends — 
 
 What then ? Shall we not meet again. 
 Where parting comes not, sorrow ends ? 
 
 The fondness of a parent's care. 
 
 The changeless trust that woman gives. 
 
 The smile of childhood — it is there. 
 That all we love in them still lives. 
 
 Press onward through each varying hour ; 
 
 Let no weak fears thy course delay ; 
 Immortal being, feel thy power ; 
 
 Pursue thy bright and endless way. 
 
 Saturday Afternoon, — N. P. Willis. 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old. 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 
 
 And it makes his pulses fly. 
 
272 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old. 
 And my heart is ripe for the reaper. Death, 
 
 And my years are well nigh told« 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I'm old, and *' I 'bide my time ;" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there. 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 
 
 And I whoop the smothered call. 
 And my feet slip lip on the seedy floor. 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come. 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world, at best, is a weary place. 
 
 And my pulse is getting low : 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, ^ 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 Fall of Tecumseh. — ^New York Statesman. 
 
 What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam. 
 To the war-blast indignantly tramping ? 
 
 Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam> 
 The steel bit impatiently champing. 
 
 *Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein. 
 
 Conducting the free and the fearless. 
 Ah ! see them rush forward, with wild disdain^ 
 
 Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 273 
 
 From the mountains had echoed the charge of death. 
 
 Announcing that chivalrous sally ; 
 The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, 
 
 To pour his response from the valley. 
 
 One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, 
 
 And nought but the war-vi^hoop given ; 
 The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred 
 
 As if by the hghtning riven. 
 
 The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke. 
 
 The blood-stifled gasp of the dying, 
 Were screened by the curling sulphur- smoke. 
 
 That upward went wildly flying. 
 
 In the mist that hung over the field of blood. 
 
 The chief of the horsemen contended ; 
 His rowels were bathed in the purple flood. 
 
 That fast from his charger descended. 
 
 That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight. 
 
 But the rider repressed not his daring. 
 Till met by a savage, whose rank and might 
 
 Were shown by the plume he was wearing. 
 
 The moment was fearful ; a mightier foe 
 Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him ; 
 
 But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow. 
 And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. 
 
 O ne'er may the nations again be cursed 
 
 With conflict so dark and appalling ! — 
 Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst 
 
 From their agonized bosoms in falling. 
 
 Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot 
 Where the hopes of the red man perished ; 
 
 But the fame of the hero who fell shall not. 
 By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. 
 
 He fought, in defence of his kindred and king. 
 
 With a spirit most loving and loyal ; 
 And long shall the Indian warrior sing 
 
 The deeds of Tecumseh the royal. 
 
274 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye. 
 In his arm slept the force of the thunder. 
 
 But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by, 
 And left the freed captive to wonder.* 
 
 Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps. 
 
 With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him ; 
 And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps, 
 
 By the mound where his followers bore him. 
 
 The Missionaries^ Farewell. — Anonymous. 
 
 Land where the bones of our fathers are sleeping, 
 Land where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping, 
 Land where the light of Jehovah is shining, 
 We leave thee lamenting, but not with repining. 
 
 Land of our fathers, in grief we forsake thee. 
 Land of our friends, may Jehovah protect thee. 
 Land of the church, may the light shine around thee, 
 Mor darkness, nor trouble, nor sorrow confound thee. 
 
 God is thy God ; thou shalt walk in His brightness ; 
 Gird thee with joy, let thy robes be of whiteness : 
 God is thy God I let thy hills shout for gladness ; 
 But ah ! we must leave thee — we leave thee in sadness. 
 
 Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean : 
 Dark are our hearts ; but the fire of devotion 
 Kindles within ; — and a far distant nation 
 Shall learn. from our lips the glad song of salvation. 
 
 Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows ! 
 Land of our rest ! — when a few more to-morrows 
 Pass o'er our heads, we will seek our cold pillows, 
 And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billows. 
 
 * This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "Aaw^ of the 
 iBoods,^^ was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism. 
 He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 275 
 
 MozarVs Requiem, — Rufus Dawes. 
 
 The tongue of the vigilant clock tolled one. 
 
 In a deep and hollow tone ; 
 The shrouded moon looked out upon 
 A cold, dank region, more cheerless and dun. 
 
 By her lurid light that shone. 
 
 Mozart now rose from a restless bed. 
 
 And his heart was sick with care ; 
 Though long had he wooingly sought to wed 
 Sweet Sleep, 'twas in vain, for the coy maid fled. 
 
 Though he followed her every where. 
 
 He knelt to the God of his worship then. 
 
 And breathed a fervent prayer ; 
 'Twas balm to his soul, and he rose again 
 With a strengthened spirit, but started when 
 
 He marked a stranger there. 
 
 He was tall, the stranger who gazed on him. 
 
 Wrapped high in a sable shroud ; 
 His cheek was pale, and his eye was dim, 
 And the melodist trembled in every limb. 
 
 The while his heart beat loud. 
 
 *' Mozart, there is one whose errand I bear. 
 
 Who cannot be known to thee ; 
 He grieves for a friend, and would have thee prepare 
 A requiem, blending a mournful air 
 
 With the sweetest melody. " 
 
 " I'll furnish the requiem then," he cried, 
 
 ** When this moon has waned away !" 
 The stranger bowed, yet no word replied. 
 But fled like the shade on a mountain's side. 
 
 When the sunlight hides its ray. 
 
 Mozart grew pale when the vision fled. 
 
 And his heart beat high with fear ; 
 He knew 'twas a messenger sent from the dead. 
 To warn him, that soon he must make his bed 
 
 In the dark, chill sepulchre. 
 
276 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 He knew that the days of his life were told. 
 
 And his breast grew faint within ; 
 The blood through his bosom crept slowly and cold. 
 And his lamp of life could barely hold 
 
 The flame that was flickering. 
 
 Yet he went to his task with a cheerful zeal. 
 While his days and nights were one ; 
 
 He spoke not, he moved not, but only to kneel 
 
 With the holy prayer — " O God, I feel 
 'Tis best thy will be done !" 
 
 He gazed on his loved one, who cherished him wel),' 
 
 And weepingly hung o'er him : 
 " This music will chime with my funeral knell. 
 And my spirit shall float, at the passing bell. 
 
 On the notes of this requiem!" 
 
 The cold moon waned ; on that cheerless day. 
 
 The stranger appeared once more ; 
 Mozart had finished his requiem lay. 
 But e'er the last notes had died away. 
 
 His spirit had gone before. 
 
 " I will he glad in the Lord." Psalm civ. 34.- 
 
 A]V0NYM0US« 
 
 When morning's first and hallowed ray 
 
 Breaks with its trembling light. 
 To chase the pearly dews away, 
 
 Bright tear-drops of the night, — 
 
 My heart, O Lord, forgets to rove. 
 
 But rises gladly free, 
 On wings of everlasting love. 
 
 And finds its home in Thee. 
 
 When evening's silent shades descend. 
 
 And nature sinks to rest. 
 Still to my Father and my Friend 
 
 My wishes are addressed. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 277 
 
 Though tears may dim my hours of joy, 
 
 And bid my pleasures flee, 
 Thou reign'st where grief cannot annoy ; 
 
 I will be glad in Thee. 
 
 And e'en when midnight's solemn gloom. 
 
 Above, around, is spread, 
 Sweet dreams of everlasting bloom 
 
 Are hovering o'er my head. 
 
 I dream of that fair land, O Lord, 
 
 Where all thy saints shall be ; 
 I wake to lean upon thy word. 
 
 And still delight in Thee. 
 
 To the Memory of a Brother. — Anonymous. 
 
 Behold the glorious morn! and where art thou, 
 To feel its first rich breath on thy sweet brow. 
 
 Child of our hope and love ? 
 And stand, with the spring flowers about thee waking*, 
 And catch the early music that is breaking 
 
 From valley and fresh grove ? 
 
 Were these to thee a weariness — the birds. 
 And the bright waters, and the earnest words 
 
 Of strong affection shed — 
 A mother's love, whose holy influence fell. 
 In its deep truth and its unchanging spell. 
 
 Like light, upon thy head ? 
 
 " Young brother!" had the sound no joy for thee. 
 That in the dust this hour thy form should be. 
 
 And mute thy blessed voice ? 
 O, there be yearnings for thee, gentlest one. 
 Gone with thy grace and thy sweet laughter's tone. 
 
 Meet were thy footsteps for the world of flowers. 
 And thy lost beauty for the coming hours 
 
 Of the crowned summer's reign ; 
 And thou within the silent grave art laid, 
 And melody of bird and breeze is made 
 
 Henceforth to thee in vain. 
 24 
 
278 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 And there are dancing o'er the joyous earth 
 Light hearted children in their fearless mirth ; 
 
 And they remember not 
 The clasping of thy gentle hand, thou child. 
 The spirit beautiful and undefiled. 
 
 Now parted from their lot. 
 
 But I will speak of thee at eventide, 
 
 When, in their watchfulness, the pure stars glide 
 
 Above thy narrow bed, 
 And when, alas ! shall come the morning's gleam 
 Bringing all beauty unto leaf and stream. 
 
 Yet reaching not the dead. 
 
 I will remember, and the dream shall be 
 Forever more a welcome thing to me. 
 
 Child of my bosom's love *„ 
 And I will deem thou'rt standing even now. 
 With the hair parted on thy sinless brow, 
 
 In a bright world above. 
 
 A Home everywhere. — S. Graham. 
 
 Heave, mighty ocean, heave. 
 And blow, thou boisterous wind ; 
 
 Onward we swiftly glide, and leave 
 Our home and friends behind 
 
 Away, away we steer, 
 
 Upon the ocean's breast ; 
 And dim the distant heights appear. 
 
 Like clouds along the west. 
 
 There is a loneliness 
 
 Upon the mighty deep ; 
 And hurried thoughts upon us press, 
 
 As onwardly we sweep. 
 
 Our home — O, heavens — that word ! 
 
 A name without a thing ! 
 We are e'en as a lonely bird. 
 
 Whose home is on the wing. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 270 
 
 My wife and little one 
 
 Are with me as I go ; 
 And they are all, beneath the sun, 
 
 I have of weal or wo. 
 
 With them, upon the sea 
 
 Or land, where'er I roam, 
 My all on earth is still with me, 
 
 And I am still at home. 
 
 Heave, mighty ocean, heave, 
 
 And blow, thou boisterous wind : 
 Where'er we go, we cannot leave 
 
 Our home and friends behind. 
 
 Then come, my lovely bride. 
 
 And come, my child of wo ; 
 Since we have nought on earth beside. 
 
 What matters where we go ? 
 
 We heed not earthly powers, 
 
 We heed not wind nor weather ; 
 For, come what will, this joy is ours — 
 
 We share it still together. 
 
 And if the storms are wild. 
 
 And we perish in the §ea. 
 We'll clasp each other and our child : 
 
 One grave shall hold the three. 
 
 And neither shall remain 
 
 To meet, and bear alone, 
 The cares, the injuries, the pain. 
 
 That we, my love, have known. 
 
 And there's a sweeter joy, 
 
 Wherever we may be : 
 Danger nor death can e'er destroy 
 
 Our trust, God, in thee. 
 
 Then wherefore should we grieve ? 
 
 Or what have we to fear ? 
 Though home, and friends, and life, we leave. 
 
 Our God is ever near. 
 
280 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 If He who made all things. 
 And rules them, is our own, 
 
 Then every grief and trial brings 
 Us nearer to his throne. 
 
 Then come, my gentle bride. 
 And come, my child of love ; 
 
 What if we've nought on earth beside ? 
 Our portion is above. 
 
 Sweep, mighty ocean, sweep ; 
 Ye winds, blow foul or fair ; 
 Our God is with us on the deep, 
 " Our home is every where. 
 
 The Time to weep. — Anonymous. 
 
 There is a time to laugh, 
 When Joy may raise his billows like the deep, 
 
 And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;- 
 But, O, when is the season not to weep ? 
 
 Is it when vernal suns 
 Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf ? 
 
 Or when the hoar frost nips the fading ones, 
 That frailer beings may refrain from grief? 
 
 Is it when health and bloom 
 Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth ? 
 
 Or when disease is training for the tomb 
 The heart, which cherishes its bitter truth ? 
 
 Look not upon the brow. 
 That shows no furrow from the plough of years ; 
 
 There is a bend of peace upon it now — 
 But, O, futurity is full of tears ! 
 
 The prattling child at play 
 May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile ; 
 But could its vision reach beyond to-day. 
 And read its sorrows, think you it would smile ? 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 281 
 
 Destruction has its home. 
 And Mirth is destined to some favorite spot ; 
 Disease and all his brothers do not roam ; 
 But where, O Wretchedness, where art thou not ? 
 
 Thou hast thy dark abode 
 In the lone desert — in the prison's cell ; 
 
 x\nd in the gayest scene, where ever flowed 
 The tide of wine and music, thou dost dwell. 
 
 Thou art where friends are torn 
 And held asunder by reluctant space ; 
 
 And meeting friends — 0, do they never mourn 
 When Memory paints thine image on the face ? 
 
 Thy inmates of the breast — 
 All other passions — are but weak and brief; 
 
 Joy, Hope, Pride, Love and Hatred have a rest. 
 But thou art constant as our breath, O Grief! 
 
 Then let the trifler laugh. 
 And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep. 
 
 And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff; 
 It is far better for the wise to weep. 
 
 The Autumn Evening, — Peabody. 
 
 Behold the western evening light ! 
 
 It melts in deepening gloom ; 
 So calmly Christians sink away. 
 
 Descending to the tomb. 
 
 The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf 
 Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
 
 So gently flows the parting breath. 
 When good men cease to be. 
 
 How beautiful on all the hills 
 
 The crimson light is shed ! 
 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives 
 
 To mourners round his bed. 
 24* 
 
282 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 How mildly on the wandering cloud 
 
 The sunset beam is cast ! 
 'Tis like the memory left behind 
 
 When loved ones breathe their last. 
 
 And now, above the dews of night, 
 
 The yellow star appears ; 
 So faith springs in the heart of those 
 
 Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 
 
 But soon the morning's happier light 
 
 Its glory shall restore, 
 And eyelids that are sealed in death 
 
 Shall wake to close no more. 
 
 Lines on revisiting the Country. — Bryant. 
 
 I STAND upon my native hills again, 
 
 Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky, 
 With garniture of waving grass and grain. 
 
 Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie ; 
 While deep the sunless glens are scooped between. 
 Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 
 
 A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near. 
 And ever- restless steps of one, who now 
 
 Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year : 
 There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow. 
 
 As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, 
 
 Upheaved, and spread in verdure and in light ; 
 
 For I have taught her, with delighted eye. 
 To gaze upon the mountains ; to behold. 
 
 With deep affection, the pure, ample sky. 
 And clouds along the blue abysses rolled ; 
 
 To love the song of waters, and to hear 
 
 The melody of winds with charmed ear. 
 
 Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat. 
 Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air ; 
 
 And, where the season's milder fervors beat. 
 And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 283 
 
 The song of bird and sound of running stream. 
 Have come awhile to wander and to dream. 
 
 Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun : thou canst not wake. 
 In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen ; 
 
 The maize leaf and the maple bough but take 
 From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green ; 
 
 The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray. 
 
 Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. 
 
 The mountain wind — most spiritual thing of all 
 The wide earth knows — when, in the sultry time. 
 
 He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
 He seems the breath of a celestial clime, — 
 
 As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow 
 
 Health and refreshment on the world below. 
 
 The SpiriVs Song of Consolation.^ — F. W. P. Greenwood. 
 
 Dear parents, grieve no more for me ; 
 
 My parents, grieve no more ; 
 Believe that I am happier far 
 
 Than even with you before. 
 I've left a world where wo and sin 
 
 Swell onwards as a river. 
 And gained a world where I shall rest 
 
 In peace and joy forever. 
 
 Our Father bade me come to him, 
 
 He gently bade me come. 
 And he has made his heavenly house 
 
 My dwelling place and home. 
 On that best day of all the seven, 
 
 Which saw the Savior rise, 
 I heard the voice you could not hear. 
 
 Which called me to the skies. 
 
 I saw, too, what you could not see, 
 
 Two beauteous angels stand ; 
 They smiling stood, and looked at me. 
 
 And beckoned with their hand ; 
 
 * Supposed to be addressed by the departed spirit of a boy to his paren' \ 
 who had lost two other children before him. 
 
 i 
 
284 cheever's poets of America, 
 
 They said they were my sisters dear. 
 
 And they were sent to bear 
 My spirit to their blessed abode. 
 
 To live forever there. 
 
 Then think not of the mournful time 
 
 When I resigned my breath. 
 Nor of the place where I was laid. 
 
 The gloomy house of death ; 
 But think of that high world, where I 
 
 No more shall suffer pain, 
 And of the time when all of us 
 
 In heaven shall meet again. 
 
 Colonization o/4/rica.— Braiward. 
 
 All sights are fair to the recovered blind ; 
 
 All sounds are music to the deaf restored ; 
 The lame, made whole, leaps like the sporting hind ; 
 
 And the sad, bowed-down sinner, with his load 
 Of shame and sorrow, when he cuts the cord. 
 
 And drops the pack it bound, is iree again ' 
 In the light yoke and burden of his Lord° 
 
 Thus, with the birthright of his fellow man, 
 
 Sees, hears and feels at once the righted African. 
 
 'Tis somewhat Hke the burst from death to life ; 
 
 From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven • 
 From Sin's dominion, and from Passion's strife, ' 
 
 To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven ! 
 
 When all the bonds of death and hell are riven. 
 And mortals put on immortality ; 
 
 When fear, and care, and grief, away are driven. 
 And Mercy's hand has turned the golden key. 
 And Mercy's voice has said, « Rejoice—thy soul is free ' 
 
 FaUe of the Wood Rose and the Laurel,- 
 MojvTKLY Anthology. 
 
 In these deep shades a floweret blows. 
 Whose leaves a thousand sweets disclose ; 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 285 
 
 With modest air it hides its charms. 
 And every breeze its leaves alarms ; 
 Turns on the ground its bashful eyes. 
 And oft unknown, neglected, dies. 
 This flower, as late I careless strayed, 
 I saw in all its charms arrayed. 
 Fast by the spot where low it grew, 
 A proud and flaunting Wood Rose blew. 
 With haughty air her head she raised. 
 And on the beauteous plant she gazed. 
 While struggling passion swelled her breast. 
 She thus her kindling rage expressed : 
 
 " Thou worthless flower, 
 
 Go leave my bower. 
 And hide in humbler scenes thy head : 
 
 How dost thou dare. 
 
 Where roses are. 
 Thy scents to shed ? 
 
 Go, leave my bower, and live unknown ; 
 I'll rule the field of flowers alone." 
 
 ,..." And dost thou think" — the Laurel cried, 
 And raised its head with modest pride, 
 While on its little trembling tongue 
 A drop of dew incumbent hung — 
 
 " And dost thou think I'll leave this bower, 
 The seat of many a friendly flower. 
 
 The scene where first I grew ? 
 Thy haughty reign will soon be o'er. 
 And thy frail form will bloom no more ; 
 
 My flower will perish too. 
 
 But know, proud rose. 
 When winter's snows 
 
 Shall fall where once thy beauties stood. 
 My pointed leaf of shining green 
 Will still amid the gloom be seen. 
 
 To cheer the leafless wood." 
 
 ** Presuming fool !" the Wood Rose cried. 
 And strove in vain her shame to hide ; 
 
 But, ah! no more the flower could say 5 
 For, while she spoke, a transient breeze 
 
286 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Came rustling through the neighboring trees. 
 And bore her boasted charms away. 
 
 And such, said I, is Beauty's power ! 
 Uke thee she falls, poor trifling flower: 
 T -r , .' ^^^^^ lives her little day, . 
 Life s wmter comes with rapid pace. 
 And robs her form of every grace. 
 And steals her bloom away. ' 
 
 But in thy form, thou Laurel green, 
 t air Virtue's semblance soon is seen. 
 
 ^ m life she cheers each different staae. 
 Spring s transient reign, and Summer's |low. 
 And Autumn mild, advancing slow. 
 And lights the eye of age. 
 
 ^ Castle in the ^ir*^FROFEsson Frisbie. 
 
 I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife, 
 VVhene er I scan this scene of life. 
 
 Inspires my waking schemes, 
 And when I sleep, with form so light 
 Dances before my ravished sight, ' 
 
 In sweet aerial dreams. 
 
 The rose its blushes need not lend, 
 N^ yet the lily with them blend. 
 
 To captivate my eyes. 
 Give me a cheek the heart obeys. 
 And, sweetly mutable, displays 
 
 Its feelings as they rise ; 
 
 Features, where pensive, more than gay. 
 Save when a rising smile doth play. 
 
 The sober thought you see ; 
 Eyes that all soft and tender seem. 
 And kind affections round them beam 
 
 But most of all on me ; 
 
 reZfs^L}h:^^'ASt^^ W^out being an imitation, it 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 287 
 
 A form, though not of finest mould. 
 Where yet a something you behold 
 
 Unconsciously doth please ; 
 Manners all graceful without art. 
 That to each look and word impart 
 
 A modesty and ease. 
 
 But still her air, her face, each charm. 
 Must speak a heart with feeling warm. 
 
 And mind inform the whole ; 
 With mind hier mantling cheek must glow. 
 Her voice, her beaming eye must show 
 
 An all-inspiring soul. 
 
 Ah i could I such a being find. 
 
 And were her fate to mine but joined 
 
 By Hymen's silken tie, 
 To her myself, my all I'd give. 
 For her alone delighted live. 
 
 For her consent to die. 
 
 Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed. 
 On the soft pillow of her breast 
 
 My aching head I'd lay ; 
 At her sweet smile each care should cease. 
 Her kiss infuse a balmy peace. 
 
 And drive my griefs away. 
 
 In turn, I'd soften all her care, 
 
 Each thought, each wish, each feeling share '-, 
 
 Should sickness e'er invade. 
 My voice should soothe each rising sigh. 
 My hand the cordial should supply ; 
 
 I'd watch beside her bed. 
 
 Should gathering clouds our sky deform. 
 My arms should shield her from the storm ; 
 
 And, were its fury hurled. 
 My bosom to its bolts I'd bare, 
 In her defence undaunted dare 
 
 Defy the opposing world. 
 
 Together should our prayers ascend, 
 Together humbly would we bend. 
 
288 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 To praise the Almighty name ; 
 And when I saw her kindling eye 
 Beam upwards to her native skyj 
 
 My soul should catch the flame. 
 
 Thus nothing should our hearts divide, 
 But on our years serenely glide, 
 
 And all to love be given ; 
 And, when life's little scene was o'er. 
 We'd part to meet and part no more, 
 
 But live and love in heaven. 
 
 The Consumptive. — Rockingham Gazette, 
 
 No, never more — my setting sun 
 
 Hath sunk his evening rays : 
 And this poor heart is nearly done 
 
 With hope of better days. 
 I feel it in the clay-cold hand. 
 
 The hard and fast expiring breath ; 
 For now, so near the tomb I stand, 
 
 I breathe the chilling airs of death. 
 
 No, never more — it all is vain- 
 
 But O, how Memory leans 
 To see, and hear, and feel again 
 
 Its youth-inspiring scenes ! 
 And deep the sigh that Memory heaves, 
 
 When, one by one, they all are fled. 
 As autumn gales on yellow leaves. 
 
 That wither on their woodland bed. 
 
 No, never more — I may not view 
 
 The summer vale and hill. 
 The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue, 
 
 The forests, dark and still — 
 The evening's beauty, once so dear, 
 
 Tbat bears the glowing thoughts above, 
 When nature seems to breathe and hear 
 
 The voiceless eloquence of love. 
 
 No, never more — when prisoners wait 
 The death-call to their doom. 
 
OHEEVEH S POETS OF AMERICA. ^S9 
 
 And see, beyond their dungeon gate. 
 
 The scaifold and the tomb, 
 On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven. 
 
 Their gaze how fervently they cast! 
 So death to hfe a charm hath given, 
 
 And made it loveUest at the last. 
 
 No, never more — and now, farewell ! 
 
 The bitter word is said; 
 And soon, above my green-roofed cell 
 
 The careless foot will tread. 
 My heart hath found its rest above ; 
 
 The cares of earth are passing by ; 
 And, O, it is a voice of love. 
 
 That whispers — It is time to die ! 
 
 Lines to the Western Mummy, — W. E. Gallaudet. 
 
 O STRANGER, whose repose profound 
 
 These latter ages dare to break. 
 And call thee from beneath the ground 
 
 Ere nature did thy slumber shake ! 
 
 What wonders of the secret earth 
 
 Thy lip, too silent, might reveal ! 
 Of tribes round whose mysterious birth 
 
 A thousand envious ages wheel ! 
 
 Thy race, by savage war o'errun. 
 Sunk down, their very name forgot ; 
 
 But ere those fearful times begun, 
 Perhaps, in this sequestered spot. 
 
 By Friendship's hand thine eyelids clo^ed^ 
 By Friendship's hand the turf was laid ; 
 
 And Friendship here, perhaps, reposed. 
 With moonlight vigils in the shade. 
 
 The stars have run their nightly round, 
 The sun looked out, and passed his way. 
 
 And many a season o'er the ground 
 Has trod where thou so softly lay, 
 25 
 
290 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 And wilt thou not one moment raise 
 Thy weary head, awhile to see 
 
 Tie later sports af earthly days. 
 How like what once enchanted thee ? 
 
 Thy name, thy date, thy life declare — 
 Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band 
 
 A thousand maids have sighed to wear. 
 The brightest in thy beauteous land — 
 
 Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye 
 Love kindled up the flame of war — 
 
 Ah me ! do thus thy graces lie 
 A faded phantom, and no more ? 
 
 0, not like thee would I remain. 
 But o'er the earth my ashes strew. 
 
 And m some rising bud regain 
 The freshness that my childhood knew. 
 
 But has thy soul, O maid, so long 
 Around this mournful relict dwelt ? 
 
 Or burst away with pinion strong. 
 And at the foot of Mercy knelt ? 
 
 Or has k, in some distant clime, 
 With curious eye, unsated, strayed. 
 
 And, down the winding stream of time. 
 On every changeful current played ? 
 
 Or, locked in everlasting sleep. 
 
 Must we thy heart extinct deplore. 
 
 Thy fancy lost in darkness weep. 
 And sigh for her who feels no more t 
 
 Or, exiled to some humbler sphere. 
 In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell. 
 
 And, murmuring in the stranger's ear. 
 Thy tender melancholy tell ? 
 
 Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains 
 Shall from the muse a tear demand. 
 
 Who, wandering on these distant plains^, 
 Looks fondly to a distant land. 
 
CHEEVER's poets op AMERICA. 291 
 
 Song* — Anonymous. 
 
 A PALE weeping- willow stands yonder alone, 
 And mournfully waves In the Zephyr's light breath ; 
 
 Beneath, in its shadows, is sculptured a stone. 
 That tells of the maiden who sleeps there in death. 
 
 She came to the village, — a. stranger unknown, — 
 Though fair as the first flower that opens in May ; 
 
 The touches of health from her features had flown, 
 And she drooped like that flower in its time of decay. 
 
 She told not her story, she spoke not of sorrow. 
 
 But laid herself down, and, heart-broken, she sighed; 
 
 And, ere the hills blushed in the dawn of the morrow, 
 Uncomplaining and silent, the sweet srtranger died. 
 
 Apart and alone, the sad villagers made 
 
 A cold, quiet tomb in the heart of the vale ; 
 
 And many a stranger has wept in the shade 
 Of yon weeping- willow, to hear of the tale. 
 
 The Life of the Blessed. — Bryant. 
 
 From the Spanish of Luis Ponce de Leon. 
 
 Alma region luciente, 
 
 Prado de bieii andanza, que ni al hielo, &c. 
 
 Region of life and light ! 
 
 Land of the good, whose earthly toils are o'er! 
 
 Nor frost, nor heat, may blight 
 
 Thy vernal beauty ; fertile shore. 
 
 Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ! 
 
 There, without crook or sling. 
 
 Walks the good Shepherd ; blossoms white and red 
 
 Round his meek temples cling ; 
 
 And, to sweet pastures led, 
 
 His own loved flock beneath his eye are fed. 
 
 He guides, and near him they 
 
 Follow delighted ; for he makes them go 
 
292 cheever's poets of ameeica. 
 
 Where dwells eternal May, 
 
 And heavenly roses blow, 
 
 Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 
 
 He leads them to the height 
 
 Named of the infinite and long sought Good, 
 
 And fountains of delight ;— 
 
 And where his feet have stood 
 
 Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 
 
 And when, in the mid skies. 
 
 The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, 
 
 Reposing as he lies. 
 
 With all his flock around. 
 
 He witches the still air with modulated sound. 
 
 From his sweet lute flow forth 
 
 Immortal harmonies of power to still 
 
 All passions born of earth. 
 
 And draw the ardent will 
 
 Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 
 
 Might but a little part, 
 
 A wandering breath of that high melody, 
 
 Descend into my heart. 
 
 And change it, till it be 
 
 Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee ; 
 
 Ah, then my soul should know. 
 
 Beloved, where thou liest at noon of day, 
 
 And, from this place of wo 
 
 Released, should take its way V 
 
 To mingle with thy flock, and never stray. 
 
 The Sunday School. — Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Group after group are gathering. Such as pressed 
 Once to their Savior's arms, and gently laid 
 
 Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast. 
 
 Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade,^ 
 
 Group after group glide on with noiseless tread. 
 
293 
 
 And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, 
 Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are hred. 
 
 And holy words their ruby lips repeat. 
 Oft with a chastened glance, in modulation sweet. 
 
 Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows 
 
 Wan poverty hath done the work of care. 
 Look up, ye sad ones ! — 'tis your Father's house. 
 
 Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; 
 More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare. 
 
 And watch the gaudier forms that gayly move. 
 And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are. 
 
 The " coat of many colors" proves His love. 
 Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above. 
 
 And ye, blessed laborers in this humble sphere, 
 
 To deeds of saintlike charity inclined. 
 Who, from your cells of meditation dear. 
 
 Come forth to gird the weak, untutored mind, — 
 Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 
 
 Of grateful love, — one tear of contrite pain, — 
 Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 
 
 The rest of earthly Sabbaths. — Be your gain 
 A, Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain. 
 
 = 27^ went out into the Mount of Olives" — J. Pierpoint. 
 
 There's something sweet in scenes of gloom 
 
 To hearts of joy bereft, 
 When hope has withered in its bloom. 
 When friends are going lo the tomb, 
 
 Or in the tomb are left. 
 
 'Tis night — a lovely night ; — and, lo J 
 
 Like men in vision seen, 
 The Savior and his brethren go, 
 Silent, and sorrowful, and slow, — 
 
 Led by heaven's lamp serene, — 
 
 From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream, 
 
 To Olivet's dark steep. 
 There, o'er past joys, gone like a dream, 
 O'er future woes, that present seem, 
 
 In solitude to weep. 
 25* 
 
294 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Heaven on their earthly hopes has frowned ; 
 
 Their dream of thrones has fled ; 
 The table, that his love has crowned, 
 They ne'er again shall gather round, 
 
 With Jesus at their head. 
 
 Blast not, God, this hope of ours. 
 
 The hope of s-ins forgiven ; — 
 Then, when our friends the grave devours. 
 When all the world around us lowers, 
 
 We'll look from earth to heaven. 
 
 The Lily. — J. G. Percivai.. 
 
 I HAD found out a sweet green spot. 
 
 Where a lily was blooming mir ; 
 The din of the city disturbed it not, 
 But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot 
 
 With its wings of love, was there. 
 
 I found that lily's bloom 
 When the day was dark and chill : 
 
 It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom, 
 And it sent abroad a soft perfume. 
 Which is floating around me still. 
 
 I sat by the lily's bell. 
 
 And watched it many a day : — 
 
 The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell, 
 Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell, 
 
 And the flower had flown awaj^ 
 
 I looked where the leaves were laid. 
 
 In withering paleness, by. 
 
 And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said. 
 There is many a sweet and blooming maid. 
 
 Who will soon as dimly die. 
 
 The Last Evening "before Eternity. — Hillhouse. 
 
 By this, the sun his westering car drove low : 
 Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 295 
 
 Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold : 
 
 Along the horizon castled shapes were piled. 
 
 Turrets and towers, whose fronts, embattled, gleamed 
 
 With yellow light : smit by the slanting ray, 
 
 A ruddy beam the canopy reflected; 
 
 With deeper light the ruby blushed ; and thick 
 
 Upon the seraphs' wings the glowing spots 
 
 Seemed drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff. 
 
 With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung. 
 
 Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits 
 
 Cast off, upon the dewy air, huge flakes 
 
 Of golden lustre. Over all the hill. 
 
 The heavenly legions, the assembled world. 
 
 Evening her crimson tint forever drew. 
 
 Round I gazed. 
 Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn. 
 Faded the glories of the dying day. 
 Mild twinkling through a crimson- skirted cloud 
 The solitary star of evening shone. 
 While gazing wistful on that peerless light, 
 Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft 
 In dreams, strange images will mix,) sad thoughts 
 Passed o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried. Farewell, 
 Pale, beauteous planet, that display 'st so soft. 
 Amid yon glowing streak, thy transient beam, 
 A long, a last farewell ! Seasons have changed, 
 Ages and empires rolled, like smoke, away ; 
 But thou, unaltered, beam'st as silver fair 
 As on thy birthnight. Bright and watchful eyes, 
 From palaces and bowers, have hailed thy gem 
 With secret transport. Natal star of love, 
 And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy. 
 How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray ! 
 How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green. 
 Signal of rest, and social converse sweet. 
 Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheered 
 The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison ! 
 
296 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Wyoming, — F. G. Halleck. 
 
 "Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour ane 
 Claire, et pour un St* Preux, raais ne les y cherchez pas." 
 
 Thou com'st, in ^eauty, an my gaze at last, 
 " On Susquehannah's side, fair Wyoming !" 
 Image of many a dream, in hours long past. 
 When life was in its bud and blossoming. 
 And waters, gushing from the fountain spring 
 Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes,. 
 As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, 
 I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies. 
 The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies. 
 
 I then but dreamed : thou art before me now, 
 In life, a vision of the brain no more. 
 I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow. 
 That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er ; 
 And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore. 
 Within a bower of sycamores am laid ; 
 And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore 
 The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade. 
 Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head- 
 
 Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power 
 Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured : he 
 Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour 
 Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery 
 With more of truth, and made each rock and tree 
 Known like old friends, and greeted from afar : 
 And there are tales of sad reality. 
 In the dark legends of thy border war. 
 With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are. 
 
 But where are they, the beings of the mind. 
 The bard's creations, moulded not of clay. 
 Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned — 
 Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave — where are theyl 
 We need not ask. The people of to-day 
 Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, 
 And hospitable too — for ready pay, — 
 With manners, like their roads, a little rough. 
 And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming,, tha' toijgteu 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 297 
 
 Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, 
 And the town records, is the Albert now 
 Of Wyoming ; like him, in church and state, 
 Her Doric column ; and upon his brow 
 The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow. 
 Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain 
 To point out here, unless in yon scare- crow, 
 That stands full-uniformed upon the plain. 
 To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain. 
 
 For he would look particularly droll 
 In his " Iberian boot" and " Spanish plume," 
 And be the wonder ol each Christian soul. 
 As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom. 
 But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
 Hath many a model here , for woman's eye. 
 In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home. 
 Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high 
 To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper — Poesy. 
 
 There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen — 
 Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born 
 In heaven — with her jacket of light green, 
 " Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," 
 Without a shoe or stocking, — hoeing corn. 
 Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there. 
 With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne, 
 I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player 
 The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire. 
 
 There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old. 
 Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped 
 Upon their day of massacre. She told 
 Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept. 
 Whereon her father and five brothers slept 
 Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave. 
 When all the land a funeral mourning kept. 
 And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave. 
 By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. 
 
 And on the margin of yon orchard hill 
 
 Are marks where time-worn battlements have been ; 
 
 And in the tall grass traces linger still 
 
 Of " arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." 
 
 Five hundred of her brave that Valley green 
 
298 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ; 
 But twenty lived to tell the noon-day scene — 
 And where are now the twenty ? Passed away. 
 Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day ? 
 
 Sonnet to . — Bryant. 
 
 Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 
 
 Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring 
 Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine. 
 
 Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 
 The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 
 
 Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power. 
 And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 
 
 Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
 Glide softly to thy rest then ; Death should come 
 
 Gently to one of gentle mould like thee. 
 As Hght winds, wandering through groves of bloom. 
 
 Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
 Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain ; 
 And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. 
 
 Daybreak. — Richard H. Dana. 
 
 "The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window open- 
 ed towards the sun-rising ; the name of the chamber was Peace j where he 
 slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang." — 
 
 The Pilgrim^s Progress. 
 
 Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long. 
 In fiery armor, up the heavens high 
 Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song. 
 Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh. 
 Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye ; 
 And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. 
 Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why 
 My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; 
 Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him. 
 
 " Canst thou grow sad," thou say'st, " as earth grows bright I 
 And sigh, when little birds begin discourse 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 299 
 
 In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light 
 Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source? 
 With creatures innocent thou must, perforce, 
 A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. 
 And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse. 
 Of ills and pains of life must be the cur^. 
 And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure." 
 
 I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue 
 Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red; 
 Nor gutters yet the cold and heavy dew ; 
 And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread 
 With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed. 
 Still — save the bird that scarcely lifts its song — 
 The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead — 
 The silent city emptied of its throng. 
 And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. 
 
 But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth 
 Will quicken soon ; and hard, hot toil and strife, 
 With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth 
 With discord strange, and all that man calls life. 
 With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife ; 
 And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies : — 
 Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife ; 
 Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties : 
 He, feverish, hlinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies. 
 
 And 'tis because man useth so amiss 
 Her dearest hlessings. Nature seemeth sad ; 
 Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this, 
 Not lift the veil, in revelation glad. 
 From her fair face ? — It is that man is mad ! 
 Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine. 
 When Nature grieves ; nor deem this heart is bad. 
 Thou look'st towards earth ; hut yet the heavens are thine , 
 While I to earth am hound : — When will the heavens be mine ? 
 
 If man would hut his finer nature learn. 
 
 And not in life fantastic lose the sense 
 
 Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern 
 
 Teach him he thoughtful ; then, with soul intense, 
 
 I should not yearn for God to take me hence, 
 
 But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed, 
 
 Rememhering, humbly, why it is, and whence : 
 
300 cheevek's poets of America. 
 
 But when I see cold man of reason proud, 
 My solitude is sad— I'm lonely in the crowd. 
 
 But not for this alone, the silent tear 
 Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn. 
 Nor for this solemn hour :— fresh life is near,— 
 But all my joys !— they died when newly born. 
 Thousands will wake to joy ; while I, forlorn. 
 And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye. 
 Shall see them pass Breathe calm— my spirit's torn : 
 Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high '— • 
 Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh. ^ 
 
 And when I grieve, O, rather let it be 
 That I— whom Nature taught to sit with her 
 On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea— 
 Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir 
 Oi woods and waters, feel the quickening spur 
 1 my strong spirit ;— who, as mine own child, 
 Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur 
 A beauty see— that I this mother mild 
 Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild 
 
 How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft 
 Shot thwart the earth !— in crown of living fire 
 Up comes the Day !— as if they conscious quaffed 
 The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire 
 Laugh in the wakening light.— Go, vain Desire ! 
 Ihe dusky lights have gone ; go thou thy way! 
 And pmmg Discontent, hke them, expire ! 
 Be called my chamber. Peace, when ends the day : 
 And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray ! 
 
 Sonnet. — Bryant. 
 
 Ay, thou art welcome— heaven's dehcious breath!— 
 When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf. 
 And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief. 
 
 And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
 
 Wind of the sunny South !— O, long delay 
 In the gay woods and in the golden air,— 
 Like to a good old age, released from care. 
 
 Journeying, in lono; serenity, away 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 301 
 
 In such a bright late quiet, would that I 
 
 Might wear out life, like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, 
 And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 
 
 And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
 
 And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 
 
 Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 
 
 Hymn for the Massachusetts Charitable Association.— 
 
 PlERPONT. 
 
 Loud o'er thy savage child, 
 
 O God, the night wind roars, 
 As, houseless, in the wild 
 He bows him, and adores. 
 Thou seest him there. 
 As to the sky 
 He lifts his eye 
 Alone in prayer 
 
 Thine inspiration comes ! 
 
 In skill the blessing falls ! 
 The field around him blooms. 
 The temple rears its walls, 
 And saints adore. 
 And music swells, 
 Where savage yells 
 Were heard before. 
 
 To honor thee, dread Power, 
 
 Our SKILL and strength combine ; 
 And temple, tomb and tower 
 Attest these gifts of thine ; 
 A swelling dome 
 For Pride they gild, 
 For Peace they build 
 An humbler home. 
 
 By these our fathers' host 
 
 Was led to victory first, 
 When on our guardless coast 
 
 The cloud of battle burst. 
 
 26 
 
302 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Through storm and spray. 
 By these controlled, 
 Our navies hold 
 
 Their thundering way. 
 
 Great Source of every art ! 
 
 Our homes, our pictured halls. 
 Our thronged and busy mart 
 That heaves its granite walls. 
 And shoots to heaven 
 Its glittering spires, 
 To catch the fires 
 Of morn and even, — 
 
 These, and the breathing forms 
 The brush or chisel gives, — 
 With this, when marble warms, 
 With that, when canvass lives,- — 
 These all combine, 
 In countless ways, 
 To swell thy praise ; 
 For all are thine ! 
 
 The little Beach Bird. — Richard H. Dana. 
 
 Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
 Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? 
 Why with that boding cry 
 O'er the waves dost thou fly ? 
 O, rather, bird, with me 
 
 Through the fair land rejoice ! 
 
 Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale. 
 As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
 Thy cry is weak and scared. 
 As if thy mates had shared 
 The doom of us. Thy wail — 
 What does it bring to me ? 
 
 Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, 
 Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
 With motion, and with roar 
 Of waves that drive to shore. 
 One spirit did ye urge — 
 The Mystery — the Word. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 303 
 
 Of thousands thou, both sepulchre and pall. 
 Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead. 
 From out thy gloomy cells, 
 A tale of mourning tells — 
 Tells of man's wo and fall. 
 His sinless glory fled. 
 
 Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
 Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
 Thy spirit never more. 
 Come, quit with me the shore, 
 For gladness and the light. 
 Where birds of summer sing. 
 
 Address of the Sylph of Autumn to the Bard. 
 Washington Allston. 
 
 And now, in accents deep and low, 
 Like voice of fondly-cherished wo, 
 
 The Sylph of Autumn sad: 
 Though / may not of raptures sing, 
 That graced the gentle song of Spring, 
 Like Summer playful pleasures bring, 
 
 Thy youthful heart to glad : 
 
 Yet still may I in hope aspire 
 
 Thy heart to touch with chaster fire. 
 
 And purifying love : 
 For I, with vision high and holy, 
 And spell of quick'ning melancholy. 
 Thy soul from sublunary folly 
 
 First raised to worlds above. 
 
 What though be mine the treasures fair 
 Of purple grape, and yellow pear. 
 
 And fruits of various hue, 
 And harvests rich of golden grain. 
 That dance in waves along the plain 
 To merry song of reaping swain. 
 
 Beneath the welkin blue ; 
 
 With these I may not urge my suit. 
 Of Summer's patient toil the fruit. 
 
304 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 For mortal purpose given ; 
 Nor may it fit my sober mood 
 To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, 
 Or dies of many-colored wood. 
 
 That mock the bow of heaven. 
 
 But, know, 'twas mine the secret power 
 That waked thee at the midnight hour, 
 
 In bleak November's reign : 
 'Twas I the spell around thee cast. 
 When thou didst hear the hollow blast 
 In murmurs tell of pleasures past. 
 
 That ne'er would come again ; — 
 
 And led thee, when the storm was o'er, - 
 To hear the sullen ocean roar. 
 
 By dreadful calm oppressed ; 
 Which still, though not a breeze was there. 
 Its mountain-billows heaved in air. 
 As if*a living thing it were. 
 
 That strove in vain for rest. 
 
 'Twas I, when thou, subdued by wo. 
 Didst watch the leaves descending slow. 
 
 To each a moral gave ; 
 And, as they moved, in mournful train. 
 With rustling sound, along the plain. 
 Taught them to sing a seraph's strain 
 
 Of peace within the grave. 
 
 And then, upraised thy streaming eye, 
 I met thee in the western sky. 
 
 In pomp of evening cloud. 
 That, while .with varying form it rolled, 
 Some wizard's castle seemed of gold. 
 And now a crimsoned knight of old. 
 
 Or king in purple proud. 
 
 And last, as sunk the setting sun. 
 And Evening, with her shadows dun, 
 
 The gorgeous pageant passed, 
 'Twas then of life a mimic show. 
 Of human grandeur here below. 
 Which thus beneath the fatal blow 
 
 Of Death must fall at last. 
 
POETS OF AMERICA. 305 
 
 O, then, with what aspiring gaze 
 Didst thou thy tranced vision raise 
 
 To yonder orbs on high. 
 And think how wondrous, how subUme 
 *Twere upwards to their spheres to climb. 
 And live beyond the reach of Time, 
 
 Child of Eternity ! 
 
 Omnipresence.— Anonymous. 
 
 There is an unseen Power around, 
 
 Existing in the silent air : 
 Where treadeth man, where space is found. 
 
 Unheard, unknown, thjit Power is there. 
 
 And not when bright and busy day 
 Is round us with its crowds and cares, 
 
 And not when night, with solem sway. 
 
 Bids awe-hushed souls breathe forth in prayers- 
 
 Not when, on sickness' weary couch. 
 
 He writhes with pain's deep, long-drawn groan. 
 Not when his steps in freedom touch 
 
 The fresh green turf — is man alone. 
 
 In proud Belshazzar's gilded hall, 
 
 'Mid music, lights, and revelry. 
 That Present Spirit looked on all. 
 
 From crouching slave to royalty. 
 
 When sinks the pious Christian's soul. 
 
 And scenes of horror daunt his eye. 
 He hears it whispered through the air, 
 
 " A Power of Mercy still is nigh." 
 
 The Power that watches, guides, defends. 
 
 Till man becomes a lifeless sod, 
 Till earth is nought,-— nought, earthly friends, — 
 
 That omnipresent Power — is God, 
 26* 
 
306 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Hymn of the Moravian JVuns at the Consecration of 
 Pulaskt's Banner. — H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack 
 upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, 
 embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania. 
 
 When the dying flame of day 
 
 Through the chancel shot its ray, 
 
 Far the glimmering tapers shed 
 
 Faint light on the cowled head, 
 
 And the censer hurning swung, 
 
 Where before the altar hung 
 
 That proud banner, which, with prayer. 
 
 Had been consecrated there ; 
 And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
 Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle. 
 
 Take thy banner. May it wave 
 Proudly o'er the good and brave, 
 When the battle's distant wail 
 Breaks the Sabbath of our vale, — 
 When the clarion's music thrills 
 To the hearts of these lone hills, — 
 When the spear in conflict shakes. 
 And the strong lance shivering breaks. 
 
 Take thy banner ; — and, beneath 
 The war-cloud's encircling wreath. 
 Guard it — till our homes are free — 
 Guard it — God will prosper thee ! 
 In the dark and trying hour. 
 In the breaking forth of power. 
 In the rush of steeds and men, 
 His right hand will shield thee then. 
 
 Take thy banner. But when night 
 
 Closes round the ghastly fight. 
 
 If the vanquished warrior bow, 
 
 Spare him ;— by our holy vow. 
 
 By our prayers and many tears, 
 
 By the mercy that endears, 
 
 Spai*e him — he our love hatlf shared — 
 
 Spare him — as thou wouldst be spared. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 307 
 
 Take thy banner ; — and if e'er 
 Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
 And the muffled drum should beat 
 To the tread of mournful feet, 
 Then this crimson flag shall be 
 Martial cloak and shroud for thee. 
 
 And the warrior took that banner proud. 
 And it was his martial cloak and shroud. 
 
 The Raising ofJairus^s Daughter. — N. A. Review. 
 
 They have watched her last and quivering breath. 
 
 And the maiden's soul has flown ; 
 They have wrapped her in the robes of death. 
 
 And laid her, dark and lone. 
 
 But the mother casts a look behind. 
 
 Upon that fallen flower, — 
 Nay, start not — 'twas the gathering wind ; 
 
 Those limbs have lost their power. 
 
 And tremble not at that cheek of snow. 
 
 O'er which the faint light plays ; 
 'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow. 
 
 Which thus deceives thy gaze. 
 
 Didst thou not close that expiring eye. 
 
 And feel the soft pulse decay ? 
 And did not thy lips receive the sigh. 
 
 Which bore her soul away ? 
 
 She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed, 
 
 And heeds not thy gentle tread. 
 And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed, 
 
 Which dies on its snowy bed. 
 
 The mother has flown from that lonely room, 
 
 And the maid is mute and pale ; 
 Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb, 
 
 And dark is her stiffened nail. 
 
 *■ 
 1 
 
308 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Her mother strays with folded arms, 
 
 And her head is bent in wo; 
 She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms : 
 
 No tear attempts to flow. 
 
 But listen ! what name salutes her ear ? 
 
 It comes to a heart of stone ; 
 "Jesus " she cries, « has no power here : 
 
 My daughter's life has flown." 
 
 He leads the way to that cold white couch. 
 And bends o'er the senseless form ; 
 
 Can his be less than a heavenly touch ? 
 Ihe maiden's hand is warm! 
 
 ^ wvM^ ^^^^^ ^^^""^ ^^"^^s with roseate hue. 
 While Death's dark terrors fly ; 
 
 a"" ^''''.^ '' ''^^^^^' ^^^ ^ei* step is true. 
 And hfe beams bright in her eye. 
 
 'Departure of the Pioneer,— Bhainard. 
 
 ^^h.^Toj/'^'^.^^^^^f ^^' ^^^ ^^ke and the hamlet. 
 
 The rock and the brook, and yon meadow so ffav • 
 From the foot-path, that winds by the side of thls^ti^amlef 
 From his hut and the grave of his friend far away ;' 
 He IS gone where the footsteps of man never ventured 
 ^here the glooms of the wild tangled forest are centred 
 ^ ll'^'^'l^'^ i^^^ ^^^ ^' ^he Iweet moon has entered 
 No blood-hound has roused up the deer with h7s bay. ' 
 
 He has left the green valley for paths where the bison 
 WheTthe rf ^\P^^^''^> ^'^--P^ o'er the flood ; 
 
 Ind the ea^ ofTp '^" Z''^^ ^""^^ the deadhest poison, 
 BuT the leaf In n h! mountains keeps watch for its food. 
 JKui tne Jeat shall be greener, the sky shall be purer. 
 The eyes shall be clearer, the rifle be surer, ^ ' 
 And stronger the arm of the fearless endurer. 
 
 That trusts nought but Heaven in his way through the wood. 
 
 Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer, 
 l^irra be his step through each wearisome mile. 
 
CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 309 
 
 Far from the cruel man, far from the plunderer, 
 Far from the track of the mean and the vile. 
 
 And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him, 
 
 And all but the last throb of memory fails him. 
 
 He'll tliink of the friend, far away, that bewails him. 
 And light up the cold touch of death with a smile. 
 
 And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre. 
 
 There for his pall shall the oak leaves be spread ; 
 The sweet brier shall bloom, and the wild grape shall cluster. 
 
 And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed. 
 There shall they mix with the fern and the heather. 
 There shall the young eagle shed its first feather. 
 The wolves with his wild dogs shall lie there together. 
 And moan o'er the spot where the hunter is laid. 
 
 TheMpine Flowers. — Mrs. Sigourney.^ 
 
 Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs ! 
 With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips. 
 Whence are ye ? — Did some white-winged messenger 
 On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ 
 To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 
 Or, breathing on the callous icicles. 
 Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye, ? — 
 
 — Tree nor shrub 
 Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
 Uprears a veteran front ; yet there ye stand. 
 Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice, 
 And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
 Who bids you bloom unbianched amid the waste 
 Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
 O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
 Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge 
 Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
 And marks ye in your placid loveliness — 
 Fearless, yet frail — and, clasping his chill hands. 
 Blesses your pencilled beauty. 'Mid the pomp 
 Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
 
 *This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney^s poetry. It is in 
 some respects so sublime, that it forcibly reminds us of Coleridge's Hymn 
 before Sunrise in the Vale of Charaouny. — Ed, 
 
810 CHEEVEe's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
 He bows to bind you drooping to his breast. 
 Inhales your spirit from the frost- winged gale. 
 And freer dreams of heaven. 
 
 A ChiliTs first Impression of a Star. — N. P. Willis. 
 
 She had been told that God made all the stars 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
 As if it were a new and perfect world. 
 And this were its first eve. How beautiful 
 Must be the work of Nature to a child 
 In its first fresh impression ! Laura stood 
 By the low window, with the silken lash 
 Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
 Half parted with the new and strange delight 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend. 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 That looked so still and delicate above. 
 Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 Stood looking at the west with that half smile. 
 As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
 Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
 To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands. 
 Her simple thought broke forth expressively — 
 *« Father, dear father, God has made a star !" 
 
 The Leper.— N. P. Willis. 
 
 " Room for the leper! Room!" And, as he came. 
 
 The cry passed on — "Room for the leper! Room!" 
 
 Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 
 
 Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills 
 
 The early risen poor were coming in, 
 
 I>uly and cheerfully, to their toil, and up 
 
 Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum 
 
CHEEVER's poets op AMERICA. 311 
 
 Of moving wheels and multitudes astir. 
 And all that in a city murmur swells. 
 Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear. 
 Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick 
 Hailing the welcome light, and sounds that chase 
 The death-like images of the dark away. 
 
 " Room for the leper !" And aside they stood, 
 Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all 
 Who met him on his way — and let him pass. 
 And onward through the open gate he came, 
 A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
 Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
 A covering, stepping painfully and slow. 
 And with a difficult utterance, like one 
 Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down. 
 Crying " Unclean! — Unclean!" 
 
 'Twas now the depth 
 Of the Judean summer, and the leaves. 
 Whose shadows lay so still upon his path. 
 Had budded on the clear and flashing eye 
 Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young, 
 And eminently beautiful, and life 
 Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip. 
 And sparkled in his glance ; and in his mien 
 There was a gracious pride that every eye 
 Followed with benisons — and this was he ! 
 With the soft airs of summer there had come 
 A torpor on his frame, which not the speed 
 Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast 
 Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs 
 The spirit to its bent, might drive away. 
 The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; 
 Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth 
 Fettered his limbs like palsy, and his port. 
 With all its Joftiness, seemed struck with eld. 
 Even his voice was changed — a languid moan 
 Taking the place of the clear, silver key; 
 And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light. 
 And very air, were steeped in sluggishness. 
 He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, 
 Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein 
 Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise 
 The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. 
 
S12 CHEEVER'S POETS OP AMERICA. 
 
 Day after day he lay as if in sleep. 
 
 Ills skin grew dry and bloodless/and white scalp^ 
 
 AnH .f ^l'?' ^^'^ P"^"P^^' ^«-^^-ed him ''' 
 
 From th^ ^!']f?i'^'# 'l^ ^^""^' ^^^ f^ll a^ay 
 i* rom the dull flesh about them, and the hues 
 
 An7fL"m tW ''? ^'^ ^^^^' unmoisten^d scales, 
 
 i W H J ^"^^"i ^'^'^ ^^^ ^^^'^ w^ite hair, 
 — And Helon was a leper! 
 
 wv. ^ .!_ . -^^y ^^s breaking 
 
 When at the altar of the temple stood ^ 
 
 luL"^^ ?/v!''^ ^^ ^^^- T^^ i^^^^se lamp 
 
 dwelled through the hollow arches of the roof 
 
 W . ''^r'T^''^^ ""^^^ ^ ^^d there, alone. 
 Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt' 
 The echoes of the melancholy strain 
 Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, 
 TtM'''^ with, weakness, and bowed down his head 
 Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
 His costly raiment for the leper's P-arb 
 
 HM ii7f lol' '''^'^''^ ^:"^^^ ^^^^' ^^^ his lip 
 Wid in a loathsome covering, stood still 
 Waiting to hear his doom :— 
 
 Depart! depart, child 
 01 Israel from the temple of thy God: 
 for He has smote thee with his chastening rod. 
 
 And to the desert wild, ^ 
 
 TW /" ^^l"" ^"^7''^' ^^^^y thy ^e^t must flee. 
 That from thy plague His people may be free. 
 
 ^ Depart! and come not near 
 The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
 Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er 
 
 ^ And stay thou not to hear 
 Voices that call thee in the way; and fly 
 i^rom all who m the wilderness pass by. 
 
 Wet not thy burning lip 
 In streams that to a human dwelling: ffUde • 
 Nor rest thee where the covert fouStfins hide ; 
 _ Nor kneel thee down to dip 
 The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
 By desert well, or river's grassy brink. 
 
€HEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA, B13 
 
 And pass not thou between 
 The weary traveller and the cooling breeze, 
 And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 
 
 Where human tracks are seen ; 
 Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 
 Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 
 
 And now depart ! and when 
 Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim. 
 Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him 
 
 Who, from the tribes of men. 
 Selected thee to feel his chastening rod. 
 Depart, O leper ! and forget not God ! 
 
 And he went forth- — alone ; not one, of all 
 The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
 Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
 Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
 Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way. 
 Sick and heart-broken, and alone, to die ; — 
 For God hath cursed the leper ! 
 
 It was noon. 
 And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
 in the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
 Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched 
 The loathsome water to his fevered lips, 
 Praying that he might be so blessed — to die ! 
 Footsteps approached, and, with no strength to flee. 
 He drew the covering closer on his lip. 
 Crying " Unclean! Unclean!" and, in the folds 
 Of the coarse sackcloth, shrouding up his face. 
 He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
 Nearer the stranger came, and, bending o'er 
 The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name^ 
 — " Helon !"-^the voice was like the master-tone 
 Of a rich instrument-^most strangely sweet ; 
 And the dull pulses of disease awoke, * * 
 
 And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
 And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
 '** Helon, arise !" and he forgot his curse. 
 And rose, and stood before him. 
 
 Love and awe 
 Miflgled in the regard of Helen's ey« 
 27 
 
314 cheever's poets op America, 
 
 As he beheld the stranger j^ He was not 
 
 In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
 
 The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
 
 No Mowers at his back, nor in his hand 
 
 Buckler, or sword, or spear ; — yet in his mien 
 
 Command sat throned serene, and, if he smiled, 
 
 A kingly condescension graced his lips, 
 
 The lion would have crouched to in his lair. 
 
 His garb was simple, and his sandals worn; 
 
 His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; 
 
 His countenance, the impress of a God, 
 
 Touched with the open innocence of a child ; 
 
 His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky 
 
 In the serenest noon ; his hair, unshorn, 
 
 Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard 
 
 The fulness of j>erfected manhood bore. 
 
 He looked on Helon earnestly awhile. 
 
 As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down. 
 
 He took a little water in his hand, 
 
 And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean!" 
 
 And, lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
 
 Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, 
 
 And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow 
 
 The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
 
 His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
 
 Prostrate at Jesus's feet, and worshipped him. 
 
 Versification cf the Beginning of the Last Book of the 
 Martyrs. — Alexander H. Everett. 
 
 Sweet muse^ that on my venturous voyage smiled. 
 And kindly cheered the dangerous, doubtful way. 
 No more, with dreams of youth and hope beguiled, 
 I tempt thee from thy heavenly seats to stray. 
 Soon shall my lyre its feeble descant close, 
 And sad its parting strain — a funeral song ; 
 Nor needs a Frenchman aid for themes like those ; 
 Spontaneous rise the notes his lyre along, 
 And all he sings he feels, inured to grief and wrong. 
 
 Friend of my youth, indulge this parting lay. 
 And then for 3>ge thy service I forego. 
 
315 
 
 1 leave the dreams that charmed my earlier day. 
 And all the heaven that youthful poets know ; 
 For youth is fled ; and thou mayst not remain. 
 To 'sort with furrowed hrow and silver hairs ; 
 Yet sure to lose thee gives me mickle pain; 
 Thy hand alone the halm of life prepares, 
 The only zest for joy, the only cure for cares. 
 
 O, yes ; perforce the parting tear will flow ; — 
 So old a friend, that loved me yet a child. 
 Teaching my step the ocean path to know. 
 And my young voice to sing the tempest mild. 
 I wooed thee oft in western wood afar, 
 Where stranger foot had never trod before, 
 By twilight dim, or light of evening star. 
 Listening remote to Niagara's roar ; 
 And Nature's self, and thou, didst inspiration pour. 
 
 Guide and companion of my wandering way, 
 What various lands our voyage since hath seen, 
 From plains where Tiber's glorious waters play, 
 To distant Morven's misty summits green. 
 How loath to leave the spot we lingered near, 
 Athena's walls and grove of Academe ! 
 How, pilgrim Hke, we saw, with hallowed fear. 
 Afar the Holy City's turrets gleam. 
 And prayed on Zion's mount, and drank of Jordan's stream ! 
 
 Then fare thee well ! but not with thee depart 
 The loftiness of soul that thou hast given ; 
 Once to have known thee shall exalt my heart, 
 When thou, celestial guest, art fled to heaven. 
 Then what, though Time may wither Fancy's bloom. 
 And change her voice to dissonance uncouth ? 
 Thy nobler gifts receive a nobler doom. 
 And live and flourish in eternal youth — 
 The firm, unbending mind, the consciousness of truth. 
 
 Autumn^ — Anonymous. 
 
 Sweet Sabbath of the year. 
 While evening lights decay. 
 
816 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Thy parting steps methinks I hear 
 Steal from the world away. 
 
 Amid thy silent flowers 
 
 'Tis sad, but sweet, to dwell. 
 
 Where falling leaves and drooping flowers 
 Around me breathe farewell. 
 
 Along thy sunset skies 
 
 Their glories melt in shade, 
 
 And, like the things we fondly prize, 
 Seem lovelier as they fade, 
 
 A deep and crimson streak 
 
 Thy dying leaves disclose ; 
 As, on Consumption's waning cheek, 
 
 'Mid ruin, blooms the rose. 
 
 Thy scene each vision brings 
 
 Of beauty in decay ; 
 Of fair and early faded things, 
 
 Too exquisite to stay ; — 
 
 Of joys that come no more ; 
 
 Of flowers whose bloom is fled ; 
 Of farewells wept upon the shore ; 
 
 Of friends estranged or dead ; — 
 
 Of all that now may seem, 
 
 To Memory's tearful eye. 
 The vanished beauty of a dream, 
 
 O'er which we gaze and sigh. 
 
 J%e Treasure that waxeth not old--^D. Huwtiwgdon. 
 
 O, I HAVE loved, in youth's fair vernal morn, 
 
 To spread imagination's wildest wing, 
 
 The sober certainties of life to scorn, 
 
 And seek the visioned realms that poets sing — 
 
 Where Nature blushes in perennial spring. 
 
 Where streams of earthly joy exhaustless rise. 
 
 Where Youth and Beauty tread the choral ring 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 817 
 
 And shout their raptures to the cloudless skies, 
 While every jovial hour on downy pinion flies. 
 
 But, ah ! those fairy scenes at once have fled. 
 Since stern Experience waved her iron wand, 
 Broke the soft slumbers of my visioned head. 
 And bade me here of perfect bliss despond. 
 And oft have I the painful lesson conned, 
 When Disappointment mocked my wooing heart, 
 Still of its own delusion weakly fond. 
 And from forbidden pleasures loath to part, 
 Though shrinking oft beneath Correction's deepest smart. 
 
 And is there nought in mortal life, I cried. 
 Can soothe the sorrows of the laboring breast ? 
 No kind recess, where baffled Hope may hide. 
 And weary Nature lull her woes to rest ? 
 O grant me, pitying Heaven, this last request, — 
 Since I must every loftier wish resign, — 
 Be my few days with peace and friendship blessed ; 
 Nor will I at my humble lot repine, 
 Though neither wealth, nor fame, nor luxury be mine. 
 
 O give me yet, in some recluse abode. 
 Encircled with a faithful few, to dwell. 
 Where power cannot oppress, nor care corrode. 
 Nor venomed tongues the tale of slander tell ; — 
 Or bear me to some solitary cell. 
 Beyond the reach of every human eye ; 
 And let me bid a long and last farewell 
 To each alluring object 'neath the sky. 
 And there in peace await my hour, in peace to die. 
 
 " Ah, vain desire !" a still small voice replied ; 
 " No place, no circumstance can Peace impart: — ■ 
 She scorns the mansion of unvanquished Pride, 
 Sweet inmate of a pure and humble heart ; — 
 Take then thy station — act thy proper part : — 
 A Savior's mercy seek, — his will perform : 
 His vrord has balm for sin's envenomed smart. 
 His love, diffused, thy shuddering breast shall warm; 
 His power provide a shelter from the gathering storm." 
 
 O welcome hiding place ! O refuge meet 
 For fainting pilgrims?, on this desert way ! 
 
318 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 O kind Conductor of tliese wandering feet. 
 Through snares and darkness, to the realms of day ! 
 Soon did the Sun of Righteousness display 
 His healing beams : each gloomy cloud dispel : 
 While on the parting mist, in colors gay. 
 Truth's cheering bow of precious promise fell. 
 And Mercy's silver voice soft whispered, — "All is well.'' 
 
 Fragment of an Epistle written while recovering from severe 
 Illness, — Richard H. Dana. 
 
 No more, my friend, 
 A wearied ear I'll urge you lend 
 My tale of sickness. Aches I've borne 
 From closing day to breaking morn- 
 Long wintry nights and days of pain — 
 Sharp pain. 'Tis past : and I would fain 
 My languor cheer with grateful thought 
 On Him who to this frame has brought 
 Soothing and rest ; who, when there rose, 
 Within my bosom's dull repose, 
 A troubled memory of wrong, 
 Done in health's day, when passions strong 
 Swayed me, — repentance spoke and peace, 
 Hope, and from dark remorse release. 
 
 Lonely, in thought, I travelled o'er 
 Days past and joys to come no more ; 
 Sat watching the low beating fire, 
 And saw its flames shoot up, expire 
 Like cheerful thoughts that glance their light 
 Athwart the mind, and then 'tis night. 
 
 For ever night } — The Eternal One, 
 With sacred fire from forth his throne. 
 Has touched my heart. O, fail it not 
 When days of health shall be my lot. 
 
 Beside me. Patience, Suffering's child, 
 With gentle voice, and aspect mild. 
 Sat chanting to me song so holy, 
 A song to soothe my melancholy ; 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 319 
 
 Won me to learn of her to bear 
 
 Sorrows, and pains, and all that wear 
 
 Our hearts — me — chained by sickness — taught, 
 
 " Prisoner to none the free of thought :" 
 
 A truth sublime, but slowly learned 
 
 By one who for earth's freshness yearned. 
 
 From open air and ample sky 
 Pent up, thus doomed for days to lie. 
 Was trial hard to me, a stranger 
 To long confinement, — me, a ranger 
 Through bare or leafy wood, o'er hill. 
 O'er field, by shore, or by the rill 
 When taking hues from bending flowers, 
 Or stealing dark by crystal bowers 
 Built up by Winter on its bank. 
 Of branches shot from vapor dank : 
 And hard to sit, and see boys slide 
 O'er crusted plain stretched smooth and wide ; 
 Or down the steep and shining drift. 
 With shout and call, shoot light and swift. 
 
 But I could stand at set of sun. 
 And see the snow he shone upon 
 Change to a path of glory, — see 
 The rainbow hues 'twixt him and me — 
 Orange, and green, and golden light : 
 I thought on that celestial sight. 
 That city seen by aged John, 
 City with walls of precious stone 
 Brighter and brighter grew the road 
 'Twixt me and the descending God — 
 Methought I could the path have trod. 
 Silent and slow the sun has gone. 
 And left me on the earth alone. 
 
 And gone's his path, like the steps of light 
 By angels trod at dead of night, 
 While Jacob slept. Around my room 
 The shadows deepen ; while the gloom 
 Visits my soul, in converse high 
 Lifted but now, when heaven was nigh. 
 
 Why could not I, in spirit, raise 
 Pillar of Bethel to his praise 
 
3^20 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA* 
 
 Who blessed me, and free worship pay. 
 Like Isaac's soa upon his way ? 
 Are holy thoughts but happy dreams 
 Chased by despair, as starry gleams 
 By clouds ? — Nay, turn, and read thy mind ; 
 Nay, look on Nature's face ; thou'lt find 
 Kind, gentle graces, thoughts to raise 
 The tired spirit— hope arid praise. 
 
 O, kind to me, in darkest hour 
 She led me forth with gentle power. 
 From lonely thought, from sad unrest. 
 To peace of mind, and to her breast 
 The son, who always loved her, pressed ; 
 Called up the moon to cheer me ; laid 
 Its silver light on bank and glade. 
 And bade it throw mysterious beams 
 O'er ice-clad hill — which steely gleams 
 Sent back — a knight who took his rest. 
 His burnished shield above his breast. 
 The fence of long, rough rails, that went 
 O'er trackless snows, a beauty lent : 
 Glittered each cold and icy bar 
 Beneath the moon like shafts of war» 
 And there a lovely tracery 
 Of branch and twig that naked tree 
 Of shadows soft and dim has wove, 
 And spread so gently, that above 
 The pure white snow it seems to float 
 Lighter than that celestial boat. 
 The silver-beaked moon, on air, — 
 Lighter than feathery gossamer ; 
 As if its dark'ning touch, through fear. 
 It held from thing so saintly clear. 
 
 Thus Nature threw her beauties round me; 
 Thus, from the gloom in which she found me. 
 She won me by her simple graces. 
 She wooed me with her happy faces. 
 
 The day is closed ; and I refrain 
 From further talk. But, if of pain 
 It has beguiled a weary hour ; 
 If to my desert mind, like shower 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 321 
 
 That wets the parching earth, has come 
 A cheerful thought, and made its home 
 With me awhile ; I'd have you share, 
 Who feel for me in ills I bear. 
 
 Lines occasioned by hearing a little Boy mock the Old South 
 Clock, as it rung the Hour of Twelve. — Mrs. Child. 
 
 Ay, ring thy shout to the merry hours : 
 
 Well may ye part in glee ; 
 From their sunny wings they scatter flowers, 
 
 And, laughing, look on thee. 
 
 Thy thrillmg voice has started tears : 
 
 It brings to mind the day 
 When I chased butterflies and years,— 
 
 And both flew fast away. 
 
 Then my glad thoughts were few and free ; 
 
 They came but to depart. 
 And did not ask where heaven could be — 
 
 'Twas in my little heart. 
 
 I since have sought the meteor crown, 
 
 Which fame bestows on men : 
 How gladly would I throw it down. 
 
 To be so gay again ! 
 
 But youthful joy has gone away ; 
 
 In vain 'tis now pursued ; 
 Such rainbow glories only stay 
 
 Around the simply good. 
 
 I know too much, to be as blessed 
 
 As when I was like thee ; 
 My spirit, reasoned into rest, 
 
 Has lost its buoyancy. 
 
 Yet still I love the winged hours : 
 
 We often part in glee — 
 And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers 
 
 Their farewell gifts to me. 
 
322 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Hymn to the JVorth Star, — Bryant. 
 
 The sad and solemn Night 
 Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; 
 
 The glorious host of light 
 Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
 All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
 Her constellations come, and round the heavens, and go. 
 
 Day, too, hath many a star 
 To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 
 
 Through the blue fields afar. 
 Unseen, they follow in his flaming way. 
 Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
 Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 
 
 And thou dost see them rise. 
 Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them. set. 
 
 Alone, in thy cold skies. 
 Thou keep'st thy old, unmoving station yet, 
 Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train. 
 Nor dip'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 
 
 There, at Morn's rosy birth. 
 Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air; 
 
 And Eve, that round the earth 
 Chases the Day, beholds thee watching there ; 
 There Noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
 The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. 
 
 Alike, beneath thine eye. 
 The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 
 
 High towards the star-lit sky 
 Towns blaze — the smoke of battle blots the sun — 
 The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud — 
 And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. 
 
 On thy unaltering blaze 
 The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, 
 
 Fixes his steady gaze. 
 And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast : 
 And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
 Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 323 
 
 And, therefore, bards of old. 
 Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, 
 
 Did in thy beams behold 
 A beauteous type of that unchanging , ^ood. 
 That bright, eternal beacon, by whose ray 
 The voyager of time should shape his 1 leedful way. 
 
 Connecticut, — F. G. Halleck. 
 
 From an unpublished Poem. 
 
 And still her gray rocks tower above the sea 
 That murmurs at their feet, a conquered wave ; 
 
 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
 Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 
 
 Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands, are bold and free, 
 And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave ; 
 
 And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray, 
 
 Nor even then, unless in their own way. 
 
 Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
 A " fierce democracie," where all are true 
 
 To what themselves have voted — right or wrong — 
 And to their laws, denominated blue ; 
 
 (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
 A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 
 
 Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest. 
 
 Sacred — the San Marino of the west. 
 
 A justice of the peace, for the time being. 
 
 They bow to, but may turn him out next year : 
 
 They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing 
 In price or creed, dismiss him without fear ; 
 
 They have a natural talent for foreseeing 
 
 And knowing all things ; — and should Park appear 
 
 From his long tour in Africa, to show 
 
 The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — We know. 
 
 They love their land, because it is their own. 
 And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 
 
 Would shake hands with a king upon his throne. 
 And think it kindness to his majesty ; 
 
 A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 
 Such are they nurtured, such they live and die -. 
 
324 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 
 
 With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddli»g ; 
 
 Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
 The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 
 
 Gallant and Godly, making love and preaching. 
 And gaining, by what they call " hook and crook," 
 
 And what the moralists call overreaching, 
 A decent living. The Virginians look 
 
 Upon them with as favorable eyes 
 
 As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. 
 
 But these are but their outcasts. View them neai 
 At home, where all their worth and pride is placed ; 
 
 And there their hospitable fires burn clear. 
 
 And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced 
 
 With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 
 
 Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste. 
 
 In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 
 
 Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 
 
 And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 
 
 Is felt even in their nation's destiny ; 
 Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul. 
 
 And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
 Names that adorn and dignify the scroll 
 
 Whose leaves contain their country's history. 
 
 Hers are not Tempo's nor Arcadia's spring. 
 Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales. 
 
 The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
 Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 
 
 Of Florence and the Arno — yet the wing 
 Of life's best angel. Health, is on her gales 
 
 Through sun and snow — and, in the autumn time. 
 
 Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 
 
 Her clear, warm heaven at noon, — the mist that shrouds 
 Her twilight hills, — her cool and starry eves. 
 
 The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds. 
 The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves. 
 
 Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds. 
 Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; 
 
 i 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 325 
 
 And his mind's brightest vision but displays 
 The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 
 
 And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 
 
 Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
 The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove ; 
 
 The mother, smiling in her infant's bovv^er ; 
 Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 
 
 Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour, 
 Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
 To the green land I sing, then wake ; you'll find them there. 
 
 TJie Rising Moon. — W. O. B. Peabody. 
 
 The moon is up ! How calm and slow 
 
 She wheels above the hill ! 
 The vteary winds forget to blow, 
 
 And all the world lies still. 
 
 The way-worn travellers, with delight, 
 
 The rising brightness see. 
 Revealing all the paths and plains. 
 
 And gilding every tree. 
 
 It glistens where the hurrying stream 
 
 Its little ripple leaves ; 
 It falls upon the forest shade. 
 
 And sparkles on the leaves. 
 
 So once, on Judah's evening hills, 
 
 The heavenly lustre spread ; 
 The gospel sounded from the blaze. 
 
 And shepherds gazed with dread. 
 
 And still that light upon the world 
 
 Its guiding splendor throws : 
 Bright in the opening hours of life, 
 
 But brighter at the close. "" 
 
 The waning moon, in time, shall fail 
 
 To walk the midnight skies ; 
 But God hath kindled this bright light 
 
 With fire that never dies. 
 
 28 
 
326 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 America to Great Britain* — Washington Allston. 
 
 All hail ! thou noble land, 
 Our father's native soil ! 
 O stretch thy mighty hand, 
 Gigantic grown by toil, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore 
 For thou, with magic might. 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The Genius of our clime. 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep. 
 Shall hail the great sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
 Then let the world combine — 
 O'er the main our naval line. 
 Like the milky way, shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! 
 
 Though ages long have passed 
 
 Since our fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untravelled seas to roam, — 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 That blood of honest fame. 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ? 
 
 While the language, free and bold. 
 
 Which the bard of Avon sung. 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung, 
 
 *This poem was written in the year 1810. It was first printed, we be 
 lieve, in Coleridge's Sybilline Leaves. Coleridge inserted it among liis own 
 poems, with the following note : — 
 
 _" This poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and deal 
 friend, I communicate to the reader for its moral, no less than its poetic, 
 spirit." 
 
 After such a commendation from the greatest poet, and perhaps the great- 
 est man living, any additional one would be superfluous. — Ed. 
 

 I #^ii 
 
 li-ti 
 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 327 
 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; 
 While this, with reverence meet, 
 Ten thousand echoes greet. 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast ; 
 
 While the manners, v^hile the arts, 
 
 That mould a nation's soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts, 
 Between let Ocean roll. 
 Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : 
 Yet, still, from either beach, 
 The voice of blood shall reach, 
 More audible than speech, 
 "We are One!"* 
 
 The Mght'flowering CereusA — Unitarian Miscellany. 
 
 Now departs day's gairish light — 
 
 Beauteous flower, lift thy head ! 
 Rise upon the brow of night ! 
 
 Haste, thy transient lustre shed ! 
 
 Night has dropped her dusky veil — 
 
 All vain thoughts be distant far, f 
 
 While, with silent awe, we hail 
 
 Flora's radiant evening star. 
 
 See to life her beauties start ; 
 
 Hail ! thou glorious, matchless flower ! 
 Much thou sayest to the heart. 
 
 In the solemn, fleeting hour. 
 
 =^Thi3 alludes merely to the moral unioft of the two countries. The 
 author would not have it supposed that the tribute of respect, offered in 
 these stanzas to the land of his ancestors, would be paid by him, if at the 
 expense of the independence of that which gave him birth. 
 
 jThe night-flowering Cereus, or Cactus grandijiorus, is one of our most 
 splendid hot-house plants, and is a native of Jamaica and" some other of the 
 West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly set with spines. The 
 flower is white, and very large, sometimes nearly a foot in diameter. The 
 most remarkable circumstance with regard to the flower, is the short time 
 which it takes to expand, and the rapidity with which it decays. It begins 
 to open late in the evening, flourishes for an hour or two, then begins to 
 droop, and before morning is completely dead. 
 
328 
 
 Ere we have our homage paid, 
 
 Thou wilt bow thine head and die ; 
 
 Thus our sweetest pleasures fade, 
 Thus our brightest blessings fly. 
 
 Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine, 
 Bears a flower thus purely bright ; 
 
 Thus, when sunny hours decline. 
 Friendship sheds her cheering light. 
 
 Religion, too, that heavenly flower, 
 That joy of never-fading worth. 
 
 Waits, like thee, the darkest hour, 
 Then puts all her glories forth. 
 
 Then thy beauties are surpassed. 
 
 Splendid flower, that bloom'st to die ; 
 
 For Friendship and Religion last, 
 When the morning beams on high. 
 
 God is Good. — Anonymous. 
 
 God is good ! Each perfumed flower. 
 The smiling fields, the dark green wood. 
 
 The insect, fluttering for an hour, — 
 All things proclaim that God is good. 
 
 I hear it in the rushing wind ) 
 
 Hills that have for ages stood, 
 And clouds, with gold and silver lined, 
 
 Are still repeating, God is good. 
 
 Each little rill, that, many a year, 
 Has the same verdant path pursued. 
 
 And every bird, in accents clear, 
 Joins in the song that God is good. 
 
 The restless main, with haughty roar, 
 Calms each wild wave and billow rude. 
 
 Retreats submissive from the shore, 
 And swells the chorus, God is good. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OP AMERICA. 329 
 
 Countless hosts of burning stars 
 
 Sing his praise with light renewed ; 
 The rising sun each day declares, 
 
 In rays of glory, God is good. 
 
 Tiie moon that walks in brightness, says, 
 
 God is good ! — and man, endued 
 With power to speak his Maker's praise, 
 
 Should still repeat that God is good. 
 
 Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. — Anoivymoits. 
 
 WhejV, on the midnight of the East, 
 
 At the dead moment of repose. 
 Like hope on misery's darkened breast, 
 
 The planet of salvation rose^ — 
 
 The shepherd, leaning o'er his flock, 
 Started with broad and upward gaze, — 
 
 Kneel'd, — while the Star of Bethlehem broke 
 On music wakened into praise. 
 
 The Arabian sage, to liail our King, 
 With Persia's star-led magi comes ; 
 
 And all, with reverent homage, bring 
 Their gifts of gold and odorous gums. 
 
 If heathen sages, from afar. 
 
 Followed, when darkness round them spread 
 The kindling glories of that star. 
 
 And worshipped where its radiance led, — 
 
 Shall wcy for whom that star was hung 
 In the dark vault of frowning heaven, — 
 
 Shall we, for whom that strain was sung. 
 That song of peace and sin forgiven, — 
 
 Shall we, for whom the Savior bled. 
 Careless his banquet's blessings see, 
 
 Nor heed the parting word that said 
 " Do this in memory of rrie .^" 
 
 28* 
 
330 cheever's poets of America, 
 
 The Dying Child. — Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 Thus happily they lived, 
 Till, in their arms, a second pleasant babe, 
 With a faint smile, intelligent, began 
 To answer theirs, and with a brighter that 
 Of its fond sister, standing by their side. 
 With frequent kisses prattling in its face ; 
 While in its features, with parental joy. 
 And love connubial, they began to mark 
 Theirs intermingled ; — when, with sudden stroke, 
 The blooming infant faded, and expired. 
 And soon its lonely sister, doubly dear 
 Now in their grief, was in like manner torn 
 From their united grasp. With patience far 
 Beyond her years, the little sufferer bore 
 Her sharp distemper, while she could behold 
 Both parents by her side ; but, when from sleep. 
 Transient and troubled, waking, wept aloud, 
 As terrified, if either were not there. 
 To hear their voices singing of the love 
 Of her Redeemer, in her favorite hymn, 
 And praying for his mercy, oft she asked 
 With eagerness, and seemed the while at ease. 
 When came the final struggle, with the look 
 Of a grieved child, i^nd with its mournful cry, 
 But still with something of her wonted tone 
 Of confidence in danger, as for help 
 She called on them, on both alternately. 
 As if by turns expecting that relief 
 From each the other had grown slow to yield ; 
 At which their calmness, undisturbed till then. 
 Gave way to agitation past control. 
 A few heart-rending moments, and her voice 
 Sunk to a weak and inarticulate moan, 
 ' Then in a whisper ended ; and with that 
 Her features grew composed and fixed in death ; 
 At sight of which their lost tranquillity 
 At once returned. 'Twas evening ; and the lamp, 
 Set near, shone full upon her placid face. 
 Its snowy white illuming, while they stood 
 Gazing as on her loveliness in sleep. 
 The enfeebled mother on the father's arm 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. *331 
 
 Heavily hanging, like the slender flower 
 On its firm prop, when loaded down with rain 
 Or morning dew. 
 
 To a Musquito, — New York Review. 
 
 Fair insect, that, with thread-like legs spread out, 
 And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing, 
 
 Dost murmur, as thou slowly "sail'st about, 
 In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing. 
 
 And tell'st how little our large veins should bleed. 
 Would we but yield them freely to thy need ; 
 
 I call thee sti'anger, for the town, I ween. 
 Has not the honor of so proud a birth ; 
 
 Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, broad and green. 
 The offspring of the gods, though born on earth. 
 
 At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway — 
 
 Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed 
 
 By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 
 
 Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist ! 
 
 And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, 
 
 Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. 
 
 O, these were sights to touch an anchorite ! — 
 What, do I hear thy slender voice complain ? 
 
 Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light. 
 As if it brought the memory of pain : 
 
 Thou art a wayward being — well, come near. 
 
 And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. 
 
 What say'st thou, slanderer? " Rouge makes thee sick. 
 
 And China bloom at best is sorry food ; 
 And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick. 
 
 Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood ?" 
 Go, 'twas a just reward that met thy crime — 
 But shun the sacrilege another time. 
 
 That bloom was made to look at, not to touch. 
 To worship, not approach, that radiant white ; 
 
332 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 And well might sudden vengeance light on such 
 
 As dared, like thee, most impiously, to bite. 
 Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired. 
 Murmured thy adoration, and retired. 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to the town ; but why come here 
 To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee ? 
 
 Alas ! the little blood 1 have is dear. 
 
 And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. 
 
 Look round — the pale-eyed sisters, in my cell. 
 
 Thy old acquaintance. Song and Famine, dwell. 
 
 Try some plump alderman ; and suck the blood 
 Enriched with generous wine and costly meat ; 
 
 In well filled skins, soft as thy native mud. 
 
 Fix thy light pump, and raise thy freckled feet. 
 
 Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls. 
 
 The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls. 
 
 There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows. 
 To fill the swelling veins for thee ; and now 
 
 The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose. 
 Shall tempt thee as thou flittest round the brow 
 
 And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings. 
 
 No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. 
 
 Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God, — 
 
 LoNGFELIiOW.* 
 
 When first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue, J 
 
 The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, I 
 
 To sacred hymnings and Elysian song ^ 
 His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke. 
 
 * Most of Mr. Longfellow's poetry— indeed, we believe nearly all that has 
 been published— appeared, during his college life, in the United States' 
 Literary Gazette. It displays a very refined taste, and a very pure vein of 
 poetical feeling. It possesses what has been a rare quality in the American 
 poets— simplicity of expression, without any attempt to startle the reader, 
 or to produce an effect by far-sought epithets. There is much sweetness in 
 his imagery and language ; and sometimes he is hardly excelled by any 
 one for the quiet accuracy exhibited in his pictures of natural objects. Hig 
 poetry will not easily be forgotten j some of it will be remembered witb 
 that of Dana and Bryant. — Ed. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets op AMERICA. 833 
 
 Devotion breathed aloud from every chord ; — 
 
 The voice of praise was heard in every tone. 
 
 And prayer, and thanks to Him, the Eternal One,— 
 
 To Him, that, with bright inspiration, touched 
 
 The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song, 
 
 And warmed the soul with new vitality. 
 
 A stirring energy through nature breathed ;— 
 
 The voice of adoration from her broke, 
 
 Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard 
 
 Long in the sullen v/aterfall, — what time 
 
 Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth 
 
 Its bloom or blig^hting, — when the Summer smiled, 
 
 Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned. 
 
 The Deity was there !^^a nameless spirit 
 
 Moved in the hearts of men to do him homage ; 
 
 And when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale. 
 
 Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn. 
 
 They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees. 
 
 And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft, 
 
 Where the pale vine clung round their simple altars, 
 
 And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard 
 
 The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees 
 
 Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty. 
 
 And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, 
 
 The bright and widely-wandering rivulet 
 
 Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots. 
 
 That choked its reedy fountain — and dark rocks. 
 
 Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there 
 
 The listless wave, that stole, with mellow voice. 
 
 Where reeds grew rank upon the rushy brink. 
 
 And to the wandering wind the green sedge bent. 
 
 Sang a sweet song of fixed tranquillity. 
 
 Men felt the heavenly influence ; and it stole 
 
 Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace ; 
 
 And even the air they breathed,— the light they saw,-^ 
 
 Became religion ; — for the ethereal spirit. 
 
 That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling, 
 
 And mellows every thing to beauty, moved 
 
 With cheering energy within their breasts. 
 
 And made all holy there — for all was love. 
 
 The morning stars, that sweetly sang together — 
 
 The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky- — 
 
 Dayspring— and eventide — and all the fair 
 
 And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice 
 
 Of eloquent worship. Ocean, with its tide, 
 
334 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm 
 
 Hung on his dim, dark cloud, and heavily beat 
 
 The pulses of the sea, sent forth a voice 
 
 Of awful adoration to the Spirit, 
 
 That, wrapped in darkness, moved upon its face. 
 
 And when the bow of evening arched the east, 
 
 Or, in the moonlight pale, the gentle wave 
 
 Kissed, with a sweet embrace, the sea-worn beach, 
 
 And the wild song of winds came o'er the waters, 
 
 The mingled melody of wind and wave 
 
 Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear ; 
 
 For it arose a tuneful hymn of v/orship. 
 
 And have our hearts grown cold ? Are there on earth 
 
 No pure reflections caught from heavenly love ? 
 
 Have our mute lips no hymn — our souls no song ? 
 
 Let him, that, in the summer-day of youth, 
 
 Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling. 
 
 And him, that, in the nightfall of his years. 
 
 Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace 
 
 His weary eyes on life's short wayfaring. 
 
 Praise Him that rules the destiny of man. 
 
 The Blind Man^s Lament, — James Wallis Eastburjv, 
 
 O WHERE are the visions of ecstasy bright. 
 That can burst o'er the darkness, and banish the night ? 
 O where are the charms that the day can unfold 
 To the heart and the eye that their glories can hold ? 
 Deep, deep in the silence of sorrow I mourn ; 
 For no visions of beauty for me shall e'er burn! 
 They have told me of sweet purple hues of the west. 
 Of the rich tints that sparkle on Ocean's wide breast ; 
 They have told me of stars that are burning on high, 
 When the night is careering along the vast sky ; 
 But, alas! there remains, wheresoever I flee. 
 Nor beauty, nor lustre, nor brightness for me ! 
 
 But yet, to my lone, gloomy couch there is given 
 A ray to my heart that is kindled in heaven ; 
 It soothes the dark path through this valley of tears; 
 It enlivens my heart, and my sorrow it cheers; 
 F'or it tells of a morn when this night shall pass by. 
 And my spirit shall dwell where the days do not die. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 335 
 
 The Dying Girl. — Mrs. Hale's Magazine. 
 
 Sister, death's veil is gathering fast; 
 
 The chilly seal has marked my brow ; 
 This young heart's mournful dream is past ; 
 
 The golden cords are severing now. 
 
 The spirit of the tear-gemmed throne 
 
 Bounds o'er me with angelic light; 
 And Mercy, on Love's wings, hath flown 
 
 To guide my soul's mysterious flight. 
 
 [ leave thee, sister, — thee, the last, 
 
 A lone one, drooping 'mid the dead— 
 A bud, o'er whose pale leaf is cast 
 
 The blight, from Sorrow's pinion shed. 
 
 If from the blessed realms of light, 
 
 Love still may own its mortal birth, 
 May soften still Afiiiction's night. 
 
 Thou shalt not, sister, pine on earth. 
 
 For where the young buds' dewy fold 
 
 Flings hallowed incense on the air. 
 Where they once met who now are cold, 
 
 This soul of mine shall meet thee there. 
 
 Kneel thou beside my lonely grave, 
 
 When summer breezes o'er it sweep. 
 When yon proud orb, that gilds the wave 
 
 Sinks glorious to his ocean sleep. 
 
 Kneel, and the vow thou breathest there. 
 At that lone hour, shall float on high,— 
 
 Spirits of light shall bless thy prayer, 
 
 The dead, the crowned, shall greet thy sigh. 
 
 And now, farewell! Strange music floats. 
 Like angel breathings, round my heart. 
 
 Are those the Avenger's awful notes ? 
 The signal tones, that life must part ? 
 
 Yes, yes, the One, the God, who sways 
 
 Creation's depths, hath bid me come 
 To seek the realms that hymn His praise. 
 
 The franchised soul's eternal home. 
 
S36 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMEtttCA. 
 
 Autu7iin^^ — Peabody. 
 
 The dying year ! the dying year ? 
 
 The heaven is clear and mild ; 
 And withering all the fields appear 
 
 Where once the verdure smiled. 
 
 The summer ends its short career ; 
 
 The zephyr breathes farewell ; 
 And now upon the closing year 
 
 The yellow glories dwell. 
 
 The radiant clouds float slow above 
 The lake's transparent breast ; 
 
 In splendid foliage all the grove 
 Is fancifully dressed* 
 
 On many a tree the autumn throws 
 
 Its brilliant robes of red ; 
 As sickness lights the cheeks of those 
 
 It hastens to the dead. 
 
 That tinge is flattering and bright, 
 But tells of death like this ; 
 
 And they, that see its gathering light, 
 Their lingering hopes dismiss. 
 
 O, thus serene, and free from fear. 
 
 Shall be our last repose ; 
 Thus, like the sabbath of the year, 
 
 Our latest evening close. 
 
 Spring.— 'Pis: ABODY, 
 
 When brighter suns and milder skies 
 Proclaim the opening year, 
 
 * This piece, and sorae others in this volume, are selected from a little 
 Catechism in verse, prepared several years since by Mr. Peabody, for the 
 use of children. It contains true poetry, besides being weM adapted, by 
 its simplicity, for the purpose which the author had in view. — Edi. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 337 
 
 What various sounds of joy arise ! 
 What prospects bright appear ! 
 
 Earth and her thousand voices give 
 
 Their thousand notes of praise ; 
 And all, that by his mercy live. 
 
 To God their oiFering raise. 
 
 Forth walks the laborer to his toil, 
 
 And sees the fresh array 
 Of verdure clothe the flowery soil 
 
 Along his careless way. 
 
 The streams, all beautiful and bright, 
 
 Reflect the morning sky ; 
 And there, with music in his flight. 
 
 The wild bird soars on high. 
 
 Thus, like the morning, calm and clear, 
 
 That saw the Savior rise, 
 The spring of heaven's eternal year 
 
 Shall dawn on earth and skies. 
 
 No winter there, no shades of night. 
 
 Profane those mansions blessed. 
 Where, in the happy fields of light, 
 
 The weary are at rest. 
 
 Summer. — Peabody. 
 
 How fast the rapid hours retire ! 
 
 How soon the spring was done ! 
 And now no cloud keeps off the fire 
 
 Of the bright, burning sun. 
 
 The slender flower-bud dreads to swell 
 
 In that unclouded blue. 
 And treasures in its fading bell 
 
 The spark of morning dew. 
 
 The stream bounds lightly from the spring 
 
 To cool and shadowy caves ; 
 And the bird dips his weary wing 
 
 Beneath its sparkling waves. 
 29 
 
338 cheever's poets of America* 
 
 Rosalie,-*M-Rs, Hale's Magazh^b. 
 
 There sits a woman on the brow 
 
 Of yonder rocky height ; 
 There y gazing o'er the waves below, 
 
 She sits from morn till night. 
 
 She heeds not how the mad waves leap 
 ^ Along the rugged shore } 
 She looks for one upon the deep 
 She never may see more. 
 
 Far other once was Rosalie } 
 
 Her smile was glad ; her voice, 
 Like music o'er a summer sea, 
 
 Said to the heart— Rejoice. 
 
 Nine years — though all have given him o'er. 
 
 Her spirit doth not fail ; 
 And still she waits along the shore 
 
 The never-coming sail. 
 
 On that high rock, abrupt and bare, 
 
 Ever she sits as now ; 
 The dews have damped her flowing hair ; 
 
 The sun has scorched her brow. 
 
 And every far-off sail she sees, 
 
 And every passing cloud, 
 Or white- winged sea-bird, on the breeze, 
 
 She calls to it aloud. 
 
 The sea-bird answers to her cry, 
 
 The cloud, the sail float on; 
 The hoarse wave mocks her misery. 
 
 Yet is her hope not gone. 
 
 When failing dews the clover steep, 
 
 And birds are in their nest. 
 And flower-buds folded up to sleep, 
 
 And ploughmen gone to rest, — 
 
 Down the rude track her feet have worn — • 
 There scarce the goat may go — 
 
CIIEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 839 
 
 Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn, 
 Is seen descending slow. 
 
 But when the gray morn tints the sky. 
 
 And lights that lofty peak, — 
 With a strange lustre in her eye, 
 
 A fever in her cheek, — 
 
 Again she goes, until ed, to sit. 
 
 And watch, the live-long day ; 
 Nor, till the star of eve is lit. 
 
 E'er turns her steps away. 
 
 To a young Invalid^ condemned^ by accidental Lameness ^ to 
 perpetual Confinement, — Henry Pickering. 
 
 " And must he make 
 That heart a grave, and in it bury deep 
 Its young and beautiful feelings ?" 
 
 Thine is the spring of life, dear boy, 
 
 And thine should be its flowers ; 
 Thine, too, should be the voice of joy. 
 
 To hasten on the hours : 
 And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue, 
 
 With winged feet, shouldst still 
 Thy sometime frolic course pursue 
 
 O'er lawn and breezy hilL 
 
 Not so ! What means this foolish heart. 
 
 And verse as idly vain ? 
 Each hath his own allotted part 
 
 Of pleasure and of pain: 
 And while thou canst the hours beguile, 
 
 (Thus patiently reclined,) 
 I would not quench that languid smile, 
 
 Or see thee less resigned. 
 
 Some are condemned to roam the earth, 
 
 A various fate to share. 
 Scarce destined, from their very birth, 
 
 To know a parent's care. 
 
010 OHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 
 
 To thee, sweet one, repose was given. 
 
 Yet not without alloy ; 
 That thou might'st early think of heaven. 
 
 The promised seat of joy ; — 
 
 That thou might'st know v^hat love supreme 
 
 Pervades a mother's breast — 
 Flame quenchless as the heavenly beam. 
 
 The purest and the best. — 
 William, that love which shadows thee. 
 
 Is eminently mine : 
 O that my riper life could be 
 
 Deserving it as thine ! 
 
 The Sage of Caucasus. — Hillhouse. 
 
 Hadad. None knows his lineage, age, or name : his locks 
 Are like the snows of Caucasus ; his eyes 
 Beam w^ith the wisdom of collected ages. 
 In green, unbroken years, he sees, 'tis said. 
 The generations pass, like autumn fruits. 
 Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life, 
 Again to perish, while he views the sun. 
 The seasons roll, in rapt serenity. 
 And high communion with celestial powers. 
 Some say 'tis Shem, our father ; some say Enoch, 
 And some Melchisedek. 
 
 Tamar. I've heard a tale 
 Like this, but ne'er believed it. 
 
 Had, I have proved it. — 
 Through perils dire, dangers most imminent. 
 Seven days and nights midst rocks and wildernesses. 
 And boreal snows, and never- thawing ice. 
 Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing. 
 Save the far-soaring vulture, comes, I dared 
 My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish. 
 
 Tarn. Rash, rash advent'rer ! 
 
 Had. On the highest peak 
 Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot. 
 On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers 
 And verdure never die ; and there he dwells. 
 
 Tarn. But did'st thou see him ? 
 
 Had. Never did I view 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 341 
 
 Such awful majesty : his reverend locks 
 Hung like a silver mantle to his feet ; 
 His raiment glistered saintly white ; his brow 
 Rose like the gate of Paradise ; his mouth 
 Was musical as its bright guardians' songs. 
 
 The Resolution of Ruth.— Christian Examiner, 
 
 Farewell. ? O no ! it may not be ; 
 
 My firm resolve is heard on high : 
 1 will not breathe farewell to thee, 
 
 Save only in my dying sigh. 
 I know not that I now could bear 
 
 For ever from thy side to part, 
 And live without a friend to share 
 
 The treasured sadness of my heart. 
 
 I did not love in former years, 
 
 To leave thee solitary : now. 
 When sorrow dims thine eyes with tears, 
 
 And shades the beauty of thy brow, 
 I'll share the trial and the pain ; 
 
 And strong the furnace fires must be, 
 To melt away the willing chain, 
 
 That binds a daughter's heart to thee. 
 
 I will not boast a martyr's might 
 
 To leave my home without a sigh — 
 The dwelling of my past delight. 
 
 The shelter where I hoped to die. 
 In such a duty, such an hour. 
 
 The weak are strong, the timid brave. 
 For Love puts on an angel's power. 
 
 And faith grows mightier than the grave. 
 
 It was not so, ere he we loved, 
 
 And vainly strove with Heaven to save, 
 Heard the low call of Death, and moved 
 
 With holy calmness to the grave. 
 Just at that brightest hour of youth 
 
 When life spread out before us lay, 
 And charmed us with its tones of truth, 
 
 And colors radiant as the day. 
 29* 
 
342 cheever's poets of America 
 
 When morning's tears of joy were shed. 
 
 Or nature's evening incense rose, 
 We thought upon the grave w^ith dread. 
 
 And shuddered at its dark repose. 
 But all is altered now : of death 
 
 The morning echoes sweetly speak, 
 And, like my loved one's dying breath. 
 
 The evening breezes fan my cheek. 
 
 For rays of heaven, serenely bright. 
 
 Have gilt the caverns of the tomb ; 
 And I can ponder, vrith delight, 
 
 On all its gathering thoughts of gloom. 
 Then, mother, let us haste away 
 
 To that blessed land to Israel given. 
 Where Faith, unsaddened by decay, 
 
 Dwells nearest to its native heaven. 
 
 We'll stand within the temple's bound. 
 
 In courts by kings and prophets trod ; 
 We'll bless with tears the sacred ground^ 
 
 And there be earnest with our God, 
 Where peace and praise for ever reign, 
 
 And glorious anthems duly flow. 
 Till seraphs lean to catch the strain 
 
 Of heaven's devotions here below. 
 
 But where thou goest I will go ; 
 
 With thine my earthly lot is cast; 
 In pain and pleasure, joy and wo. 
 
 Will I attend thee to the last. 
 That hour shall find me by thy side ; 
 
 And where thy grave is, mine shall be ; 
 Death can but for a time divide 
 
 My firm and faithful heart from thee. 
 
 Live for Eternity. — Cablos Wilcox. 
 
 A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, 
 
 With all its fixed, unutterable things, 
 
 What madness in the living to pursue. 
 
 As their chief portion, v/ith the speed of wings, 
 
€HEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 343 
 
 The joys that death-beds always turn to stings ! 
 Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste 
 To dance along the path that always brings 
 Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste 
 Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced ! 
 
 Our life is like the hurrying on the eve 
 Before we start, on some long journey bound, 
 When fit preparing to the last we leave, 
 Then run to every room the dwelling round. 
 And sigh that nothing needed can be found ; 
 Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break ; 
 We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound 
 For our departure calls ; we rise and take 
 A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. 
 
 Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms. 
 Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence. 
 Men come and go like vegetable forms. 
 Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, 
 Demanding constant thought and zeal intense. 
 Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room 
 For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, 
 While yet they know not if beyond the tomb 
 A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom. 
 
 What matter whether pain or pleasures fill 
 The swelling heart one little moment here ? 
 From both alike how vain is every thrill. 
 While an untried eternity is near ! 
 Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career ; 
 The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside 
 Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer 
 Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, 
 Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. 
 
 Dedication Hymn. — Pierpont. 
 
 With trump, and pipe, and viol chords. 
 And song, the full assembly brings 
 
 Its tribute to the Lord of lords. 
 Its homage to the King of kings. 
 
344 cheever's poets of America." 
 
 To God, who, from the rocky prison 
 
 Where death had bound him, brought his Son, 
 
 To God these walls from earth have risen ; — 
 To God, " the high and lofty One," 
 
 Creator, at whose steadfast word 
 
 Alike the seas and seasons roll. 
 Here may thy truth in Christ our Lord 
 
 Shine forth, and sanctify the soul. 
 
 Here, where we hymn thy praises now, 
 Father and Judge, may many a knee 
 
 And many a spirit humbly bow 
 In worship and in prayer to Thee. 
 
 And when our lips no more shall move. 
 Our hearts no longer beat or burn, 
 
 Then, may the children that we love 
 Take up the strain, and, in their turn. 
 
 With trump, and pipe, and viol strings 
 Here pay, with music's sweet accords. 
 
 Their tribute to the King of kings. 
 Their homage to the Lord of lords. 
 
 The Indian Summer. — Brainard. 
 
 What is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves ? 
 Have they that " green and yellow melancholy," 
 That the sweet poet spake of? — Had he seen 
 Our variegated woods, when first the frost 
 Turns into beauty all October's charms — 
 When the dread fever quits us — when the storms 
 Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet, 
 Has left the land, as the first deluge left it. 
 With a bright bow of many colors hung 
 Upon the forest tops — he had not sighed. 
 
 The moon stays longest for the hunter now : 
 The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe 
 And busy squirrel hoards his winter store : 
 While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 345 
 
 The bright blue sky above him, and that bends 
 Magnificently all the forest's pride. 
 Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, 
 " What is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves ?" 
 
 To William, Written by a bereaved Father. — Peabody. 
 
 It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high ; 
 And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die. 
 I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free. 
 And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee. 
 
 Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, 
 Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morn- 
 ing sky ; 
 And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair, 
 Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that Health had 
 painted there. 
 
 And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, 
 To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice, — 
 Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears , 
 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years. 
 
 Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy, — 
 That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain 
 
 destroy. 
 I listened, as the mariner suspends the outrbound oar, 
 To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native 
 
 shore. 
 
 So gentle in thy loveliness ! — alas ! how could it be. 
 That Death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee ? 
 Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood's opening bloom. 
 While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb ? 
 
 Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know ? 
 Or why did Heaven so soon destroy my paradise below ? 
 Enchanting as the vision was it sunk away as soon 
 As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at 
 noon. 
 
346 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 I loved thee, and my heart was blessed ; but, ere that day wa3 
 
 spent, 
 I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, 
 And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head ; 
 The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost 
 
 fled. 
 
 Days passed ; and soon the seal of death made known that 
 
 hope was vain ; 
 I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never bum again ; 
 The cheek was pale ; the snowy lips were gently thrown 
 
 apart ; 
 And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the 
 
 heart. 
 
 I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be pressed, 
 And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my breast ; 
 Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seemed moving in the 
 
 gloom. 
 As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb. 
 
 And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my 
 
 eye. 
 Thy little hand pressed gently mine, in token of reply ; 
 To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast. 
 And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed. 
 
 I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee. 
 
 And almost said, in agony, it ought not so to be ; 
 
 I hoped that thou, within the grave my weary head should'st 
 
 lay, 
 And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day 
 
 With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close ; 
 And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose ; 
 For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppressed, 
 ' And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest. 
 
 Yes, I am sad and weary now ; but let me not repine. 
 Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine ; 
 My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore. 
 Since tliou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 347 
 
 Part of the 19th Psalm. — ^James Wallis Eastburjst. 
 
 The glittering heaven's refulgent glow. 
 
 And sparkling spheres of golden light, 
 Jehovah's work and glory show, 
 
 By burning day or gentle night. 
 In silence, through the vast profound. 
 
 They move their orbs of fire on high. 
 Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound. 
 
 Is heard upon the tranquil sky ; 
 Yet to the earth's remotest bar 
 
 Their burning glory, all is known ; 
 Their living light has sparkled far. 
 
 And on the attentive silence shone. 
 
 God, 'mid their shining legions, rears 
 
 A tent where burns the radiant sun : 
 As, like a bridegroom bright, appears 
 
 The monarch, on his course begun. 
 From end to end of azure heaven 
 
 He holds his fiery path along ; 
 To all his circling heat is given, 
 
 His radiance flames the spheres among. 
 By sunny ray, and starry throne. 
 
 The wonders of our mighty Lord 
 To man's attentive heart are known. 
 
 Bright as the promise of his word. 
 
 What is that. Mother P — George W. Doane. 
 
 What is that, mother ? — 
 
 The lark, my child. — 
 The morn has but just looked out, and smiled. 
 When he starts from his humble, grassy nest. 
 And is up and away with the dew on his breast. 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
 To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 
 Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays 
 Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 
 
 What IS tiiat, mother ? — 
 
 The dove, my son. — 
 And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 
 
348 cheever's i»oets of America. 
 
 Is flowing out from her gentle breast. 
 
 Constant and pure by that lonely nest, 
 
 As the wave is poured from some crystal urn. 
 
 For her distant dear one's quick return. 
 
 Ever, my son, be thou like. the dove, — 
 
 In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. 
 
 What is that, mother ? — 
 
 The eagle, boy. 
 Proudly careering his course of joy. 
 Firm in his own mountain vigor relying. 
 Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; 
 His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, 
 Hq^ swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
 Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, 
 Onward and upward, true to the line. 
 
 What is that, mother ? — 
 
 The swan, my love. — 
 He is floating down from his native grove. 
 No loved one now, no nestling nigh ; 
 He is floating down by himself to die ; 
 Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, 
 Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. 
 Live so, my love, that when Death shall come. 
 Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. 
 
 Scene at the Death- Bed of Rev. Dr. Pay son. — 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 *' His eye spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mrs 
 Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on 
 Edward, his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all pres- 
 ent to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, 
 ' Behold thy Mother !' " — Memoir of Payson^ p. 425. 
 
 What said the eye ? — The marble lip spake not, 
 Save in that quivering sob with which stern Death 
 Doth crush life's harp -strings. — Lo, again it pours 
 A tide of more than uttered eloquence ! — 
 " Son ! — look upon thy mother !" — and retires 
 Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids, 
 To hide itself forever. 'Tis the last. 
 Last glance ! — and mark how tenderly it fell 
 

 J.Uh.o.'Cohon d^ C^ 
 
 U 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 349 
 
 Upon that loved companion, and the groups 
 
 That wept around. — Full well the dying knew 
 
 The value of those holy charities 
 
 Which purge the dross of selfishness away ; 
 
 And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart. 
 
 Rent from the cherished prop, which, next to Christ, 
 
 Had been her stay in all adversities, 
 
 Would take the balm-cup best from that dear hand 
 
 Which woke the sources of maternal love, — 
 
 That smile, whose winning paid for sleepless nights 
 
 Of cradle-care, — that voice, whose murmured tone, 
 
 Her own had moulded to the words of prayer. 
 
 How soothing to a widowed mother's breast 
 
 Her first-born's sympathy ! 
 
 Be strong, young man ! — 
 Lift the protector's arm, — the healer's prayer, — 
 Be tender in thy every word and deed. 
 A Spirit watcheth thee ! — Yes, he who passed 
 From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day. 
 Will be thy witness, in the court of heaven, 
 How thou dost bear his mantle. 
 
 So farewell. 
 Leader in Israel ! — Thou whose radiant path 
 Was like the angel's standing in the sun,* 
 Undazzled and unswerving, — it was meet 
 That thou should'st rise to light without a cloud. 
 
 The Indian's Tale. — J. G. Whittier. 
 
 It was generally believed by the first settlers of New Englantl, that a mor- 
 tal pestilence had, a short time previous to their arrival, in a great measure 
 depopulated somo of the finest portions of the country on the seaboard. Tiie 
 Indians themselves corroborated this opinion, and gave the English a ter- 
 rific description of the ravages of the unseen Destroyer. 
 
 The war-god did not wake to strife 
 
 The strong men of our forest-land ; 
 No red hand grasped the battle-knife 
 
 At Areouski's high command: — 
 We held no war-dance by the dim 
 
 And red light of the creeping flame ; 
 
 * Revelation, xix. 17. 
 80 
 
350 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Nor warrior-yell, nor battle hymn, 
 Upon the midnight breezes came. 
 
 There was no portent in the sky. 
 
 No shadow on the round bright sun ; 
 With Ught, and mirth, and melody, 
 
 The long, fair summer days came on. 
 We were a happy people then, 
 
 Rejoicing in our hunter-mood ; 
 No foot-prints of the pale-faced men 
 
 Had marred our forest-solitude. 
 
 The land was ours — this glorious land — 
 
 With all its wealth of wood and streams — 
 Our warriors strong of heart and hand— 
 
 Our daughters beautiful as dreams 
 When wearied, at the thirsty noon, 
 
 We knelt us where the spring gushed up^ 
 To taste our Father's blessed boon — 
 
 Unlike the white man's poison cup. 
 
 There came unto my father's hut 
 
 A wan, weak creature of distress ; 
 The red man's door is never shut 
 
 Against the lone and shelterless ; 
 And when he knelt before his feet, 
 
 My father led the stranger in ; 
 He gave him of his hunter-meat — 
 
 Alas ! it vv^as a deadly sin ! 
 
 The stranger s voice was not like ours — 
 
 His face at first was sadly pale. 
 Anon 'twas like the yellow flowers. 
 
 Which tremble in the meadow gale. 
 And when he him laid down to die. 
 
 And murmured of his father-land. 
 My mother wiped his tearful eye, 
 
 My father held his burning hand ! 
 
 He died at last — the funeral yell 
 Rang upward from his burial sod. 
 
 And the old Powwah knelt to tell 
 The tidings to the white man's God ! 
 
 The next day came — my father's brow 
 Grew heavy with a fearful pain ; 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 351 
 
 He did not take his hunting-bow — 
 He never sought the woods again ! 
 
 He died even as the white man died— 
 
 My mother, she was smitten too — 
 My sisters vanished from my side. 
 
 Like diamonds from the sun-Ut dew. 
 And then we heard the Powwahs say. 
 
 That God had sent his angel forth. 
 To sweep our ancient tribes away, 
 
 And poison and unpeople earth. 
 
 And it was so — from day to day 
 
 The spirit of the plague went on. 
 And those at morning blithe and gay, 
 
 Were dying at the set of sun. — 
 They died — our free, bold hunters died — 
 
 The living might not give them graves — 
 Save when, along the water-side, 
 
 They cast them to the hurrying waves. 
 
 The carrion-crow, the ravenous beast. 
 
 Turned loathing from the ghastly dead ; — 
 Well might they shun the funeral feast 
 
 By that destroying angel spread ! 
 One after one, the red men fell ; 
 
 Our gallant war-tribe passed away^ — 
 And I alone am left to tell 
 
 The story of its swift decay. 
 
 Alone — alone — a withered leaf — 
 
 Yet clinging to its naked bough ; 
 The pale race scorn the aged chief. 
 
 And I will join my fathers now. 
 The spirits of my people bend 
 
 At midnight from the solemn west, 
 To me their kindly arms extend — 
 
 They call me to their home of rest ! 
 
 Setting SaiL — Percival. 
 
 He went amid these glorious things of earth. 
 Transient as glorious, and along- the beach 
 
852 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Of snowy sands, and rounded pebbles, walked. 
 
 Watching the coming of the evening tide, 
 
 Rising with every ripple, as it kissed 
 
 The gravel with a softly-gurgling sound. 
 
 And still advancing up the level shore, 
 
 Till, in his deep abstraction, it flowed round 
 
 His foot-prints, and awoke him. When he came 
 
 Where a long reef stretched out, and in its bays, 
 
 Scooped from the shelving rocks, received the sea, 
 
 And held it as a mirror deep and dark. 
 
 He paused, and, standing then against the ship. 
 
 He gave his signal. Soon he saw on board 
 
 The stir of preparation ; they let down 
 
 A boat, and soon her raised and dipping oars 
 
 Flashed in the setting light, and round her prow 
 
 The gilt sea swelled and crinkled, spreading out 
 
 In a wide circle ; and she glided on 
 
 Smoothly, and with a whispering sound, that grew 
 
 Louder with every dipping of the oars. 
 
 Until she neared the reef, and sent a surge 
 
 Up through its coves, and covered them with foam. 
 
 He stepped on board, and soon they bore him back 
 
 To the scarce rocking vessel, where she lay 
 
 Waiting the night wind. On the deck he sat. 
 
 And looked to one point only, save, at times, 
 
 Wh<^n his eye glanced around the mingled scene 
 
 Of beauty and sublimity. Meanwhile 
 
 The sun had set, the painted sky and clouds 
 
 Put off their liveries, the bay its robe 
 
 Of brightness, and the stars were thick in heaven. 
 
 They looked upon the waters, and below 
 
 Another sky swelled out, thick set with stars, 
 
 And chequered v/ith light clouds, which, from the north. 
 
 Came flitting o'er the dim-seen hills, and shot 
 
 Like birds across the bay. A distant shade 
 
 Dimmed the clear sheet ; it darkened, and it drew 
 
 Nearer. The waveless sea was seen to rise 
 
 In feathery curls, and soon it met the ship. 
 
 And a breeze struck her. Quick the floating sails 
 
 Rose up, and drooped again. The wind came on 
 
 Fresher ; the curls were waves ; the sails were filled 
 
 Tensely ; the vessel righted to her course. 
 
 And ploughed the waters : round her prow the foam 
 
 Tossed, and went back along her polished sides. 
 
 And floated off, bounding the rushing wake. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 353 
 
 That seemed to pour in torrents from her stern. 
 
 The wind still freshened, and the sails were stretched. 
 
 Till the yards cracked. She bent before its force. 
 
 And dipped her lee-side low beneath the waves. 
 
 Straight out she went to sea, as when a hawk 
 
 Darts on a dove, and, with a motionless wing, 
 
 Cuts the light, yielding air. The mountains dipped 
 
 Their dark walls to the waters, and the hills 
 
 Scarce reared their green tops o'er them. One white point) 
 
 On which a light-house blazed, alone stood out 
 
 In the broad sea; and there he fixed his eye, 
 
 Taking his last look of h*s native shore. 
 
 Night wore away, and still the wind blew strong, 
 
 And the ship ploughed the waves, which now were heaved 
 
 In high and rolling billovv^s. All were glad. 
 
 And laughed, and shouted, as she darted on, 
 
 And plunged amid the foam, and tossed it high 
 
 Over the deck, as when a strong, curbed steed 
 
 Flings the froth from him in his eager race. 
 
 All had been dimly star-lit ; but the moon. 
 
 Late rising, silvered o'er the tossing sea. 
 
 And lighted up its foam- wreaths, and just threw 
 
 One parting glance upon the distant shores. 
 
 They meet his eye ; the sinking rocks were bright, 
 
 And a clear line of silver marked the hills. 
 
 Where he had said farewell. A sudden tear 
 
 Gushed, and his heart was melted ; but he soon 
 
 Repressed the weakness, and he calmly watched 
 
 The fading vision. Just as it retired 
 
 Into the common darkness, on his eyes 
 
 Sleep fell, and, with his looks turned to his home. 
 
 And — dearer than his home — to her he loved. 
 
 He closed them, and his thoughts were lost in dreams ^ 
 
 Bright, and too glad to be realities. 
 
 Calmly he slept, and lived on happy dreams. 
 
 Till, from the bosom of the boundless sea. 
 
 Now spreading far and wide without a shore. 
 
 The cloudless sun arose, and he awoke. 
 
 Ji Thanksgiving Hymn, — Henry Ware, Jr. 
 
 Father of earth and heaven. 
 Whose arm upholds creation, 
 30* 
 
354 cheever's poets of ameeica. 
 
 To thee we raise the voice of praise, 
 
 And bend in adoration. 
 We praise the Power that made us ; 
 
 We praise the love that blesses ; 
 While every day that rolls away 
 
 Thy gracious care confesses. 
 
 Life is from thee, blessed Father ; 
 
 From thee our breathing spirits ; 
 And thou dost give to all that live 
 
 The bliss that each inherits. 
 Day, night, and rolling seasons, 
 
 And all that life embraces. 
 With bliss are crowned, with joy abound. 
 
 And claim our thankful praises. 
 
 Though trial and affliction 
 
 May cast their dark shade o'er us. 
 Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow 
 
 Of light on all before us. 
 That love has smiled from heaven 
 
 To cheer our path of sadness. 
 And lead the way, through earth's dull day. 
 
 To realms of endless gladness. 
 
 That light of love and glory 
 
 Has shone through Christ, the Savior, 
 The holy Guide, who lived and died 
 
 That we might live forever : 
 And since thy great compassion 
 
 Thus brings thy children near thee. 
 May we to praise devote our days. 
 
 And love as well as fear thee. 
 
 And when Death's final summons 
 
 From earth's dear scenes shall move us, — 
 From friends, from foes, from joys, from woes. 
 
 From all that know and love us, — 
 O, then, let hope attend us ! 
 
 Thy peace to us be given ! 
 That we may rise above the skies, 
 
 And sing thy praise in heaven ! 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 355 
 
 The Temple of Theseus,* — James Wallis Eastburn 
 
 Uncrumbled yet, the sacred fane uprears 
 " Its brow, majestic in the storm of years : 
 Time has but sHghtly dared to steal away 
 The marks of beauty from its columns gray ; 
 Each sculptured capital in glory stands. 
 As once the boast of those delightful lands. 
 Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down, 
 Some baser monument of art to crown. 
 
 Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore, 
 That once the crowd beheld but to adore. 
 Rich with the proud exploits of ^thra's son, 
 And lofty conquests by Alcides won ; — 
 The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear ; 
 The passing pilgrim pauses to revere ; 
 The pensive poet views its columns proud. 
 And Fancy hears again the anthem loud, 
 From kindling bards, that once arose on high, — 
 A tuneful chorus trembling on the sky. 
 
 The inner shrine no more protects the slave. 
 The holy walls no more the oppressed can save. 
 The wretch no longer safety there can claim. 
 And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name ; 
 Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb. 
 His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom. ^ 
 
 To holier uses rise those walls on high. 
 And holier anthems murmur on the sky ; 
 The shrine is crumbled to its native soil. 
 And pagan grandeur given as a spoil ; 
 No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane, 
 And none to him prolong the adoring strain ; 
 Devoted still to worship, and to Heaven, 
 To purer thoughts and holier prayers 'tis given. 
 
 * The temple of Theseus at Athens — one of the most beautilul and entire 
 remains of ancient art — was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who 
 needed protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and is revered by the 
 Athenians as much, perhaps, as it ever was. 
 
356 CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 On the Death of a beautiful young Grirl. — 
 Connecticut Mirror. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus ; when Hope has built a bower, 
 Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, 
 To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, 
 A whirlwind from the desert comes, and " all is in the dust." 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings. 
 With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings. 
 That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, 
 Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss. 
 With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this : 
 One moment round about us their angel lightnings play ; 
 Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth. 
 Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in tneir 
 
 birth : 
 The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, 
 The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lufe. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with all that's best below : 
 The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go ; — 
 The bird that sings the sweetest ; the vine that crowns the rock ; 
 The glory of the garden ; " the flower of the flock." 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair. 
 Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear : 
 A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love ; 
 Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home 
 above. 
 
 Lines to a Lady of great musicav Talent. — Mrs Child. 
 
 Thanks, Orphea, thanks: thy magic spell 
 
 Has waked my soul to sound. 
 And, deep within a sealed well, 
 
 A spring of joy is found. 
 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 357 
 
 My ear was like the wayward strings, 
 
 Which the wild winds breathe o'er ; 
 And fitful in its echoings 
 
 Has my spirit been before. 
 
 But something in my inmost heart 
 
 Responds to each touch of thine, 
 And bids me own thy wondrous art 
 
 The soul of the " tuneful Nine." 
 
 Yes, all I've dreamed of bright or fair, 
 
 Is but imbodied sound : 
 Music is floating on the air. 
 
 In every thing around ! 
 
 All Nature hath of breezy grace, 
 
 In motion swift and free, — 
 Each lovely hue upon her face, — 
 
 Is living melody. 
 
 Well might thy witchery inspire 
 
 The bard's enraptured lay. 
 And flashes of prophetic fire 
 
 Around thy fingers play ; — 
 
 But vainly would the haunted king 
 
 Have sought relief from thee ; 
 For chained had been each demon's wing, 
 
 By thy rich minstrelsy. 
 
 Priestess of a mighty power. 
 
 My spirit worships thee ; 
 For inspiration is thy dower— 
 
 Thy voice is poetry. 
 
 Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement 
 of Charlestown. — Pierpont.* 
 
 Two hundred years ! — two hundred years ! — 
 How much of human power and pride, 
 
 * There is uncommon grandeur, both of thought and expression, in several 
 of Mr. Pierpont's occasional odes. This piece, Napoleon at Rest, and the 
 Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in their general character, and all trul)'^ 
 sublime. — Ed. 
 
358 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears. 
 Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide !- 
 
 The red man, at his horrid rite. 
 
 Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, — 
 His bark canoe, its track of light 
 
 Left on the wave beneath the moon ; — 
 
 His dance, his yell, his counsel fire. 
 
 The altar where his victim lay. 
 His death-song, and his funeral pyre. 
 
 That still, strong tide hath borne away. 
 
 And that pale pilgrim band is gone, 
 
 That, on this shore, with trembling trod, 
 
 Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
 The ark of freedom and of God. 
 
 And war — that, since, o'er ocean came, 
 And thundered loud from yonder hill. 
 
 And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame, 
 To blast that ark — its storm is still. 
 
 Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers. 
 
 That live in story and in song. 
 Time, for the last two hundred years. 
 
 Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 
 
 'Tis like a dream when one awakes — 
 This vision of the scenes of old ; 
 
 'Tis like the moon when morning breaks ; 
 'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told. 
 
 Then what are we ! — then what are we ! — 
 Yes, when two hundred years have rolled 
 
 O'er our green graves, our names shall be 
 A morning dream, a tale that's told. 
 
 God of our fathers, — in whose sight 
 The thousand years, that sweep away 
 
 Man, and the traces of his might. 
 
 Are but the break and close of day, — 
 
 Grant us that love of truth sublime. 
 That love of goodness and of thee. 
 
 That makes thy children, in all time, 
 To share thine own eternity. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 359 
 
 The Family Bible, — Anonymous. 
 
 How painfully pleasing the fond recollection 
 
 Of youthful connexions and innocent joy. 
 When, blessed with parental advice and affection. 
 
 Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high, 
 I still view the chair of my sire and my mother, 
 
 The seats of their offspring as ranged on each hand. 
 And that richest of books, which excelled every other- 
 
 That family Bible, that lay on the stand ; 
 The old-fashioned Bible, the dear, blessed Bible, 
 The family Bible, that lay on the stand. 
 
 That Bible, the volume of God's inspiration. 
 
 At morn and at evening, could yield us delight, 
 And the prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation. 
 
 For mercy by day, and for safety through night. 
 Our hymns of thanksgiving, with harmony swelling, 
 
 All warm from the heart of a family band. 
 Half raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling. 
 
 Described in the Bible, that lay on the stand ; 
 That richest of books, which excelled every other — 
 The family Bible, that lay on the stand. 
 
 Ye scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted ; 
 
 My hope's almost gone, and my parents no more ; 
 In sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted. 
 
 And wander unknown on a far distant shore. 
 Yet how can I doubt a dear Savior's protection. 
 
 Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand ! 
 0, let me, with patience, receive his correction. 
 
 And think of the Bible, that lay on the stand; 
 That richest of books, which excelled every other — 
 The family Bible, that lay on the stand. 
 
 The JVotes of the Birds, — I. McLellan, Jun. 
 
 Well do 1 love those various harmonies 
 That ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods. 
 And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts. 
 And lonely copses of the Summer-time, 
 And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes. 
 
300 CHEEVfiu's POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, 
 Or .crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down 
 With any of the ills of human life ; 
 If thou art sic^ and weak, or mournest at the loss 
 Of brethren gone to that far distant land 
 To which we all do pass, gentle and poor. 
 The gayest and the gravest, all alike,-*— 
 Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear 
 The thrilling music of the forest birds. 
 
 How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch 
 Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren 
 Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, 
 And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs 
 Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid 
 Amid the lowly dog- wood's snowy flowers. 
 And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree. 
 And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear 
 With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. 
 
 With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes ; 
 And in her simple song there seems to gush 
 A strain of sorrow when she visiteth 
 Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom 
 Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch 
 Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig. 
 That overhangs the brook, and suits her song 
 To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. 
 
 In the last days of Autumn, when the corn 
 Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field. 
 And the gay company of reapers bind 
 The bearded wheat in sheaves, — then peals abroad 
 The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear. 
 Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song 
 Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree 
 Close at the corn-field edge. 
 
 Lone whippoorwill, 
 There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn. 
 Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. 
 Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out. 
 And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant 
 Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes 
 His lodging in the wilderness of woods, 
 
CUEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 361 
 
 And lifts his anthem when the world is still : 
 
 And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man 
 
 And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews 
 
 To the red roses and the herbs, doth find 
 
 No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. 
 
 I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush 
 
 And the green, roving linnet are at rest. 
 
 And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased 
 
 Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. 
 
 Far up some brook's still course, whose current miaes 
 The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge 
 Is seldom visited by human foot. 
 The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks 
 The Sabbath silence of the wilderness : 
 And you may find her by some reedy pool. 
 Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock. 
 Beside some misty and far-reaching lake. 
 
 Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, 
 Gray watcher of the waters ! Thou art king 
 Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind 
 Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. 
 How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down, 
 And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; 
 And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak 
 Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. 
 Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist. 
 Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear 
 Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream 
 Of one whose life is perishing in the sea. 
 
 And now, would'st thou, O man, delight the ear 
 With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye 
 With beautiful creations ? Then pass forth. 
 And find them midst those many- colored birds 
 That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues 
 Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones 
 Are sweeter than the music of the lute. 
 Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush 
 So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip. 
 31 
 
362 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Sentimental Music, — F. G. HAiiLECK. 
 
 SouwDs as of far off bells came on his ears; 
 He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres ; 
 He was mistaken ; it was no such thing ; 
 
 'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band. 
 He muttered, as he lingered, listening, 
 
 Something of freedom, and our happy land ; 
 Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast. 
 This sentimental song, — ^his saddest, and his last: — 
 
 " Young thoughts have music in them, love 
 
 And happiness their theme ; 
 And music wanders in the wind 
 
 That lulls a morning dream. 
 And there are angel voices heard. 
 
 In childhood's frolic hours. 
 When life is but an April day. 
 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 
 " There's music in the forest leaves 
 
 When summer winds are there. 
 And in the laugh of forest girls 
 
 That braid their sunny hair. 
 The first wild bird that drinks the dew 
 
 From violets of the spring. 
 Has music in his song, and in 
 
 The fluttering of his wing. 
 
 " There's music in the dash of waves. 
 
 When the swift bark cleaves their foam ; 
 There's music heard upon her deck — 
 
 The mariner's song of home — 
 When moon and star-beams, smiling, meet. 
 
 At midnight, on the sea ; 
 And there is music once a week 
 
 In Scudder's balcony. 
 
 " But the music of young thoughts too soon 
 
 Is faint, and dies away. 
 And from our morning dreams we wake 
 
 To curse the coming day. 
 And childhood's frolic hours are brief. 
 
 And oft, in after years. 
 Their memory comes to chill the hearty 
 
 And dim the eye with tears. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 363 
 
 * To-day the forest leaves are green ; 
 
 They'll wither on the morrow. 
 And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long. 
 
 To the widow's wail of sorrow. 
 Come with the winter snows, and ask 
 
 Where are the forest birds ; 
 The answer is a silent one, 
 
 More eloquent than words. 
 
 The moonlight music of the waves 
 
 In storms is heard no more. 
 When the livid lightning mocks the wreck 
 
 At midnight on the shore ; 
 And the mariner's song of home has ceased — 
 
 His corse is on the sea ; 
 And music ceases, when it rains, 
 
 In Scudder's balcony." 
 
 The Silk-Worm. — Mrs. HAiiE. 
 
 There is no form upon our earth. 
 That bears the mighty Maker's seal. 
 
 But has some charm : to draw this forth. 
 We need but hearts to feel. 
 
 I saw a fair young girl — her face 
 
 Was sweet as dream of cherished friend — 
 Just at the age when childhood's grace 
 
 And maiden softness blend. 
 
 A silk- worm in her hand she laid ; 
 
 Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred; 
 But gayly with her charge she played. 
 
 As 'twere a nestling bird. 
 
 She raised it to her dimpled cheek. 
 
 And let it rest and revel there : 
 O, why for outward beauty seek ! 
 
 Love makes its favorites fair. 
 
 That worm — I should have shrunk, in truth, 
 To feel the reptile o'er me move, — 
 
364 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 But, loved by innocence and youth, 
 I deemed it worthy love. 
 
 Would we, I thought, the soul imbue. 
 In early life, with sympathies 
 
 For every harmless thing, and view 
 Such creatures formed to please,^ — 
 
 And, when with usefulness combined. 
 Gives them our love and gentle care,- — 
 
 0, we might have a world as kind 
 As God has made it fair ! 
 
 There is no form upon our earth. 
 That bears the mighty Maker's seal. 
 
 But has some charm : to call this forth, 
 We need but hearts to feel. 
 
 7!^^ Reverie. Written from College on the Birth- Day of the 
 Author^s Mother. — Frisbie. 
 
 No lights ! they break the spell ; — away ! 
 Let Fancy have her wildest play. 
 And, by the woodfire's cheery gleam. 
 Sit musing on her favorite theme, — 
 The dear domestic group, that meet. 
 This happy day, once more to greet, 
 With heartfelt warmth, and honest glee. 
 And infantile festivity. 
 
 O, as yon mirror's polished frame 
 Catches by fits the dying flame. 
 And indistinctly shows the moon 
 Half-shrouded in a glimmering gloom, — 
 O, could some wizard wave his wand. 
 And show me then the happy band ! 
 — 'Tis done : like summer clouds that 
 At noontide o'er the sunny grass, 
 From the dark mirror flits away 
 The scene, in broken disarray. 
 And lo, to Fancy's charmed eyes 
 The gay illusion seems to rise. 
 
CHBBVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 365 
 
 I see thee, dearest mother, there, 
 In thine old-fashioned elbow-chair. 
 Thy knitting for a while laid by 
 To watch the children's revelry ; 
 And her, I see her, by thy side, 
 Who marks them with a mother's pride. 
 Shares all their griefs, and all their joys. 
 And lives but in her favorite boys. 
 They now on pictured story pore. 
 Still pleased, so often pleased before ; 
 Now lisp (their accents meet my ear) 
 The infant hymn thou lov'st to hear. 
 And now they join in frolic play, 
 And all are noisy, all are gay. 
 And health and innocency speak 
 In every plump and rosy cheek. 
 Ah me ! what buoyant spirits there I 
 No thought, no sorrow, and no care : 
 That Age might for a while throw by 
 Its wrinkles and its gravity. 
 And e'en Philosophy might stoop. 
 To mingle with the frolic group. — 
 And now — 'tis silence all, and gloom. 
 And my own solitary room. 
 
 The SouVs Defiance* — ^Anonymotjs. 
 
 I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm. 
 
 That beat against my breast. 
 Rage on — thou may'st destroy this form. 
 
 And lay it low at rest ; 
 But still the spirit, that now brookj^ 
 
 Thy tempest, raging high. 
 
 Undaunted, on its fury looks 
 
 With steadfast eye. 
 
 * This poem was written many years ago, by a lady, and written from 
 experience and feeling. There is a very remarkable grandeur and power in 
 the sentiments, sustained, as they are, by an energy of expression well suit- 
 ed to the spirit's undaunted defiance of misfortune. — Ed. 
 31* 
 
366 CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 J said to Penury's meagre train, 
 Come on — your threats I brave ;^ 
 
 My last poor life -drop you may drain, 
 And crush me to the grave ; 
 
 Yet still the spirit that endures, 
 Shall mock your force the while. 
 
 And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 
 With bitter smile. 
 
 I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 
 
 Pass on — I heed you not ; 
 Ye may pursue me till my form 
 
 And being are forgot ; 
 Yet still the spirit, which you see 
 
 Undaunted by your wiles. 
 Draws from its own nobility 
 Its high-born smiles. 
 
 I said to Friendship's menaced blow. 
 Strike deep — my heart shall bear ; 
 
 Thou canst but add one bitter wo 
 To those already there ; 
 
 Yet still the spirit, that sustains 
 This last severe distress. 
 
 Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 
 And scorn redress. 
 
 I said to Death's uplifted dart. 
 
 Aim sure — O, why delay ? 
 Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 
 
 A weak, reluctant prey ; 
 For still the spirit, firm and free. 
 
 Triumphant in the last dismay. 
 Wrapt in its own eternity. 
 
 Shall smiling pass away 
 
 I 
 
 Hymn for the second Centennial Anniversary of the City oj 
 
 Boston. J. PlERPONT. 
 
 Break forth in song, ye trees, 
 As through your tops the breeze 
 Sweeps from the sea ; 
 
€HEEVER'S POETS OF AMERICA. 367 
 
 For on its rushing wings, 
 To your cool shades and springs. 
 That breeze a people brings. 
 Exiled, though free. 
 
 Ye sister hills, lay down 
 Of ancient oaks your crown. 
 
 In homage due : 
 These are the great of earth, — 
 Great, not by kingly birth. 
 Great, in their well proved worth. 
 
 Firm hearts and true. 
 
 These are the living lights. 
 
 That, from your bold green heights. 
 
 Shall shine afar. 
 Till they who name the name 
 Of Freedom, toward the flame 
 Come, as the Magi came 
 
 Toward Bethlehem's star. 
 
 Gone are those great and good. 
 Who here, in peril, stood 
 
 And raised their hymn. 
 Peace to the reverend dead ! 
 The light, that on their head 
 Two hundred years have shed. 
 
 Shall ne'er grow dim. 
 
 Ye temples, that, to God, 
 Rise where our fathers trod. 
 
 Guard well your trust — 
 The faith, that dared the sea. 
 The truth, that made them free. 
 Their cherished purity. 
 
 Their garnered dust 
 
 Thou high and holy One, 
 Whose care for sire and son 
 
 All nature fills. 
 While day shall break and close. 
 While night her crescent shows, 
 O, let thy light repose 
 
 On these our hills. 
 
368 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 JVapoleon at Rest. — J. Pierpont. 
 
 His falchion flashed along the Nile, 
 His host he led through Alpine snows ; 
 
 O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while. 
 His eagle-flag unrolled — and froze ! 
 
 Here sleeps he now, alone \ — not one. 
 Of all the kings whose crowns he gave. 
 
 Bends o'er his dust ; nor wife nor son 
 Has ever seen or sought his grave. 
 
 Behind the sea-girt rock, the star 
 
 That led him on from crown to crown 
 
 Has sunk, and nations from afar 
 Gazed as it faded and went down. 
 
 High is his tomb : the ocean flood. 
 Far, far below, by storms is curled — 
 
 As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
 A stormy and unstable world. 
 
 Alone he sleeps : the mountain cloud. 
 
 That night hangs round him, and the breath 
 
 Of morning scatters, is the shroud 
 
 That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. 
 
 Pause here ! The far off world at last 
 Breathes free ; the hand that shook its thrones. 
 
 And to the earth its mitres cast, 
 
 Lies powerless now beneath these stones. 
 
 Hark ! Comes there from the pyramids. 
 
 And from Siberian wastes of snow. 
 And Europe's hills, a voice that bids 
 
 The world be awed to mourn him ? — No ! 
 
 The only, the perpetual dirge 
 
 That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry — 
 The mournful murmur of the surge. 
 
 The clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 369 
 
 TTie Death of JSTapoleon, — I. McLellan, Jun. 
 
 "The fifth of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon's passing spirit 
 wag deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. 
 The words ' tete d'^armee^'* (head of the army,) the last which escaped from 
 his lips, intimated Jrtiat his thoughts were watching the current of a heady 
 fight. About elevOT minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired." 
 — ScoWs Life of J^apoleon. 
 
 Wild was the night; yet a wilder night 
 
 Hung round the soldier's pillow ; 
 In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight 
 
 Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 
 
 A few fond mourners were kneeling by, 
 The few that his stern heart cherished; 
 
 They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye. 
 That life had nearly perished. 
 
 They knew by his awful and kingly look, 
 
 By the order hastily spoken, 
 That he dreamed of days when the nations shook. 
 
 And the nations' hosts were broken. 
 
 He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew. 
 And triumphed the Frenchman's ' eagle ;' 
 
 And the struggling Austrian fled anew, 
 I-,ike the hare before the beagle. 
 
 The bearded Russian he scourged again. 
 
 The Prussian's camp was routed. 
 And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, 
 
 His mighty armies shouted. 
 
 Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows. 
 
 At the pyramids, at the mountain. 
 Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, 
 
 And by the Italian fountain. 
 
 On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams 
 
 Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, 
 He led again, in his dying dreams, 
 
 His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 
 
370 CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Again Marengo's field was won. 
 
 And Jena's bloody battle ; 
 Again the world was overrun. 
 
 Made pale at his cannons' rattle. 
 
 He died at the close of that darksome day, 
 
 A day that shall live in story : 
 In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
 
 * And left him alone with his glory.' 
 
 Jerusalem, — Brainard. 
 
 " A severe earthquake is said to have taken place at Jerusalem, which 
 has destroyed great part of that city, shaken down the Mosque of Omar, 
 and reduced the Holy Sepulchre to ruins from top to bottom." — J^Tew Yark 
 Mercantile Advertiser. 
 
 Four lamps were burning o'er two mighty graves — 
 Godfrey's and Baldwin's — Salem's Christian kings — 
 
 A.nd holy light glanced from Helena's naves, 
 Fed with the incense which the pilgrim brings, — 
 While through the panelled roof the cedar flings 
 
 Its sainted arms o'er choir, and roof, and dome, 
 And ever}' porphyry-pillared cloister rings 
 
 To every kneeler there its " welcome home," 
 
 As every lip breathes out, " Lord, thy kingdom come." 
 
 A mosque was garnished with its crescent moons, 
 And a clear voice called Mussulmans to prayer. 
 
 There were the splendors of Judea's thrones — 
 
 There were the trophies which its conquerors wear- 
 All but the truth, the holy truth, was there : — 
 
 For there, with lip profane, the crier stood. 
 And him from the tall minaret you might hear. 
 
 Singing to all, whose steps had thither trod. 
 
 That verse, misunderstood, " There is no God but God." 
 
 Hark ! did the pilgrim tremble as he kneeled ? 
 
 And did the turbaned Turk his sins confess ? 
 Those mighty hands, the elements that wield. 
 
 That mighty power, that knows to curse or bless. 
 
 Is over all ; and in whatever dress 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 371 
 
 His suppliants crowd around him, He can see 
 
 Their heart, in city or in wilderness. 
 And probe its core, and make its blindness see 
 That He is very God, the only Deity. 
 
 There was an earthquake once, that rent thy fane, 
 
 Proud Julian ; when (against the prophecy 
 Of Him who lived, and died, and rose again, 
 
 " That one stone on another should not lie,") 
 
 1 hou would'st rebuild that Jewish masonry, 
 To mock the eternal word. — The earth below 
 
 Gushed out in fire ; and from the brazen sky, 
 And from the boiling seas, such wrath did flow, 
 As saw not Shinar's plain, nor Babel's overthrow. 
 
 Another earthquake comes. Dome, roof and wall 
 
 Tremble ; and headlong to the grassy bank, 
 And in the muddied stream, the fragments fall. 
 
 While the rent chasm spread its jaws, and drank. 
 
 At one huge draught, the sediment, which sank 
 In Salem's drained goblet. Mighty Power! 
 
 Thou whom we all should worship, praise, and thank. 
 Where was thy mercy in that awful hour, 
 When hell moved from beneath, and thine own heaven did 
 lower ? 
 
 Say, Pilate's palaces — say, proud Herod's towers — 
 
 Say, gate of Bethlehem — did your arches quake .'' 
 Thy pool, Bethesda, was it filled with showers ? 
 
 Calm Gihon, did the jar thy waters wake ? 
 
 Tomb of thee, Mary — Virgin — did it shake ? 
 Glowed thy bought field, Aceldema, with blood ? 
 
 Where were the shudderings Calvary might make ? 
 Did sainted Mount Moriah send a flood. 
 To wash away the spot where once a God had stood ? 
 
 Lost Salem of the Jews — great sepulchre 
 
 Of all profane and of all holy things — 
 Where Jew, and Turk, and Gentile yet concur 
 
 To make thee what thou art ! thy history brings 
 
 Thoughts mixed of joy and wo. The whole earth rings 
 With the sad truth which He has prophesied, 
 
 Who would have sheltered with his holy wings 
 Thee and thy children. You his power defied : 
 You scourged him while he lived, and mocked him as he died ? 
 
372 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 There is a star in the untroubled sky, 
 
 That caught the first light which its Maker made — 
 It led the hymn of other orbs on high ; 
 
 'Twill shine when all the fires of heaven shall fade. 
 
 Pilgrims at Salem's porch, be that your aid ! t 
 
 For it has kept its watch on Palestine ! 
 
 Look to its holy light, nor be dismayed. 
 Though broken is each consecrated shrine, 
 Though crushed and ruined all — which men have called divine. 
 
 Note. — Godfrey and Baldwin were the first Christian kings at Jerusalem. 
 The empress Helena, mother of Constantino the Great, built the church of 
 the sepulchre on Mount Calvary. The walls are of stone, and the ru.f of 
 cedar. The four lamps which light it are very costly. It is kept in repair 
 by the oiFerings of pilgrims who resort to it. The mosque was originally a 
 Jewish temple. The emperor Julian undertook to rebuild the temple of Je- 
 rusalem at very great expense, to disprove the prophecy of our Savior, as it 
 was understood by the Jews ; but the work and the workmen were destroyed 
 by an earthquake. The pools of Bethesda and Gihon — the tomb of the Vir- 
 gin Mary, and of king Jehoshaphat — the pillar of Absalom — the tomb of 
 Zachariah — and the campo santo, or holy field, which is supposed to havo 
 been purchased with the price of Judas' treason — are, or were lately, the 
 most interesting parts of Jerusalem. 
 
 TheAngler^s Song. — I. McLellan, Jun. 
 
 " There is no life more pleasant than the life of the well-governat' 
 angler." — Isaac Walton. 
 
 When first the flame of day 
 
 Crimsons the sea-like mist, 
 And from the valley rolls away 
 
 The haze, by the sunbeam kissed, 
 Then to the lonely woods I pass. 
 
 With angling rod and line. 
 While yet the dew-drops, in the grass, 
 
 Like flashing diamonds shine. 
 
 How vast the mossy forest-halls. 
 
 Silent, and full of gloom ! 
 » Through the high roof the daybeam falls. 
 
 Like torch-light in a tomb. 
 The old trunks of trees rise round 
 
 Like pillars in a church of old, 
 And the wind fills them with a sound 
 
 As if a bell were tolled. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 373 
 
 Where falls the noisy stream. 
 
 In many a bubble bright. 
 Along whose grassy margin gleam 
 
 Flowers gaudy to the sight, < 
 
 There silently I stand, 
 
 Watching my angle play. 
 And eagerly draw to the land 
 
 My speckled prey. 
 
 Oft, ere the carrion bird has left 
 
 His eyrie, the dead tree. 
 Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft 
 
 The cloud in heaven's blue sea, 
 Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds 
 
 To meet the misty day. 
 My foot hath shaken the bending reeds. 
 
 My rod sought out its prey. 
 
 And when the Twilight, with a blush 
 
 Upon her cheek, goes by. 
 And Evening's universal hush 
 
 Fills all the darkened sky. 
 And steadily the tapers burn 
 
 In villages far away. 
 Then from the lonely stream I turn 
 
 And from the forests gray. 
 
 FTho is my JVeighbor ? — Anonymous, 
 
 Thy neighbor ? It is he whom thou 
 
 Hast power to aid and bless. 
 Whose aching heart or burning brow 
 
 Thy soothing hand may press. 
 
 Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the fainting poor. 
 
 Whose eye with want is dim. 
 Whom hunger sends from door to door, — 
 
 Go thou, and succor him. 
 
 Thy neighbor ? 'Tis that weary man, 
 Whose years are at their brim. 
 
 Bent low with sickness, cares and pain : — 
 Go thou, and comfort him. 
 82 
 
374 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the heart bereft 
 
 Of every earthly gem ; 
 Widow and orphan, helpless left : — 
 
 Go thou, and shelter them. 
 
 Thy neighbor ? Yonder toiling slave, 
 Fettered in thought and limb. 
 
 Whose hopes are all beyond the grave, — 
 Go thou and ransom him. 
 
 Whene'er thou meet'st a human form 
 Less favored than thine own. 
 
 Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm. 
 Thy brother, or thy son. 
 
 Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by ; 
 
 Perhaps thou canst redeem 
 The breaking heart from misery : — 
 
 Go, share thy lot with him. 
 
 Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 6 — 13. — Christian Mirrcr. 
 
 She loved her Savior, and to him 
 
 Her costliest present brought ; 
 To crown his head, or grace his name, 
 
 No gift too rare she thought. 
 
 And though the prudent worldling frowned. 
 
 And thought the poor bereft, 
 Christ's humble friend sweet comfort found, 
 
 For he approved the gift. 
 
 So let the Savior be adored, 
 
 And not the poor despised ; 
 Give to the hungry from your hoard. 
 
 But all, give all to Christ. 
 
 The poor are always with us here. 
 
 'Tis our great Father's plan. 
 That mutual wants and mutual care 
 
 May bind us, man to man. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 375 
 
 Go, clothe the naked, lead the blind. 
 
 Give to the weary rest ; 
 For Sorrow's children comfort find, 
 
 And help for all distressed ; — 
 
 But give to Christ alone thy heart. 
 
 Thy faith, thy love supreme ; 
 Then for his sake thine alms impart, 
 
 And so give all to Him, 
 
 Broken-hearted, weep no more. — Episcopal Watchman. 
 
 Broken-hearted, weep no more ! 
 
 Hear what comfort He hath spoken. 
 Smoking flax who ne'er hath quenched. 
 Bruised reed who ne'er hath broken : — 
 " Ye who wander here below, 
 Heavy laden as you go. 
 Come, with grief, with sin oppressed, 
 Come to me, and be at rest !" 
 
 Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock, 
 
 Brought again from sin and straying, 
 Hear the Shepherd's gentle voice — 
 'Tis a true and faithful saying : — 
 " Greater love how can there be 
 Than to yield up life for thee ? 
 Bought with pang, and tear, and sigh, 
 Turn and live ! — why will ye die !" 
 
 Broken-hearted, weep no more ! 
 
 Far from consolation flying ; 
 He who calls hath felt thy wound. 
 Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing : — 
 " Bring thy broken heart to me 5 
 Welcome offering it shall be ; 
 Streaming tears and bursting sighs, 
 Mine accepted sacrifice." 
 
376 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 The Sweet Brier. — Brainard. 
 
 OtJR sweet autumnal western-scented wind 
 Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower, 
 In all the blooming waste it left behind, 
 As that the sweet brier yields it ; and the shower 
 Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower 
 One half so lovely ; yet it g-rows along 
 The poor girl's path-way, by the poor man's door. 
 Such are the simple folks it dwells among ; 
 And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. 
 
 I love it, for it takes its untouched stand 
 Not in the vase that sculptors decorate ; 
 Its sweetness all is of my native land ; 
 And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate 
 Among the perfumes which the rich and great 
 Buy from the odors of the spicy East. 
 You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate 
 The little four-leaved rose that I love best. 
 That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest ? 
 
 Mother, what is Death? — Mrs. Gilmaw. 
 
 " Mother, how still the baby lies ! 
 
 I cannot hear his breath ; 
 I cannot see his laughing eyes — 
 
 They tell me this is death. 
 
 My little work I thought to bring. 
 
 And sat down by his bed. 
 And pleasantly I tried to sing — 
 
 They hushed me — he is dead. 
 
 They say that he again will rise, 
 
 More beautiful than now ; 
 That God will bless him in the skies— 
 
 O, mother, tell me how !" 
 
 " Daughter, do you remember, dear. 
 The cold, dark thing you brought. 
 
377 
 
 And 
 
 ,\nd laid upon the casement here, — 
 A withered worm, you thought r 
 
 I told you that Almighty power 
 Could break that withered shell. 
 
 And show you, in a future hour, 
 Something would please you well. 
 
 Look at the chrysalis, my love, — 
 
 An empty shell it lies ; — 
 Now raise your wondering glance above, 
 
 To where yon insect flies !" 
 
 O, yes, mamma ! how very gay 
 Its wings of starry gold ! 
 nd see ! it lightly flies away 
 Beyond my gentle hold. 
 
 O, mother, now I know full well. 
 If God that worm can change. 
 
 And draw it from this broken cell. 
 On golden wings to range, — 
 
 How beautiful will brother be. 
 When God shall give him wings. 
 
 Above this dying world to flee. 
 And live with heavenly things!" 
 
 Last Prayers. — Mary Ann Browne. 
 
 *' O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe 
 Forth from a lip that fades with coming death." 
 
 I AM hot what I was : 
 My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted; 
 They sprung too early, like the tender grass 
 
 That by spring-frost is blasted. 
 
 But THOU wilt not believe 
 How very soon my heart-task will be o'er 
 My heart, whose feelings never can deceive. 
 
 Is withered at it? core. 
 32* 
 
378 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 I know the blight is there, 
 And slowly it is spreading in my youth ; 
 And ever and anon some silver hair 
 
 Proclaims that this is truth. 
 
 And trembles every limb. 
 As never trembled they in happier years. 
 And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim, 
 
 Yet not a mist of tears. 
 
 Thou dost not know, when pale 
 My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood 
 Hath rushed like lava, when a sudden gale 
 
 Of terror sweeps its flood. 
 
 O, from the laughing earth, 
 And all its glorious things, I could depart. 
 Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth, 
 
 Save in thy precious heart. 
 
 Yet come not when the drear 
 Last hour of life is passing over me ; 
 I cannot yield my breath if thou art near. 
 
 To bid me live for thee. 
 
 But come when I am dead : 
 No terror shall be pictured on my face ; 
 I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed, 
 
 Without one passion's trace. 
 
 And come thou to my grave : 
 Ay, promise that : come on some beauteous morn. 
 When lightly in the breeze the willows wave. 
 
 And spring's first flowers are born ; 
 
 Or on a summer's eve, 
 When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned 
 To crimson in the west, when waters heave 
 
 As if they lived and burned ; 
 
 Or in the solemn night. 
 When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep, 
 And when the earth is bathed in starry light, 
 
 0, come thou there, and weep. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 379 
 
 Weep yet not bitter tears ; 
 Let them be holy, silent, free from pain : 
 Think of me as a bird who, many j^^ears. 
 
 Was in a galling chain ; 
 
 A chain that let it gaze 
 On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er 
 It strove to rush away, or fondly raise 
 
 Its wing, still bound it there. 
 
 And bring sometimes a flower 
 To scatter on the turf I lie beneath. 
 And gather it in that beloved bower 
 
 That round us used to wreathe. 
 
 And whatsoe'er the time 
 Thou comest, — at the morn, or eve, or night. 
 When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime. 
 
 Or in the moon's pale light, — 
 
 Still keep this thought, (for sweet 
 It was to me when such bright hope was given,) 
 That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet. 
 
 Ay, surely meet, in heaven. 
 
 A JSToon Scene, — Bryant. 
 
 The quiet August noon is come ; 
 
 A slumberous silence fills the sky. 
 The fields are still, the woods are dumb. 
 
 In glassy sleep the waters lie. 
 
 And mark yon soft white clouds, that rest 
 Above our vale, a moveless throng; 
 
 The cattle on the mountain's breast 
 Enjoy the grateful shadow long. 
 
 O, how unlike those merry hours 
 
 In sunny June, when earth laughs out; 
 
 When the fresh winds make love to flowers, 
 And woodlands sing and waters shout ! — 
 
380 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 When in the grass sweet waters talk. 
 And strains of tiny music swell 
 
 From every moss- cup of the rock, 
 From every nameless blossom's bell ! 
 
 But now, a joy too deep for sound, 
 A peace no other season knows, 
 
 Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground- 
 The blessing of supreme repose. 
 
 Away ! I will not be, to-day, 
 The only slave of toil and care ; 
 
 Away from desk and dust, away ! 
 I'll be as idle as the air. 
 
 Beneath the open sky abroad. 
 
 Among the plants and breathing things, 
 
 The sinless, peaceful works of God, 
 I'll share the calm the season brings. 
 
 Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see 
 The gentle meaning of the heart. 
 
 One day amid the woods with thee. 
 From men and all their cares apart. 
 
 And where, upon the meadow's breast. 
 The shadow of the thicket lies. 
 
 The blue wild flowers thou gatherest 
 Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. 
 
 Come — and when, amid the calm profound, 
 I turn, those gentle eyes to seek. 
 
 They, like the lovely landscape round. 
 Of innocence and peace shall speak. 
 
 Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade. 
 And on the silent valleys gaze. 
 
 Winding and widening till they fade 
 In yon soft ring of summer haze. 
 
 The village trees their summits rear 
 Still as its spire ; and yonder flock, 
 
 At rest in those calm fields, appear 
 As chiselled from the lifeless rock. 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 381 
 
 One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, 
 
 Where the hushed winds their sabbath keep, 
 
 While a near hum, from bees and brooks. 
 Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. 
 
 Well might the gazer deem, that when, 
 
 Worn with the struggle and the strife, 
 And heart-sick at the sons of men, 
 
 The good forsake the scenes of life,— 
 
 Like the deep quiet, that awhile 
 
 Lingers the lovely landscape o'er. 
 Shall be the peace whose holy smile 
 
 Welcomes them to a happier shore. 
 
 JVcw England's Dead. — I. McLellan, Juk. 
 
 ** I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts ; she needs none. 
 There she is ; behold her, and judge for yourselves. — There is her history. 
 The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Bos- 
 ton, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill ; and there they will re- 
 main forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for inde- 
 pendence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England 
 to Georgia j and there they will remain forever." — IVebster^s Speech. 
 
 New England's dead ! New England's dead ! 
 
 On every hill they lie ; 
 On every field of strife, made red 
 
 By bloody victory. 
 Each valley, where the battle poured 
 
 Its red and awful tide. 
 Beheld the brave New England sword 
 
 With slaughter deeply dyed. 
 Their bones are on the northern hill, 
 
 And on the southern plain, 
 By brook and river, lake and rill, 
 
 And by the roaring main. 
 
 The land is holy where they fought, ^ 
 
 And holy where they fell ; 
 For by their blood that land was bought, 
 
 The land they loved so well. 
 Then glory to that valiant band, 
 The honored saviors of the land ! 
 
382 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 0, few and weak their numbers were— 
 
 A handful of brave men ; 
 But to their God they gave their prayer. 
 
 And rushed to battle then. 
 The God of battles heard their cry, 
 And sent to them the victory. 
 
 They left the ploughshare in the mould, 
 Their flocks and herds without a fold. 
 The sickle in the unshorn grain, 
 The corn, half-garnered, on the plain. 
 And mustered, in their simple dress. 
 For wrongs to seek a stern redress. 
 To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo. 
 To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 
 
 And where are ye, O fearless men ? 
 
 And where are ye to-day ? 
 I call : — the hills reply again 
 
 That ye have passed away ; 
 That on old Bunker's lonely height. 
 
 In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground. 
 The grass grows green, the harvest bright, 
 
 Above each soldier's mound. 
 
 The bugle's wild and warlike blast 
 
 Shall muster them no more ; 
 An army now might thunder past. 
 
 And they heed not its roar. 
 The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, 
 
 In many a bloody day. 
 From their old graves shall rouse them not, 
 
 For they have passed away. 
 
 Installation Hymn. — Pierpont. 
 
 " Let there be light!" — When from on high, 
 God, that first commandment came. 
 
 Forth leaped the sun ; and earth and sky 
 Lay in his light, and felt his flame. 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 383 
 
 " Let there be light ! " — The light of grace 
 
 And truth, a darkling world to bless. 
 Came with thy word, when on our race 
 
 Broke forth the Sun of Righteousness. 
 
 Light of our souls ! how strong it grows ! 
 
 That sun, how wide his beams he flings, 
 As up the glorious sky he goes. 
 
 With light and healing in his wings ! 
 
 Give us that light ! O God, 'tis given ! 
 
 Hope sees it open heaven's wide halls 
 To those who for the truth have striven ; 
 
 And Faith walks firmly where it falls. 
 
 Churches no more, in cold eclipse. 
 
 Mourn the withholding of its rays; 
 It gilds their gates, and on the lips 
 
 Of every faithful preacher plays. 
 
 Doth not its circle clasp the brows 
 
 Of him who, in the strength of youth, 
 Gives himself up, in this day's vows, 
 
 A minister of grace and truth ? 
 
 Long may it. Lord ; — nor let his soul 
 
 Go through death's gloomy vale alone ; 
 But bear it on to its high goal. 
 
 Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne. 
 
 The Wanderer of Africa. — Alonzo Lewis. 
 
 He launched his boat where the dark waves flow, 
 Through the desert that never was white with snow. 
 When the wind was still, and the sun shone bright. 
 And the stream glowed red with the morning light. 
 
 He had sat in the cool of the palm's broad shade, 
 And drank of the fountain of Kafnah's glade. 
 When the herb was scorched by the sun's hot ray, 
 And the camel failed on his thirsty way. 
 
884 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 And the dark maids of Sego their mats had spread, 
 And sung all night by the stranger's bed ; 
 And his sleep was sweet on that desert sand. 
 For his visions' were far in his own loved land. 
 
 He was weary and faint in a stranger clime. 
 
 But his soul was at home as in youth's sweet time ; 
 
 And he lay in the shade, by his cot's clear pool. 
 
 And the breeze which came by was refreshing and cool ; 
 
 And the look of his mother was gentle and sweet. 
 And he heard the loved steps of his sister's light feet ; 
 And their voices were soft, and expressive, and low. 
 Like the distant rain, or the brook's calm flow. 
 
 And this was the song which the dark maids sung, 
 In the beautiful strains of their own wild tongue : — 
 " The stranger came far, and sat under our tree ; 
 We will bring him sweet food, for no sister has he." 
 
 And the stranger went forth when the night-breeze had died. 
 And launched his light bark on the Joliba's tide ; 
 And he waved his white kerchief to those dark maids, 
 As he silently entered the palmy shades. 
 
 And the maidens of Sego were sad and lone, 
 And sung their rude song, like the death spirit's moan : — 
 ** The stranger has gone where the simoom will burn : 
 Alas ! for the white man will never return!" 
 
 A Legend. — J. G. Whittier. 
 
 The hunter went forth with his dog and gun. 
 In the earliest glow of the golden sun ; : 
 The trees of the forest bent over his way, 
 In the changeful colors of autumn gay ; 
 For a frost had fallen, the night before. 
 On the quiet greenness which nature wore : — 
 
 A bitter frost ! — for the night was chill. 
 And starry and dark, and the wind was still ; 
 
€HEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 385 
 
 And so, when the sun looked out on (he hills, 
 On the stricken woods and the frosted rills, 
 The unvaried green of the landscape fled, 
 And a wild, rich robe was given instead. 
 
 We know not whither the hunter went, 
 
 Or how the last of his days was spent ; 
 
 For the noon drew nigh ; but he came not back, 
 
 "Weary and faint, from his forest-track ; 
 
 And his wife sat down to her frugal board, 
 
 Beside the empty seat of her lord. 
 
 And the day passed on, and the sun came down 
 To the hills of the west like an angel's crown ; 
 The shadows lengthened from wood and hill. 
 The mist crept up from the meadow- rill, 
 Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled 
 All over the west like a wave of gold. 
 
 Yet he came not back— though the stars gave forth 
 
 Their wizard light to the silent earth ; 
 
 And his wife looked out from the lattice dim 
 
 In the earnest manner of fear for him ; 
 
 And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood 
 
 To welcome his father back from the wood ! 
 
 He came not back — yet they found him soon 
 In the burning light of the morrow's noon. 
 In the fixed and visionless sleep of death. 
 Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath ; 
 And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet. 
 Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet. 
 
 He slept in death ; — but his sleep was one 
 
 Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon ; 
 
 For his brow was black, and his open eye 
 
 Was red with the sign of agony ; — 
 
 And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, 
 
 That an evil deed had been done on him. 
 
 They buried him where his fathers laid. 
 By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade ; 
 Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead. 
 And beldames muttered while prayers were said ; 
 33 
 
386 CHEEVER^S POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed 
 The damp earth down on the hunter's hreast. 
 
 The seasons passed ; and the autumn rain 
 And the colored forest returned again : 
 'Twas the very eve that the hunter died ; 
 The winds wailed over the bare hill-side, 
 And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook 
 Their red leaves over the swollen brook. 
 
 There came a sound on the night-air then. 
 
 Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men. 
 
 And louder and shriller it rose again, 
 
 Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain ; 
 
 And trembled alike the timid and brave. 
 
 For they knew that it came from the hunter's grave ; 
 
 And, every year, when autumn flings 
 Its beautiful robe on created things. 
 When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain. 
 And Cocheco's woods are yellow again. 
 That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth. 
 Like the howl of a demon struggling forth. 
 
 They heard a Voice from Heaven, sayings Come up 
 hither.** Rev. xi. 12. — Mrs. Sigottritey. 
 
 "Ye have a land of mist and shade. 
 
 Where spectres roam at will ; 
 Dense clouds your mountain heights invade^ 
 
 And damps your valleys chill ; — 
 But ne'er may midnight care,^ or wo. 
 
 Eclipse our changeless ray ; 
 * Come hither,' if ye seek to Imow 
 
 The bliss of perfect day. 
 
 " Doubt, like the Bohan-Upas, spreads 
 
 A blight where'er ye tread ; 
 And Hope, a pensive mourner, sheds 
 
 The tear o'er harvests dead : 
 
CHEEVER's poets of AMERICA. 38? 
 
 With us, no traitorous foe assails, 
 
 When Love her home would make ; 
 An angel's welcome never fails ; 
 
 * Come^ and that warmth partake. 
 
 *« Time revels 'mid your dearest joys, 
 
 Death smites your brightest rose, 
 And Sin your bower of peace destroys; 
 
 Where will ye find repose ? 
 Ye're wearied in your pilgrim race. 
 
 Sharp thorns your path infest ; 
 * Come hither,^ rise to our embrace. 
 
 And Christ shall give you rest.'* 
 
 'Twas thus, at twilight's hallowed hour. 
 
 The angels' lay came down, 
 Like dews upon the sick'ning flower. 
 
 When droughts of summer frown : 
 How sweet, upon the ambient air, 
 
 Swelled out their music free ! 
 0, when the pangs of death I bear, 
 
 Sing ye that song to me. 
 
 Occasional Hymn. — i, Pierpont. 
 
 O Thou, to whom, in ancient time, 
 The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, 
 
 Whom kings adored in song sublime. 
 And prophets praised with glowing tongue,- 
 
 Not now, on Zion's height alone. 
 Thy 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. 
 
388 
 
 To Thee shall Age, with snowy hair. 
 
 And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee. 
 
 And Childhood lisp, with reverent 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. 
 
 The Sleeper, — CoMMERCiAii Advertiser. 
 
 It was'the spring-time in its earliest hour : 
 
 Few blossoms then had of the year been born ; 
 The fresh winds whispered to the unfolding flower, 
 
 Where nestled dews of the unsullied morn : 
 Songs like to Eden's sweetened all the air. 
 
 And birds and brooks their hymns together blent ; 
 Those in the heavens and these on earth were fair : 
 
 These midst the flowers, those in their incense went. 
 
 My little cousin had boien roaming then. 
 
 At early dawn, along the upland side ; 
 O'er dewy slope, green lawn, and shaded glen, 
 
 Standing by sister blossoms, side by side ; 
 And, wearied with the pleasant tour, returned, 
 
 Upon her couch the sinless wanderer lay ; 
 And sleep had won her, with sweet visions, earned 
 
 By radiant scenes upon that early day. 
 
 Her fair cheek pressed her pillow ; in her hair. 
 
 Her darkly golden hair, some buds reposed ; 
 And silken lashes, o'er her blue eyes fair, 
 
 In a faint glimpse the hue beneath disclosed : 
 A pure white rose was in her fairy hand ; 
 
 And, gazing on her with a tearful eye, 
 " Dear one," I said, " on youth's enchanted land. 
 
 Be ever thus, beneath a cloudless sky. 
 Till, a^ure flower of heaven, thou art removed on high. 
 
CHEEVER's poets op AMERICA. 389 
 
 God^s Omnipresent Agency, — Caklos Wilcox. 
 
 How desolate were nature, and how void 
 Of every charm, how like a naked waste 
 Of Africa, were not a present God 
 Beheld employing, in its various scenes. 
 His active might to animate and adorn ! 
 What life and beauty, whens in all that breathes. 
 Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at workl— 
 When it is viewed unfolding every bud. 
 Each blossom tinging, shaping every leaf. 
 Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky. 
 Rolling each billow, moving every wing 
 That fans the air, and every warbling throat 
 Heard in the tuneful woodlands ! In the least, 
 As well as in the greatest of his works. 
 Is ever manifest his presence kind ; 
 As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen 
 Quick to and fro, within a foot of air. 
 Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, 
 As in the systems of resplendent worlds. 
 Through time revolving in unbounded space. 
 His eye, while comprehending in one view 
 The whole creation, fixes full on me ; 
 As on me shines the sun with his full blaze, 
 While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same. 
 His hand, while holding oceans in its palm, 
 And compassing the skies, surrounds my life. 
 Guards the poor rush-light from the blast of death. 
 
 The Farewell, — Anonymous. 
 
 ** Mea patria, vale I" 
 
 " My native land, good night I" — 
 
 My native land, adieu, adieu ! 
 
 My course is o'er the sea : 
 I sail upon the waters blue. 
 
 Far, far away from thee : 
 Those scenes, to youth and hope so dear. 
 
 Which active childhood know, 
 33* 
 
390 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 Demand my last, my parting tear ; 
 My native land, adieu ! — 
 
 My native land, adieu, adieu ! 
 
 My course is o'er the sea : 
 And yet a heart more fond, more true, 
 
 Sure never beat for thee ! 
 0, 1 have joyed to see thy jpower^ 
 
 Have wept thy crimes to view ; 
 Affection claims my parting hour : 
 
 My native land, adieu ! 
 
 My native land, adieu, adieu ! 
 
 My course is o'er the sea : 
 Though distant climes I sail to view, 
 
 Still memory turns to thee : — 
 There, crowned with health, with peace and love 
 
 My early moments flew ; 
 Sure these my fond affection prove : 
 
 My native land, adieu ! 
 
 My native land, adieu, adieu ! 
 
 My course is o'er the sea : 
 O, would that Heaven would guide me through, 
 
 And lead me back to thee ! 
 But no, — a warning voice declares 
 
 My years — my days are few : 
 I go : — be thine my ardent prayers : 
 
 My native land, adieu ! 
 
 Sunrise on. the Hills. — Ajvonymgus. 
 
 I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 
 Was glorious with the sun's returning march. 
 
 And woods were brightened, and soft gales 
 
 Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 
 The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed in light. 
 They gathered midway round the wooded height, 
 
 And in their fading glory shone 
 
 Like hosts in battle overthrown — 
 As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. 
 Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance. 
 
€HEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 391 
 
 And, rocking on the cliff, was left 
 
 The dark pine, blasted, bare and cleft. 
 The veil of cloud was lifted ; and below 
 Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 
 
 Was darkened by the forest shade, 
 
 Or glistened in the white cascade. 
 Where upward, in the mellow blush of day. 
 The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 
 
 I heard the distant waters dash ; 
 
 I heard the current whirl and flash ; 
 And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach. 
 The woods were bending with a silent reach., 
 
 Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
 
 The music of the village bell 
 Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills, 
 And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills. 
 
 Was ringing to the merry shout 
 
 That, faint and far, the glen sent out ; 
 Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke 
 Through thick-leaved branches from the dingle broke* 
 
 If thou art worn and hard beset 
 
 With sorrows that thou wouldst forget — 
 If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep 
 Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep- 
 Go to the woods and hills ! — no tears 
 
 Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 
 
 Lines on passing the Ghrave of my Sister,- 
 MicAH P. Flint. 
 
 On yonder shore, on yonder shore. 
 Now verdant with the depth of shade. 
 
 Beneath the white-armed sycamore. 
 There is a little infant laid. 
 
 Forgive this tear. A brother weeps. 
 
 'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps. 
 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone. 
 And summer's forests o'er her wave; 
 
 And sighing winds at autumn moan 
 Around the little stranger's grave. 
 
 As though they murmured at the fate 
 
 Of one so lone and desolate. 
 
392 cheever's poets of America, 
 
 In sounds that seem like Sorrow's own, 
 Their funeral dirges faintly creep ; 
 
 Then, deep'ning to an organ tone. 
 In all their solemn cadence sweep. 
 
 And pour, unheard, along the wild. 
 
 Their desert anthem o'er a child. 
 
 She came, and passed. Can I forget. 
 
 How we, whose hearts had hailed her birth. 
 
 Ere three autumnal suns had set. 
 Consigned her to her mother Earth ! 
 
 Joys and their memories pass away ; 
 
 But griefs are deeper traced than they. 
 
 We laid her in her narrow cell, 
 
 We heaped the soft mould on her breast. 
 
 And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell 
 Upon her lonely place of rest. 
 
 May angels guard it ; — may they bless 
 
 Her slumbers in the wilderness. 
 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; 
 
 For, all unheard, on yonder shore, 
 The sweeping flood, with torrent moan, 
 
 At evening lifts its solemn roar. 
 As, in one broad, eternal tide. 
 Its rolling waters onward glide. 
 
 There is no marble monument. 
 There is no stone, with graven lie. 
 
 To tel] of love and virtue blent 
 In one almost too good to die. 
 
 We needed no such useless trace 
 
 To point us to her resting place. 
 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; 
 
 But, midst the tears of April showers. 
 The genius of the wild hath strown 
 
 His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers. 
 And cast his robe of vernal bloom. 
 In guardian fondness, o'er her tomb. 
 
 She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone ; 
 But yearly is her grave-turf dressed. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 393 
 
 And still the summer vines are thrown. 
 In annual wreaths, across her breast. 
 And still the sighing autumn grieves. 
 And strews the hallowed spot with leaves. 
 
 The Revellers. — Ohio Backwoodsmaiv. 
 
 There were sounds of mirth and joyousness 
 
 Broke forth in the lighted hall, 
 And there was many a merry laugh, 
 
 And many a merry call ; 
 And the glass was freely passed around, 
 
 And the nectar freely quaffed ; 
 And many a heart felt light with glee 
 
 And the joy of the thrilling draught. 
 
 A voice arose in that place of mirth. 
 
 And a glass was flourished high ; 
 •* I drink to Life," said a son of earth, 
 
 ** And I do not fear to die ; 
 I have no fear — I have no fear — 
 
 Talk not of the vagrant Death ; 
 For he is a grim old gentleman, 
 
 And he wars but with his breath. 
 
 Cheer, comrades, cheer ! We drink to Life, 
 
 And we do not fear to die !" 
 Just then a rushing sound was heard. 
 
 As of spirits sweeping by ; 
 And presently the latch flew up. 
 
 And the door flew open wide ; 
 And a stranger strode within the hall. 
 
 With an air of martial pride. 
 
 He spoke : '' I join in your revelry. 
 
 Bold sons of the Bacchan rite ; 
 And I drink the toast you have drank before. 
 
 The pledge of yon dauntless knight. 
 Fill high — fill high — we drink to Life, 
 
 And we scorn the reaper Death ; 
 For he is a grim old gentleman. 
 
 And he wars but with his breath. 
 
394 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 He's a noble soul, that champion knight, 
 
 And he bears a martial brow ; 
 O, he'll pass the gates of Paradise, 
 
 To the regions of bliss below !" 
 This was too much for the Bacchan ; 
 
 Fire flashed from his angry eye ; 
 A muttered curse, and a vengeful oath— 
 
 " Intruder, thou shalt die !" 
 
 He struck — and the stranger's guise fell off. 
 
 And a phantom form stood there — 
 A grinning, and ghastly, and horrible thing, 
 
 With rotten and mildewed hair ! 
 And they struggled awhile, till the stranger blew 
 
 A blast of his withering breath ; 
 And the Bacchanal fell at the phantom's feet, 
 
 And his conqueror was — Death. 
 
 " I would not live always.^'' — B. B. Thatcher. 
 
 Earth is the spirit's rayless cell ; 
 But then, as a bird soars home to the shade 
 Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made, 
 
 In bonds no more to dwell ; — 
 
 So will its weary wing 
 Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done, 
 And its breath flow free, as a bird's in the sun, 
 
 And the soft, fresh gales of spring. 
 
 O, not more sweet the tears 
 Of the dewy eve on the violet shed, 
 Than the dews of age on the " hoary head," 
 
 When it enters the eve of years. 
 
 Nor dearer, mid the foam 
 Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar, 
 1:^ a breath of balm from the unseen shore. 
 
 To him that weeps for home. 
 
CHEEVERS POETS OF AMERICA. 305 
 
 WingSj like a dove, to fly ! — 
 The spirit is faint with its feverish strife ; — 
 0, for its home in the upper Life ! 
 
 When, when will Death draw nigh ! 
 
 The JDisimbodied Spirit, — Peabody. 
 
 O SACRED star of evening, tell 
 
 In what unseen, celestial sphere, 
 Those spirits of the perfect dwell, 
 
 Too pure to rest in sadness here. 
 
 Roam they the crystal fields of light, * 
 
 O'er paths by holy angels trod, 
 Their robes with heavenly lustre bright. 
 
 Their home, the Paradise of God ? 
 
 Soul of the just! and canst thou soar 
 Amidst those radiant spheres sublime, 
 
 Where countless hosts of heaven adore, 
 Beyond the bounds of space or time ? — 
 
 And canst thou join the sacred choir. 
 
 Through heaven's high dome the song to raise. 
 Where seraphs strike the golden lyre 
 
 In everduring notes of praise ? 
 
 Oh ! who would heed the chilling blast. 
 That blows o'er time's eventful sea. 
 
 If bid to hail, its perils past. 
 The bright wave of eternity ! 
 
 And who the sorrows would not bear 
 
 Of such a transient world as this, 
 When hope displays, beyond its care, 
 
 So bright an entrance into bliss ! 
 
396 
 
 Lines on hearing of the Death of Garafilia Mohalbi,- 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Sweet bird of Ipsera ! that fled 
 
 From tyrants o'er the tossing sea. 
 And on the winds of freedom shed 
 
 Thy wildly classic melody, — 
 Love at thy tender warbling woke, 
 
 A foreign land was home to thee. 
 And stranger voices fondly spoke 
 
 The welcome of paternity. 
 
 Why was thy tarrying here so brief. 
 
 Thou sheltered in affection's breast ? 
 Here were no woes to wake thy grief. 
 
 Nor dangers to corrode thy rest. 
 Ah ! thou had'st heard of that blessed clime 
 
 Where everlasting glories beam : — 
 Perchance its groves and skies sublime 
 
 Had burst upon thy raptured dream. 
 
 Thy bright wing spread. Should aught detain 
 
 The prisoner in a cage of clay, 
 When, echoing from the heavenly plain. 
 
 Congenial tones forbid delay ? 
 No : where no archer's shaft can fly. 
 
 No winter check the tuneful sphere. 
 Rise, wanderer, to thy native sky, 
 
 And warble in a Savior's ear. 
 
 Crossing the Ford, — 0. W. H. 
 
 Clouds, forests, hills, and waters ! — and they sleep 
 As if a spirit pressed their pulses down. 
 
 From the calm bosom of the waveless deep 
 Up to the mountain with its sunlit crown. 
 
 Still as the moss-grown cities of the dead. 
 
 Save the dull plashing of the horse's tread. 
 
 And who are they that stir the slumbering stream ? 
 Nay, curious reader ; I can only say 
 
CHEEVEr's poets of AMERICA. 397 
 
 That, to my eyes of ignorance, they seem 
 
 Like honest rustics on the homeward way ; 
 There is a village ; doubtless thence they came ; 
 There was a christening ; and they have a name. 
 
 They are to us, like many a living form. 
 
 The image of a moment ; and they pass 
 Like the last cloud that vanished on the storm. 
 
 Like the last shape upon the faithless glass ; 
 By lake, or stream, by valley, field, or hill. 
 They must have lived ; perchance are living still. 
 
 J ymn of the Cherokee Indian. — 1. McLellaw", Jujy. 
 
 They waste us ; ay, like April snow 
 
 In the warm noon, we shrink away ; 
 And fast they follow, as we go, 
 
 Towards the setting day, 
 Till they shall fill the land, and we 
 Are driven into the western sea. 
 
 Bryant, 
 
 Like the shadows in the stream, 
 ^ Like the evanescent gleam 
 Of the twilight's failing blaze. 
 Like the fleeting years and days. 
 Like all things that soon decay. 
 Pass the Indian tribes away. 
 
 Indian son, and Indian sire ! 
 Lo ! the embers of yoxxv fire. 
 On the wigwam hearth, burn low, 
 Never to revive its glow ; 
 And the Indian's heart is ailing. 
 And the Indian's blood is failing. 
 
 Now the hunter's bow's unbent. 
 And his arrows all are spent ! 
 Like a very little child 
 Is the red man of the wild ; 
 To his day there'll dawn no morrow ; 
 Therefore is he full of sorrow. 
 34 
 
398 cheever's poets of America. 
 
 From his hills the stag is fled. 
 And the fallow-deer are dead. 
 And the wild beasts of the chase 
 Are a lost and perished race. 
 And the birds have left the mountain, 
 And the fishes, the clear fountain. 
 
 Indian woman, to thy breast 
 Closer let thy babe be pressed. 
 For thy garb is thin and old. 
 And the winter wind is cold ; 
 On thy homeless head it dashes ; 
 Round thee the grim lightning flashes. 
 
 We, the rightful lords of yore. 
 Are the rightful lords no more ; 
 Like the silver mist we fail. 
 Like the red leaves in the gale, — 
 Fail like shadows, when the dawning 
 Waves the bright flag of the morning. 
 
 By the river's lonely marge. 
 Rotting is the Indian's barge ; 
 And his hut is ruined now, 
 On the rocky mountain brow ; 
 The fathers' bones are all neglected. 
 And the children's hearts dejected, * 
 
 Therefore, Indian people, flee 
 To the farthest western sea ; 
 Let us yield our pleasant land 
 To the stranger's stronger hand ; 
 Red men and their realms must sever ; 
 They forsake them, and forever ! 
 
 Lake Superior. — S. G. Goodrich. 
 
 " Father of lakes !" thy waters bend 
 Beyond the eagle's utmost view. 
 
 When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send 
 Back to the sky its world of blue. 
 
CHEEVER's poets op AMERICA. 399 
 
 Boundless and deep, the forests weave 
 
 Their twihght shade thy borders o'er. 
 And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave 
 
 Their rugged forms along thy shore. 
 
 Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, 
 
 With listening ear, in sadness broods ; 
 Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves. 
 
 Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. 
 
 Nor can the light canoes, that glide 
 
 Across thy breast like things of air, 
 Chase from thy lone and level tide 
 
 The spell of stillness reigning there. 
 
 Yet round this waste of wood and wave, 
 
 Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives. 
 That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, 
 
 To all a wild, strange aspect gives. 
 
 The thunder-riven oak, that flings 
 
 Its grisly arms athwart the sky, 
 A sudden, startling image brings 
 
 To the lone traveller's kindled eye. 
 
 The gnarled and braided boughs, that show 
 
 Their dim forms in the forest shade. 
 Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw 
 
 Fantastic horrors through the glade. 
 
 The very echoes round this shore 
 
 Have caught a strange and gibbering tone ; 
 
 For they have told the war-whoop o'er, 
 Till the wild chorus is their own. 
 
 Wave of the wilderness, adieu ! 
 
 Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods ! 
 Roll on, thou element of blue. 
 
 And fill these awful solitudes ! 
 
 Thou hast no tale to tell of man — 
 
 God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves — 
 
 Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan 
 Deems as a bubble all your waves ! 
 
400 cheever's poets op America. 
 
 Oriental Mysticism. — Leonard Woods. 
 
 The following passage is translated from a German version of the Dschaii- 
 har Odsat, a Persian poem of the thirteenth century, and is heie offered 
 as a specimen of the mystic writings of the East, — a single sprig hrought 
 to town from a distant and unfrequented garden. These writings are char- 
 acterized by wildness of fancy, a philosophy extremely abstruse, and espe- 
 cially by a deep spiritual life. They prove, as will be seen in the lines 
 which follow, that the human mind has strong religious instincts j which, 
 however, unless guided by a higher wisdom, are liable to great perver- 
 sion. — Extravagant as the conception of the passage here selected must 
 apj)ear to us, it has still its foundation in truth. That the ideas of 
 infinite and divine things, which slumber in the mind, are often violently 
 awakened by external objects, is what every one has experienced. Says 
 a modern poet, in prospect of " clear, placid Leman,*' 
 
 " It is a thing 
 Which warns me, by its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's ti'oubled waters for a purer spring." 
 
 And what is the story of Rudbari and Hassan, but an exhibition, a la mode 
 orientalcj of the same truth .'' 
 
 In ancient days, as the old stories run. 
 Strange hap befell a father and his son. 
 Rudbari was an old sea-faring man. 
 And loved the rough paths of the ocean ; 
 And Hassan was his child, — a boy as bright. 
 As the keen moon, gleaming in the vault of night. 
 Rose-red his cheek, Narcissus-like his eye, 
 And his form might well with the slender cypress vie. 
 Godly Rudbari was, and just and true, 
 And Hassan pure as a drop of early dew. — 
 Now, because Rudbari loved this only child, 
 He was feign to take him o'er the waters wild. 
 
 The ship is on the strand — friends, brothers, parents, there 
 Take the last leave with mingled tears and prayer. 
 The sailor calls, the fair breeze chides delay. 
 The sails are spread, and all are under way. 
 But when the ship, like a strong-shot arrow, flew. 
 And the well known shore was fading from the view, 
 Hassan spake, as he gazed upon the land, 
 Such mystic words as none could understand : — 
 '' On this troubled wave in vain we seek for rest. 
 Who builds his house on the sea, or his palace on its breast? 
 Let me but reach yon fixed and steadfast shore. 
 And the bounding wave shall never tempt me more." 
 Then Rudbari spake : — '^ And does my brave boy fear 
 The Ocean's face to see, and his thundering voice to hear .'' 
 
OHEEVEr's poets op AMERICA. 401 
 
 He will love, when home returned at last. 
 
 To tell, in his native cot, of dangers past." 
 
 Then Hassan said : " Think not thy brave boy fears 
 
 When he sees the Ocean's face, or his voice of thunder hears. 
 
 But on these waters I may not abide ; 
 
 Hold me not back ; I will not be denied." 
 
 Rudbari now wept o'er his wildered child : 
 
 " What mean these looks, and words so strangely wild ? 
 
 Dearer, my boy, to me than all the gain 
 
 That I've earned from the bounteous bosom of the main! 
 
 Nor heaven, nor earth, could yield one joy to me. 
 
 Could I not, Hassan, share that joy with thee." 
 
 But Hassan soon, in his wandering words, betrayed 
 
 The cause of the mystic air that round him played : 
 
 " Soon as I saw these deep, wide waters roll, 
 
 A light from the Infinite broke in upon my soul!" 
 
 " Thy words, my child, but ill become thine age, 
 
 And would better suit the mouth of some star-gazing sage." 
 
 " Thy words, my father, cannot turn away 
 
 Mine eye, now fixed on that supernal day." 
 
 *' Dost thou not, Hassan, lay these dreams aside, 
 
 I'll plunge thee headlong in this whelming tide." 
 
 " Do this, Rudbari, only not in ire, 
 
 'Tis all I ask, and all I can desire. 
 
 For on the bosom of this rolling flood. 
 
 Slumbers an awful mystery of Good ; 
 
 And he may solve it, who will self expunge. 
 
 And in the depths of boundless being plunge.' " 
 
 He spake, and plunged, and as quickly sunk beneath 
 As the flying snow-flake melts on a summer heath. 
 A moment Rudbari stood, as fixedly bound 
 As the pearl is by the shell that clasps it round. 
 Then he followed his Hassan with a frantic leap. 
 And they slumber both on the bottom of the deep ! 
 
 To a Sister about to embark on a Missionary Enterprise.- 
 B. B. Thatcher. 
 
 O SISTER ! sister! hath the memory 
 Of other years no power upon thy soul, 
 That thus, with tearless eye, thou leavest me — 
 And an unfaltering voice — to come no more ? 
 34* 
 
402 
 
 Hast thou forgot, friend of my better days, 
 
 Hast thou forgot the early, innocent joys 
 
 Of our remotest childhood ; when our lives 
 
 WeVe linked in one, and our young hearts bloomed out 
 
 Like violet-bells upon the self-same stem. 
 
 Pouring the dewy odors of life's spring 
 
 Into each other's bosom — all the bright 
 
 And sorrowless thoughts of a confiding love. 
 
 And intermingled vows, and blossoming hopes 
 
 Of future good, and infant dreams of bliss. 
 
 Budding and breathing sunnily about them. 
 
 As crimson-spotted cups, in spring time, hang 
 
 On all the delicate fibres of the vine ? 
 
 And where, oh ! where are the unnumbered vows 
 We made, my sister, at the twilight fall, 
 A thousand times, and the still starry hours 
 Of the dew-glistering eve — in many a walk 
 By the green borders of our native stream — 
 And in the chequered shade of these old oaks. 
 The moonlight silvering o'er each mossy trunk, 
 And every bough, as an Eolian harp. 
 Full of the solemn chant of the low breeze ? 
 Thou hast forgotten this — and standest here. 
 Thy hand in mine, and hearest, even now. 
 The rustling wood, the stir of falling leaves. 
 And — hark ! — the far off murmur of the brook ! 
 
 Nay, do not weep, my sister ! — do not speak — 
 Now know I, by the tone, and by the eye 
 Of tenderness, with many tears bedimmed, 
 Thou hast remembered all. Thou measurest well 
 The work that is before thee, and the joys 
 That are behind. Now, be the past forgot — 
 The youthful love, the hearth-light and the home, 
 Song, dance, and story, and the vows — the vows 
 That we would change not, part not unto death — 
 Yea, all the spirits of departed bliss. 
 That even now, like spirits of the dead, 
 Seen dimly in the living mourner's dreams. 
 Are trilling, ever and anon, the notes 
 Long loved of old — oh ! hear them, heed them not. 
 Press on ! for, like the fairies of the talc, 
 That mocked, unseen, the tempted traveller, 
 With power alone o'er those who gave them ear, 
 
CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 403 
 
 They would hut turn thee from a high resolve. 
 
 Then look not hack ! oh ! triumph in the strength 
 
 Of an exalted purpose ! Eagle-like, 
 
 Press sunward on. Thou shalt not be alone. 
 
 Have but an eye on Grod, as surely God 
 
 Will have an eye on thee — press on! press on I 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, — Sprague. 
 
 They come — that coming who shall tell ? 
 
 The eye may weep, the heart may swell. 
 
 But the poor tongue in vain essays 
 
 A fitting note for them to raise. 
 
 We hear the after-shout that rings 
 
 For them who smote the power of kings; 
 
 The swelling triumph all would share ; 
 
 But who the dark defeat would dare. 
 
 And boldly meet the wrath and wo. 
 
 That wait the unsuccessful blow ? 
 
 It were an envied fate, we deem, 
 
 To live a land's recorded theme. 
 When we are in the tomb. 
 
 We, too, might yield the joys of home. 
 
 And waves of winter darkness roam. 
 And tread a shore of bloom, 
 
 Knew we those waves, through coming time, 
 
 Should roll our names to every clime ; 
 
 Felt we that millions on that shore 
 
 Should stand, our memory to adore. 
 
 But no glad vision burst in light 
 
 Upon the pilgrims' aching sight ; 
 
 Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; 
 
 Deep shadows veiled the way they held ; 
 The yell of vengeance was the trump of fame ; 
 Their monument, a grave without a name. 
 
 Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, 
 
 On yonder ice-bound rock, 
 Stern and resolved, that faithful band, 
 
 To meet fate's rudest shock. 
 Though anguish rends the father's breast, 
 For them, his dearest and his best. 
 
404 cheever's poets op America. 
 
 With him the waste who trod — 
 Though tears that freeze, the mother sheds 
 Upon her children's houseless heads — 
 
 The Christian turns to God ! 
 
 In grateful adoration now. 
 
 Upon the barren sands they bow. 
 
 What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer 
 
 As bursts in desolation there ! 
 
 What arm of strength e'er wrought such power 
 
 As waits to crown that feeble hour ! 
 There into life an infant empire springs ! 
 
 There falls the iron from the soul ; 
 
 There Liberty's young accents roll 
 Up to the King of kings ! 
 
 To fair creation's farthest bound. 
 
 That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; 
 
 The dreaming nations shall awake, 
 And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake 
 Pontiff and prince, your sway 
 Must crumble from that day ; 
 
 Before the loftier throne of Heaven, 
 
 The hand is raised, the pledge is given, 
 One monarch to obey, one creed to own — 
 That monarch, God, that creed, his word alone. 
 
 Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
 Of days and deeds to reverence dear, 
 A zeal like this what pious legends tell ! 
 
 On kingdoms built 
 
 In blood and guilt. 
 The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell ; 
 But what exploits with theirs shall page. 
 
 Who rose to bless their kind. 
 Who left their nation and their age, 
 
 Man's spirit to unbind ! 
 
 Who boundless seas passed o'er. 
 And boldly met, in every path. 
 Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, 
 
 To dedicate a shore. 
 Where Piety's meek train might breathe their vow. 
 And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; 
 Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come. 
 And set up there an everlasting home ! 
 
405 
 
 O, many a time it hath heen told. 
 The story of those men of old : 
 For this fair Poetry hath wreathed 
 
 Her sweetest, purest flower ; 
 For this proud Eloquence hath hreathed 
 
 His strain of loftiest power ; 
 Devotion, too, hath lingered round 
 Each spot of consecrated ground, 
 
 And hill and valley blessed ; 
 There, where our banished fathers strayed. 
 There, where they loved, and wept, and prayed, 
 
 There, where their ashes rest. 
 
 And never may they rest unsung. 
 While Liberty can find a tongue. 
 Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them, 
 More deathless than the diadem. 
 
 Who to life's noblest end. 
 
 Gave up life's noblest powers, 
 And bade the legacy descend, 
 
 Down, down to us and ours. 
 
'64 5 
 
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