University of Virginia Library

3. VOL. III.

RICHARD H. DANA

THE BUCCANEER.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

[Pleasures of Childhood]

“A thousand wildering reveries led astray
My better reason, and my unguarded soul
Danced like a feather on the turbid sea
Of its own wild and freakish phantasies.
At times, the historic page would catch my eye,
And rivet down my thoughts on ancient times,
And mix them with the demigods of old.
[OMITTED] How I loved
To ascend the pyramids, and in their womb
Gaze on the royal cenotaph, to sit
Beneath thy ruin'd palaces and fanes,
Balbec or princely Tadmor, though the one
Lurk like a hermit in the lonely vales
Of Lebanon, and the waste wilderness
Embrace the other. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED] Along the stream,
That flow'd in summer's mildness o'er its bed
Of rounded pebbles, with its scanty wave
Encircling many an islet, and its banks
In bays and havens scooping, I would stray,
And dreaming, rear an empire on its shores.
Where cities rose, and palaces and towers
Caught the first light of morning, there the fleet
Lent all its snowy canvas to the wind,
And bore with awful front against the foe.
[OMITTED]
There many a childish hour was spent; the world
That moved and fretted round me, had no power
To draw me from my musings, but the dream
Enthrall'd me till it seem'd reality;
And when I woke, I wonder'd that a brook
Was babbling by, and a few rods of soil,
Cover'd with scanty herbs, the arena where
Cities and empires, fleets and armies rose.”

NIGHT WATCHING.

She sat beside her lover, and her hand
Rested upon his clay-cold forehead. Death
Was calmly stealing o'er him, and his life
Went out by silent flickerings, when his eye
Woke up from its dim lethargy, and cast
Bright looks of fondness on her. He was weak,
Too weak to utter all his heart. His eye
Was now his only language, and it spake
How much he felt her kindness, and the love
That sat, when all had fled, beside him. Night
Was far upon its watches, and the voice
Of nature had no sound. The pure blue sky
Was fair and lovely, and the many stars
Look'd down in tranquil beauty on an earth
That smiled in sweetest summer. She look'd out
Through the raised window, and the sheeted bay
Lay in a quiet sleep below, and shone
With the pale beam of midnight—air was still,
And the white sail, that o'er the distant stream
Moved with so slow a pace, it seem'd at rest,
Fix'd in the glassy water, and with care
Shunn'd the dark den of pestilence, and stole
Fearfully from the tainted gale that breathed
Softly along the crisping wave—that sail
Hung loosely on its yard, and as it flapp'd,
Caught moving undulations from the light,
That silently came down, and gave the hills,
And spires, and walls, and roofs, a tint so pale,
Death seem'd on all the landscape—but so still,
Who would have thought that anything but peace
And beauty had a dwelling there! The world
Had gone, and life was not within those walls,
Only a few, who linger'd faintly on,
Waiting the moment of departure; or
Sat tending at their pillows, with a love
So strong it master'd fear—and they were few,
And she was one—and in a lonely house,
Far from all sight and sound of living thing,
She watched the couch of him she loved, and drew
Contagion from the lips that were to her
Still beautiful as roses, though so pale
They seem'd like a thin snow-curl. All was still,
And even so deeply hush'd, the low, faint breath
That trembling gasp'd away, came through the night
As a loud sound of awe. She pass'd her hand
Over those quivering lips, that ever grew
Paler and colder, as the only sign
To tell her life still linger'd—it went out!
And her heart sank within her, when the last
Weak sigh of life was over, and the room
Seem'd like a vaulted sepulchre, so lone
She dared not look around: and the light wind,
That play'd among the leaves and flowers that grew
Still freshly at her window, and waved back
The curtain with a rustling sound, to her,
In her intense abstraction, seem'd the voice
Of a departed spirit. Then she heard,
At least in fancy heard, a whisper breathe
Close at her ear, and tell her all was done,
And her fond loves were ended. She had watch'd
Until her love grew manly, and she check'd
The tears that came to flow, and nerved her heart
To the last solemn duty. With a hand
That trembled not, she closed the fallen lid,
And press'd the lips, and gave them one long kiss—
Then decently spread over all a shroud;
And sitting with a look of lingering love
Intense in tearless passion, rose at length,
And pressing both her hands upon her brow,
Gave loose to all her gushing grief in showers,
Which, as a fountain seal'd till it had swell'd
To its last fulness, now gave way and flow'd
In a deep stream of sorrow. She grew calm,
And parting back the curtains, look'd abroad
Upon the moonlight loveliness, all sunk
In one unbroken silence, save the moan
From the lone room of death, or the dull sound
Of the slow-moving hearse. The homes of men
Were now all desolate, and darkness there,
And solitude and silence took their seat
In the deserted streets, as if the wing
Of a destroying angel had gone by,
And blasted all existence, and had changed
The gay, the busy, and the crowded mart
To one cold, speechless city of the dead.

THE DESERTED WIFE.

He comes not—I have watch'd the moon go down,
But yet he comes not—Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town.
Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep;
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.
O! how I love a mother's watch to keep,
Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep.
I had a husband once, who loved me—now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,
As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;
But yet I cannot hate—O! there were hours,
When I could hang for ever on his eye,
And time who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then—he loved me too—My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile,
Caresses which his babe and mine should share;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness—and should sickness come, and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then
I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been.

THE CORAL GROVE.

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 waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;
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.

TO SENECA LAKE.

CONSUMPTION.

THE SERENADE.

THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS.

SPRING.

THE DESOLATE CITY.

I had a vision.—
A city before me, desolate,
And yet not all decay'd. A summer sun
Shone on it from a most etherial sky,
And the soft winds threw o'er it such a balm,
One would have thought it was a sepulchre,
And this the incense offer'd to the manes
Of the departed.
In the light it lay
Peacefully, as if all its thousands took
Their afternoon's repose, and soon would wake
To the loud joy of evening. There it lay,
A city of magnificent palaces,
And churches, towering more like things of heaven,
The glorious fabrics, fancy builds in clouds,
And shapes on loftiest mountains—bright their domes
Threw back the living ray, and proudly stood
Many a statue, looking like the forms
Of spirits hovering in mid air. Tall trees,
Cypress and plane, waved over many a hill
Cumber'd with ancient ruins—broken arches,
And tottering columns—vaults, where never came
The blessed beam of day, but only lamps
Shedding a funeral light, were kindled there,
And gave to the bright frescoes on the walls,
And the pale statues in their far recesses,
A dim religious awe. Rudely they lay,
Scarce marking out to the inquisitive eye
Their earliest outline. But as desolate
Slumber'd the newer city, though its walls
Were yet unbroken, and its towering domes
Had never stoop'd to ruin. All was still;
Hardly the faintest sound of living thing
Moved through the mighty solitude—and yet
All wore the face of beauty. Not a cloud
Hung in the lofty sky, that seem'd to rise
In twofold majesty, so bright and pure,
It seem'd indeed a crystaline sphere—and there
The sun rode onward in his conquering march
Serenely glorious. From the mountain heights
Tinged with the blue of heaven, to the wide sea
Glass'd with as pure a blue, one desolate plain
Spread out, and over it the fairest sky
Bent round and bless'd it. Life was teeming there
In all its lower forms, a wilderness
Of rank luxuriance; flowers, and purpling vines
Matted with deepest foliage, hid the ruins,
And gave the semblance of a tangled wood
To piles, that once were loudly eloquent
With the glad cry of thousands. There were gardens
Round stateliest villas, full of graceful statues,
And temples rear'd to woodland deities;
And they were overcrowded with the excess
Of beauty. All that most is coveted
Beneath a colder sky, grew wantonly
And richly there. Myrtles and citrons fill'd
The air with fragrance. From the tufted elm,
Bent with its own too massy foliage, hung
Clusters of sunny grapes in frosted purple,
Drinking in spirit from the glowing air,
And dropping generous dews. The very wind
Seem'd there a lover, and his easy wings
Fann'd the gay bowers, as if in fond delay
He bent o'er loveliest things, too beautiful
Ever to know decay. The silent air
Floating as softly as a cloud of roses,
Dropp'd from Idalia in a dewy shower,—
The air itself seem'd like the breath of heaven
Filling the groves of Eden. Yet these walls
Are desolate—not a trace of living man
Is found amid these glorious works of man,
And nature's fairer glories. Why should he
Be absent from the festival of life,
The holiday of nature? Why not come
To add to the sweet sounds of winds and waters—
Of winds uttering Æolian melodies
To the bright, listening flowers, and waters falling
Most musical from marble fountains wreathed
With clustering ivy, like a poet's brow—
Why comes he not to add his higher strains,
And be the interpreter of lower things,
In intellectual worship, at the throne
Of the Beneficent Power, that gave to them
Their pride and beauty?—“In these palaces,
These awful temples, these religious caves,
These hoary ruins, and these twilight groves
Teeming with life and love,—a secret plague
Dwells, and the unwary foot, that ventures here,
Returns not.—Fly! To linger here is death.”

WILLIAM E. GALLAUDET

LINES TO THE WESTERN MUMMY.

EDWARD EVERETT.

DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH,

Who 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.

JOHN EVERETT

SAINT PAUL'S CHURCH, BOSTON.

Beautiful, pure and simple, there thou stand'st,
Fit temple for the pure and only God,
Smiling in cold severity. The heart
That views thee, fills with the bright memory
Of other days; the sunny lands of song,
In their sad, lovely silence of decay,
Rise up to the remembrance in thy sight.
The thoughts of other days, when Plato stood
At Sunium: when the imperial one, herself,
Athena, visited the Parthenon:
Or of the later age, when the proud Roman,
Within the vast Pantheon's walls, beheld
One stream of purest lustre from above,
Lighting the idol-habited Rotund.
Not unacceptable was their ignorant worship
To him they served in darkness, but to thee
A nobler precept than Colonna heard,
A purer light than the Pantheon saw
Is given. Thy cherub songs, and wreathed flowers,
Incense and sacrifice and gifts devote,
Are prayer and penitence, the tearful eye,
The innocent life, the broken, contrite heart.
Simple in elegance, no mounting spire,
Tower, minaret, nor gaily burnish'd dome
Mars thy severe proportions. No device
Of polish'd moulding, sculptured tracery,
Not e'en the soft acanthine folds are there,
Like the divine magnificence of virtue,
Whose ornament would not obscure its worth.
Now, while yon moonbeam gently steals along
The columns of that simple peristyle,
Silvering the massive shaft and plain volute
Of yon extremest pillar, let me gaze
With calm delight insatiate. There is given
A moral feeling to a beautiful scene
Of glorious art with nature join'd, like this,—
And memory crown'd with moonlight roses, lives
To hover o'er the storied names of old;
Heroes and sages deathless—the pure heart
Of him whose lip with sweetest nectar dew'd,
Breathed the great lesson of his godlike teacher —
Martyr of freedom—him of Syracuse—
The glorious fratricide , the immortal Theban ,
And their bright heritors of guiltless suffering,
Intrepid Algernon, and youthful Russell,—
Till the remembrance softens. Not in vain,
Oh! not in vain did the Athenians
Ally the arts to freedom, and invite
Blushing Pictura and her marble sister
Up the stern heights of the Acropolis.
So be it with our country. May she stand
Like thee, modell'd on wisdom of the past,
Yet with the lovely gracefulness of youth.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

TO FANNI IN A BALL DRESS.

THOMAS O. FOLSOM

CLOUDS.

WAR SONG.

JONATHAN M. SCOTT

[Land of the East, whose fertile vales unfold]

GEORGE BANCROFT

THE FAIRY OF THE WENGERN-ALP.

JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER

A CONTRASTED PICTURE.

THE LAMENT.

FADED HOURS.

MARY A. BROOKS.

ZOPHIEL.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY

ITALY.

A HEALTH.

SONG.

A PICTURE SONG.

JOHN NEAL

THE EAGLE.

There's a fierce gray bird—with a sharpen'd beak;
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek:
That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow,
On the precipice-top—in perpetual snow—
Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow—
That sits—where the air is shrill and bleak,
On the splinter'd point of a shiver'd peak—
Where the weeds lie close—and the grass sings sharp,
To a comfortless tune—like a wintry harp—
Bald-headed and stripp'd!—like a vulture torn
In wind and strife!—with her feathers worn,
And ruffled and stain'd—while scattering—bright,
Round her serpent-neck—that is writhing, bare—
Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair!—
Like the crest of a warrior thinn'd in the fight,
And shorn—and bristling—see her! where
She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air!
With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding—
And kindling eye—as if her prey
Had—suddenly—been snatch'd away—
While she was tearing it, and feeding!
A Bird that is first to worship the sun,
When he gallops in flame—'t ill the cloud tides run
In billows of fire—as his course is done:
Above where the fountain is gushing in light;
Above where the torrent is forth in its might—
Like an imprison'd blaze that is bursting from night!
Or a lion that springs—with a roar—from his lair!
Bounding off—all in foam—from the echoing height—
Like a rank of young war-horses—terribly bright,
Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air!
The earth shaking under them—trumpets on high—
And banners unfurling away in the sky—
With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair
Above where the silvery flashing is seen—
The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green,
And soft, spongy moss, where the fairies have been,
Bending lovely and bright in the young Morning's eye
Like ribands of flame—or the bow of the sky:
Above that dark torrent—above the bright stream—
The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam,
Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays—
The voice may be heard—of the thunderer's bird,
Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream,
As she mounts to his throne, and unfolds in his beam;
While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze;
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:
Proud bird of the cliff! where the barren-yew springs—
Where the sunshine stays—and the wind-harp sings,
Where the heralds of battle sit—pluming their wings—
A scream! she 's awake!—over hill-top and flood,
A crimson light runs!—like the gushing of blood—
Over valley and rock!—over mountain and wood
That bird is abroad—in the van of her brood!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED] The Bird that laves
Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush—
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:
Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipp'd falcon—when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
Or sleeps upon the wing—amid the ray
Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march:
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch.
Soars wheeling through the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play.

BATTLE OF NIAGARA.

THE SOLDIER'S VISIT TO HIS FAMILY.

[OMITTED]

GOLDAU.

THE BIRTH OF A POET.

On a blue summer night,
While the stars were asleep,
Like gems of the deep,
In their own drowsy light;
While the newly mown hay
On the green earth lay,
And all that came near it went scented away;
From a lone woody place,
There looked out a face,
With large blue eyes,
Like the wet warm skies,
Brimful of water and light;
A profusion of hair
Flashing out on the air,
And a forehead alarmingly bright:
'T was the head of a poet! He grew
As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow,
In the dropping of natural dew,
Unheeded—alone—
Till his heart had blown—
As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow;
Till every thought wore a changeable stain
Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:
A proud and passionate boy was he,
Like all the children of Poesy;
With a haughty look and a haughty tread,
And something awful about his head;
With wonderful eyes
Full of wo and surprise,
Like the eyes of them that can see the dead
Looking about,
For a moment or two, he stood
On the shore of the mighty wood;
Then ventured out,
With a bounding step and a joyful shout,
The brave sky bending o'er him!
The broad sea all before him!

AMBITION.

THE SLEEPER.

WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF BYRON.

INCANTATION.

[OMITTED]

ODE TO PEACE.

JOSEPH HAZARD

THE FASHIONABLE RAKE.

The town Arcadia situate near the waves,
Whose yellow sands a stream of commerce laves,
Presented to the pleased spectator's view,
United, rural scene and city too.
On a large square its architecture stood,
While down each side roll'd a broad silver flood;
Ships of all sizes here safe in harbor lay,
And parti-color'd pendants deck the bay.
The streets were broad and even length'ning drawn,
And in its centre smiled a spacious lawn.
Chinese precinct'ring work enclosed its ground,
And trees of pride of India bloom'd around,
Two outward rows at equal distance grew,
Form'd shade and walk of use and beauty too.
Their flowers a native extra worth assume,
And pride themselves in long continued bloom;
These too again in inner walks are seen
With balm of Gilead interplaced between.
Through the whole lawn now pride of India shows,
And here an aromatic balm of Gilead grows.
The fence was lined throughout its ample square,
And different shrubbery different colors wear.
Here stands the laurel crown'd in generous bloom,
Here breathes the honeysuckle's sweet perfume.
The pale white rose attracts the passing eye,
And here the damask scented richer dye,
The inner walks with tints continued glow,
As some decline new opening beauties flow.
[OMITTED] Around the lawn are seen,
Four summer houses which adorn the green,
Whose opening diamond work invites the air,
And vine of grapes and jessamines livery wear,
Luxuriant branches o'er their archings run,
And loveliest verdure shades the unwelcome sun.

NATHANIEL H. CARTER

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.

PAINS OF THE IMAGINATION.

MOSES Y. SCOTT

POCAHONTAS.

HENRY WARE, JR.

THE VISION OF LIBERTY.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

JOHN E. HALL

REFLECTIONS OF A RECLUSE.

Days of my youth, ah, whither have ye fled!
Moments of innocence, of health and joy,
Unruffled by the thoughts of worldly care,
With throbs of sad delight, how oft I sigh,
When Recollection paints thy scenes anew,
My steps ye led to halls where minstrels struck
The breathing lyre, to sing of Beauty's charms,
Or chivalry's heroic deeds.
Not then, I pour'd
The melancholy song of memory;
No solitary tale my idle hours could tell
Of sorrow; Hope departed; or Despair.
My dulcet harp was strung to Rapture's notes;
Its jocund strings re-echoed themes of love,
Or careless caroll'd what young joys could teach.
When twilight came, I sought the mountain's brow,
To mark her solemn grandeur hastening near.
Then, ah! then, I woo'd the charms of silence,
Far from the pageant show of restless man,
The pomp of pride, the sneer of haughtiness:
Malice, with quivering lip, and knawing care:
Envy, that blasts the buds whose perfumed dyes
She fain would equal: green-eyed Jealousy:
And spectres of despair, whom memory brings
To haunt the slumbering dreams of guilty men,
Of these, yet ignorant and their powers unfelt,
I rioted in youth's gay harvest,
And quaff'd the cup of roseate health and joy.
But I am changed now!
If e'er I smile, 't is as the flower of spring,
Whose tincture blooms through drops of morning dew!
And when the once loved charms of solitude
I woo, amid the valley's silence,
Or on the high hill top, where thunders loud
Proclaim to man the majesty of God,
'T is not to bathe in dreams of shadowy bliss,
Or fondly dwell on scenes of wild romance:
To weave a sonnet for my mistress' brow,
Or con an artless song to soothe her ear!
No cheerful thoughts like these entice my feet
Through tangled dells or o'er the mountain's height.
Hopeless and sad in gloomy nooks retired,
I love to watch the slow revolving moon,
And muse on visions fled of treacherous love,
Of joys departed, and deceitful hopes:
Me now, no more the balmy breeze of spring,
Nor summer's streamlets murm'ring through the grove,
Nor changeful winds that yellow autumn brings,
Can yield delight—stern winter's joyless gloom
Suits with my bosom's cold and cheerless state!
Life's purple tide no more salubrious flows;
The vernal glow of hope is fled: and joy,
Shall glad no more my once contented cot:
False, fickle woman drove her smiles away.
All hail, December's chilling skies!
Come darken more the anguish of my soul.
Bring with thy gloomy hours despair's sad shades—
Bring all the load that misery prepares,
To gall us through the miry road of life:
Bring silent sorrow with her bitter brow:
Bring lovely woman, with her syren smile,
Like transient meteor to seduce our steps:
Bring care, with self-consuming wants oppress'd,
And doubt, to lead us from our onward path,
And sharp solicitudes to vex our nights:
Let war, too, throw her lurid glare around,
And turn the savage from his hunter toils,
To raise the tomahawk and bend the bow.
In her funereal train attendant,
Let famine stalk, and, with insatiate hand,
Fell plunder, knowing neither friend nor foe,
And violence, to stain the soldier's name.
Let bloody slaughter loose, to dye with gore
Our soil, and teach the world what evils wait
On madden'd counsels and ambitious schemes.
Accursed schemes! that saw no wrath denounced
On souls remorseless shedding human blood.
Detested plans! which bade the cymbals strike,
Roused the loud clarion, and made the cannon roar,
To drown the Saviour's voice proclaiming loud,
To God on high be glory given: on earth,
Let peace among mankind for ever reign.

CARLOS WILCOX

THE RELIGION OF TASTE.

SAMUEL B. BEACH

ESCALALA.

The war-whoop's boding sound
Rose fearfully and shrill:
By echo's thousand voices, round,
Wide wafted over dale and hill,
It volley'd through the distant plain,
That peal'd its thunders back again.
The wolf aroused him from his den,
Far northward, in the wildest glen
On Simcoe's dreary shore;
And, high o'er Alleghany's peak,
The vulture heard, and trimm'd his beak
To feast on human gore.
The runners, by their Chief's command,
The war-club, tinged with fearful red,
Rear'd high in air, a signal dread,
And waved it through the land.
It glanced amid the pathless wood
That shadow'd Susquehannah's flood;
And down Ontario's wilds, afar,
Told proudly of the coming war:
On dark Missouri's turbid stream
The countless tribes beheld it gleam,
And blithely, for the field array'd,
Obedience to its summons paid.
By its own gallant chieftains led on to the fight,
Each tribe musters proudly its numbers and might,
And—like mountain streams rushing to mingle their foam
In the dell's troubled bosom—all darkly they come;
The line is forming, broad and bright,
Like meteors on the brow of night,
As to the wind their light folds stream,
Standards and banners o'er it gleam;
And plumes and shields and helmets, glancing
From mail-clad chiefs in hurried motion,
Rise, sink and glow, like bubbles dancing
Upon the storm-vex'd face of ocean.
In front, and facing to the fosse,
O'er which the coming foe must cross—
Their left arms bare, and round the waist
Their quivers, stored with arrows, braced,
Ready of eye and firm of hand,
The light and active archers stand;
Each with his bow of ample length,
Well proved for vigor and for strength,
And cloth-yard shafts—that to the heart
May pierce, when from the string they part.
Supporting these—with rearward sweep,
In darkening columns, broad and deep—
Fast to their posts wheel silently
The close-rank'd veteran infantry,
The sinews of the host—who bear
The tug and burden of the war,
When man to man his might opposes
In long and fierce and doubtful strife,
And one or both must part with life
Before the awful contest closes.
Upon the wings form, prompt and free,
The light and heavy cavalry;
And the snort and the neigh of each bounding steed,
As his rider is curbing his headlong speed,
And the foam on the bit which he angrily champs,
And the short, hollow moan of the ground, as he stamps
And spurns it impatiently—tell to the eye
And the ear, he is conscious the battle is nigh;
And pants for the moment when, loose from the rein,
He shall rush on the flying and trample the slain.
[OMITTED]

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

THE AGES.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, unto the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,—
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd 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 for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' 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-ribb'd 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 meadows green; and pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.—
So shalt thou rest—and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living—and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,—
Shall one by one be gather'd 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 sustain'd 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.

TO A WATERFOWL.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

AN INDIAN STORY.

HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR.

SONG OF THE STARS.

AUTUMN WOODS.

THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

SAMUEL WEBBER

LOGAN.

LEVI FRISBIE

MORNING HYMN.

EVENING HYMN.

DREAM. TO ***

MRS LITTLE

THANKSGIVING.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

[There have been loftier themes than his]

“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 his are there;
And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.”

ALNWICK CASTLE.

Home of the Percys' high-born race,
Home of their beautiful and brave,
Alike their birth and burial place,
Their cradle, and their grave!
Still sternly o'er the Castle gate
Their house's Lion stands in state,
As in his proud departed hours;
And warriors frown in stone on high,
And feudal banners “flout the sky”
Above his princely towers.
A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds
Through this romantic scene
As silently and sweetly still,
As when, at evening, on that hill,
While summer's wind blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katharine was a happy bride,
A thousand years ago.
Gaze on the Abbey's ruin'd pile:
Does not the succoring Ivy, keeping
Her watch around it, seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping?
One solitary turret gray
Still tells, in melancholy glory,
The legend of the Cheviot day,
The Percys' proudest border story.
That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome,
The light step of the soldier's march,
The music of the trump and drum;
And babe and sire, the old, the young,
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song,
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long,
Welcomed her warrior home.
Wild roses by the Abbey towers
Are gay in their young bud and bloom:
They were born of a race of funeral flowers
That garlanded, in long-gone hours,
A Templar's knightly tomb.
He died, the sword in his mailed hand,
On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land,
Where the Cross was damp'd with his dying breath:
When blood ran free as festal wine,
And the sainted air of Palestine
Was thick with the darts of death.
Wise with the lore of centuries,
What tales, if there be “tongues in trees,”
Those giant oaks could tell,
Of beings born and buried here;
Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,
The welcome and farewell,
Since on their boughs the startled bird
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard
The Norman's curfew bell.
I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high, heroic name,
From him who once his standard set
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,
Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons;
To him who, when a younger son,
Fought for King George at Lexington,
A Major of Dragoons.
[OMITTED]
That last half stanza—it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup;
The light that o'er my eye-beam flash'd,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world—is gone;
And Alnwick's but a market town,
And this, alas! its market day,
And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scots;
Men in the coal and cattle line,
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,
So dazzling to the dreaming boy:
Ours are the days of fact, not fable;
Of Knights, but not of the Round Table;
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy:
'T is what “our President,” Monroe,
Has call'd “the era of good feeling:”
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be tax'd, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,
And leave off cattle stealing;
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglas in red herrings;
And noble name, and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild, or the Barings.
The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come: today the turban'd Turk,
(Sleep, Richard, of the lion heart!
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start,)
Is England's friend and fast ally;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,
And on the Cross and altar stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And hears the Christian maiden shriek,
And sees the Christian father die;
And not a sabre blow is given
For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,
By Europe's craven chivalry.
You'll ask if yet the Percy lives
In the armed pomp of feudal state?
The present representatives
Of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate,”
Are some half dozen serving men,
In the drab coat of William Penn;
A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,
Spoke Nature's aristocracy;
And one, half groom half Seneschal,
Who bow'd me through court, bower, and hall,
From donjon keep to turret wall,
For ten-and-sixpence sterling.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tentt,
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 press'd that monarch's throne,—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.
An hour pass'd on—The Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke—to hear his sentries 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 arm'd foe expires;
Strike—for your altars and your fires;
Strike—for the green graves of your sires;
God—and your native land!”
They fought—like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible—the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought—
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought—
Come in her crowning hour—and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison'd men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
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.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb:
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings her birth-day bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch, and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of 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.

TO ****

LOVE.

CONNECTICUT.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

TWILIGHT.

WEEHAWKEN.

JOSEPH HUTTON

THE FIELD OF ORLEANS.

Farewell, awhile, domestic charms,
My home and country urge to arms,
'Mid danger's ranks, and war's alarms,
Which stern invaders spread;
And if, perchance, a fatal bourne
Forbid the soldier's safe return,
A nation's gratitude shall mourn,
And honor crown, the dead!
Farewell the gathering of the year;
Release the share and grasp the spear;
Droop their full ears the swelling grain,
The verdant grass, the luscious cane;
The harvest of another soil
Demands each nerve in manly toil;
Where blood alone may compost yield,
And brand and bayonet reap the field.
Delight not me the meed of fame,
The fleeting breath of proud acclaim,
Or warrior's wreath, or valiant name,—
Far other joys are mine;
I court not battle's awful brunt,
Nor honors, in the dareful front;
But, my dear country, call'st thou aid,
Behold, I grasp the freeman's blade,
And be my service thine!
[OMITTED]
And nearer now the foemen drew,
They press thy borders, Bienvenu,
Stern as the angry winds that blew
Across thy startled bed!
And dark and dismal was the night,
When first they struck the deep'ning fight;
Save when anon, a mournful star,
Streamed feebly from its sphere afar:
The troops a cloud—their weapons steel'd,
The brightest star-light of the field,
A fearful vision spread!
Silent they moved along the lake,
No war sound bids the slumb'ring wake,
Nor dashing oars the waters break,
To rouse th' unconscious state;
But from her hills of living green,
Columbia's guardian maid had seen,
She roused at once to intervene,
And save her sons from fate!
Who, rising o'er the watery bed,
To taint the soil with hostile tread,
The margin bold now climbs?
A warrior stern, who sterner band,
To conquest oft, in Spanish land,
Had led in former times!
Long shall Iberia feel the aid
She gather'd from his biting blade,
When, urged by bold Napoleon,
Invading France came madly on.
And mingling now the conflict, rang
Helmet and spear, the battle clang.
But wherefore, warrior, art thou here,
Feels thy bold heart no touch of fear,
When freemen seize the guardian spear,
Their country to defend?
Nought may thy former deeds avail,
No more thy hope shall conquest hail,
The laurels of thy brow grow pale,
Prophetic of thy end!
[OMITTED]
That time, full many a widowed dame,
And orphan, shall with anguish name,
And grief the burning tear drop claim,
Of every hope deprived!
Whose breast stern war's resistless aim,
With misery hath rived!
And mark the Caledonian maid,
Of glowing cheek, of auburn braid,
Blue Cheviot's sloping height above,
She rolls her soft blue eyes of love
Along the western sky-bound wave,
Anxious to view the bark so brave,
That bears her soldier home;
But, ah! the unrelenting glaive,
Has sent him to an early grave,
No tender friend to soothe or save
From carnage and the tomb!
On Mississippi's side he fell,
Whose rapids roared his dying knell!
Glassy and dim that manly eye,
Which lighted love and ecstacy;
Once flamed with hope of proud renown,
And looked the fear of danger down!
The last thought of his throbbing breast,
Turned to the maid he erst had press'd,
When with fond hope supremely bless'd,
No fields of conflict known:
But Hope, thou art a baseless dream,
That wak'st to life thy mimic theme;
For mark the change!—the big tears trace
Their passage down his pallid face,
He heaves the parting groan!
Stern War! what fateful deeds are thine,
With dripping blood thy garments shine,
And Ruin, Rage, with thee combine,
Whose eyes wild terrors flash!
The Horrors form thy dreadful train,
And Cruelty conducts thy wain,
Of bleeding sinews is the rein,
Of clotted braids each courser's mane,
Of scorpion fangs the lash!
The wheels thy thirsty fury draws
O'er all divine and human laws;
Dashing through each devoted realm
Those waves which roll but to o'erwhelm;
And like the flood which whilom rose,
Sweep from the world whate'er oppose!
Such is thy worth, disastrous war,
And such thy ruins, hurl'd afar,
That, when the glorious day may be,
For fate to strike his spear through thee,
Thy eulogy's thy victim's groans,
Thy monument their bleaching bones!

CHARLES SPRAGUE

PROLOGUE, ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW YORK THEATRE, SEPTEMBER 1, 1821.

PROLOGUE ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW PHILADELPHIA THEATRE, DECEMBER 1, 1822.

SHAKSPEARE ODE.

TO MY CIGAR.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

ART.

JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD.

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

EPITHALAMIUM.

ON A LATE LOSS.

COLONIZATION SOCIETY.

THE CAPTAIN. A FRAGMENT.

Solemn he paced upon that schooner's deck,
And mutter'd of his hardships:—“I have been
Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide
Has dash'd me on the sawyer;—I have sail'd
In the thick night, along the wave-wash'd 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!
[OMITTED]
Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none,
Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern!
It comes in such a “questionable shape,”
I cannot even speak it! Up jib, Josey,
And make for Bridgeport! There, where Stratford Point,
Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy,
Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest!
And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale,
That once a Charleston schooner was beset,
Riding at anchor, by a Meeting-House.

THE DEEP.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

THE TWO COMETS.

ADDRESS TO CONNECTICUT RIVER.

[The dead leaves strow the forest walk]

ROBERT WALN

SONG.

YOU SAID, DEAR GIRL.

HUNTING SONG.

RUFUS DAWES

THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

SUNRISE FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.

The laughing hours have chased away the night,
Plucking the stars out from her diadem;
And now the blue-eyed morn with modest grace,
Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the East
Blushing in smiles—and glad as infancy.
And see! the foolish Moon, but now so vain
Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms,
And, pale with envy, steals herself away!
The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on,
Attendant on the day. The mountain tops
Have lit their beacons,—and the vales below
Send up a welcoming. No song of birds,
Warbling to charm the air with melody,
Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath
The very soul of music in her looks,—
The sunshine and the shade of poetry!
I stand upon thy loftiest pinnacle,
Temple of Nature! and look down with awe
On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen.
Around me crowd the giant sons of earth,
Fix'd on their old foundations, unsubdued,—
Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise,
Unrifted to the Thunderer;—now they seem
A family of mountains, clustering round
Their hoary patriarch,—emulously watching
To meet the partial glances of the day.
Far in the glowing East, the flecking light,
Mellow'd by distance,—with the blue sky blending,—
Questions the eye with ever-varying forms.
The sun is up;—away the shadows fling
From the broad hills, and hurrying to the west,
Sport in the sunshine, till they die away.
The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down,
Out-welling from the clouds,—and sparkling light
Dances along with their perennial flow.
And there is beauty in yon river's path—
The glad Connecticut. I know her well
By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms.
At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills,
Sportfully hiding; then again with glee
Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place.
Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves
And lakes and rivers, mountains, vales and woods,
And all that holds the faculty entranced,
Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air,
And sleep in the deep quietude of joy!
There is a fearful stillness in this place—
A presence that forbids to break the spell,
Till the heart pours its agony in tears.
But I must drink the vision while it lasts
For even now the curling vapors rise,
Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace
These towering summits—bidding me away.
But often shall my heart turn back again,
Thou glorious eminence!—and when oppress'd
And aching with the coldness of the world,
Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee.

ANNE BULLEN.

I weep while gazing on thy modest face
Thou pictured history of woman's love,
Joy spreads his beaming pinions on thy cheek
Shaming its whiteness, and thine eyes are full
Of conscious beauty while they undulate.
Yet all thy beauty—all thy gentleness
Served but to light thy ruin. Is there not
Kind heaven! some secret talisman of hearts
Whereby to find a resting-place for love?
Unhappy maiden! let thy history teach
The beautiful and young that when their path
Softens with roses, danger may be there;
That love may watch the bubbles of the stream,
But never trust his image on the wave!

RICHARD PENN SMITH

THE COTTAGE LOVERS.

FRAGMENT.

NORMAN PINNEY.

SABBATH MORNING.

TO ---

SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD.

HOUSEHOLD HOURS.

JAMES NACK

THE MINSTREL BOY.

WILLIAM LEGGETT

SONG.

THE WARRIOR'S RETURN.

A SONG AT SEA.

HANNAH F. GOULD

THE MERMAID'S SONG.

A FUNERAL PIECE.

THE CONQUEROR.

CUPID'S WARNING.

TO THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER.

H. W. LONGFELLOW

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

THE INDIAN HUNTER.

THE SEA DIVER.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE

THE OCEAN.

TO A LADY.

CHARLES WEST THOMSON

BIRDS.

THE WILD BOY.

MICAH P. FLINT

THE HUNTER.

There is a vale far in the West,
And silence hovers o'er its breast;
The track of man is seldom seen
Upon its yet unsullied green.
The wild deer fearless roves along;
The red bird pours his mellow song;
And the gay mock bird from on high
Repeats, in playful mimicry,
The varied notes, which all around,
From twice ten thousand songsters rise:
When, waked at morn, its groves resound
Their matin chorus to the skies,
Its echoes never learn'd to know
The cheering voice of chanticleer,
Or sturdy axeman's measured blow,
Along the wild wood ringing clear.
But still they mock the solemn owl,
And cheat the wolf with mimic howl.
The cloud-capt ridge, that bounds the west,
Behind it rears a snowy crest,
Whose evening shadows o'er it rest;
And often when the morning cloud
Has wrapt its mantle, like a shroud,
Around the frowning giant's form,
The radiant sun is glancing warm;
And every songster, warbling sweet,
In that lone valley at his feet.
A winding stream the tribute brings
Of melting snows and crystal springs,
That gush along the mountain's side,
And mingling there in silence glide
Beneath green arbors, where the vine,
The jessamine, and eglantine
Their varying hues of beauty twine,
With many a virgin floweret's bloom,
And fill the air with sweet perfume.
Hard by that stream there whilom stood
A lonely hut, o'er which the wood
Spread with its hundred arms on high
A wild luxuriant canopy.
And who was he, that hermit gray,
That thus in loneliness would dwell?
Why did he stray thus far away,
To die in that sequester'd dell?
His look—his form—his speech—his mien
Were not of savage mould, I ween;
Nor yet of that dull heavy kind,
That mark so well the common mind.
But such, as chain the wondering eye,
Though none can tell the reason why.
Oft would his broken accents tell,
As half unconsciously they fell,
Of joys and griefs, of hopes and fears,
Now lost amid the wreck of years;
Of love by blood and murder crost;
Of home and friends for ever lost;
And then, as though his very grief
Were link'd with something like relief,
A bitter smile was seen to play
Across his deeply-furrow'd cheek,
And, ere the eye its cause might seek,
Like evening meteors flit away.
His rugged dress and scanty fare
Claim'd but a passing moment's care.
The earth supplied his simple feast.
He stripp'd his garment from the beast;
Not from the tribes of nature mild,
But the fierce tyrants of the wild.
It was his wont o'er hill and dale
To wander forth the livelong day;
Till, by the star of evening pale,
He turn'd to trace his homeward way.
But his was not the sordid toil
Of those, that range the valley wide,
Or climb the mountain's grassy side,
To rend from life their furry spoil.
The browsing doe would raise her head,
When startled by his passing tread,
Would gaze perchance, with wondering eye;
But had not learn'd to fear, and fly;
For often, when he chanced to hear
The bleating of the captive deer,
His ready shot would quell its foe,
And lay the tyrant panther low.

JAMES A. JONES

A MOOR'S CURSE ON SPAIN.

THE LAY OF A MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.

I heard the Spirit of a Mountain
Discoursing with a lowland Fay.
They sat beside a prattling fountain,
Just ere the cock proclaim'd the day.
The Mountain Spirit bears a pine,
Sere neighbor to an iron mine—
His locks the rock-moss gray.
The little urchin shakes a vine,
Whereon the rich black clusters shine,
And carols he a lay,
Which bids his mountain listeners note
The joys that o'er the valley float.

THE FAY.

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS

ABSALOM.

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
About him decently, and left him there
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

BETTER MOMENTS.

My mother's voice! how often creeps
Its cadence on my lonely hours!
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer
While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still unbroken air
Her gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.
The book of nature, and the print
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Give aye to me some lineament
Of what I have been taught to be.
My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears,
And there 's a mildew in the lapse
Of a few miserable years—
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.
I have been out at eventide
Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnish'd like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing—
When bursting leaves and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that makes the pulses pass
With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night—
When all was beauty—then have I
With friends on whom my love is flung
Like myrrh on winds of Araby,
Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung.
And when the beautiful spirit there,
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain—
And resting on some silver star
The spirit of a bended knee,
I' ve pour'd her low and fervent prayer
That our eternity might be
To rise in heaven like stars at night!
And tread a living path of light
I have been on the dewy hills,
When night was stealing from the dawn,
And mist was on the waking rills,
And tints were delicately drawn
In the gray East—when birds were waking
With a low murmur in the trees,
And melody by fits was breaking
Upon the whisper of the breeze,
And this when I was forth, perchance
As a worn reveller from the dance—
And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver—
I say a voice has thrill'd me then,
Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or, creeping from the silent glen
Like words from the departing night—
Hath stricken me, and I have press'd
On the wet grass my fever'd brow,
And pouring forth the earliest
First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow,
Have felt my mother's spirit rush
Upon me as in by-past years,
And yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up—the gay, the wild—
As humble as a very child.

THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.

THE HINDOO MOTHER.

The light bark
Went smoothly with the tide, and floated on
Till his dark eye was scarcely visible.
On, and yet on, she bounded! The bright waves
Seem'd playful in their leaping joyousness,
And the curl'd ripple feather'd at the prow
Like a glad thing of life. Had death grown slow?
Or were the waters “stay'd,” that they should keep
Their cold embraces from him? On, still on,
With her quick undulations! Hope revived
In the sick heart of Meina, and she rose
To gaze more keenly forward. He was there,
And his small arms were lifted; and she thought
That, as he toss'd them upward, she could hear
A cadence of his sweet and silvery voice
Like a delighted shouting. It died off,
And then again she heard it. Was it joy
That broke upon her ear? oh! was there joy
In that long cry, thou mother? Hark to it!
'T is like the arrowy piercing of the wind!
He moveth, and she bade him to be still!
He riseth! 't is his boyish restlessness!
Look, Meina! Does he dash his little hands,
In mirth, upon the waters? Hark! once more!
“Mother!” He calls thee! Is thy child afraid?
Again! How very fearfully it comes!
“Help! Mother!” 't is a cry of agony!
He sinks! Fly! Fly! he calls to thee! Oh fly!
“Mother!” God help thee! Dost thou see him now?

EXTRACT FROM A POEM DELIVERED AT THE DEPARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE, IN 1826.

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. Oh! press on!
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence; and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your brow,
And read it like a talisman of love!
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought;
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky,
And in the very fetters of your flesh,
Mating with the pure essences of heaven!
Press on!—“for in the grave there is no work,
And no device.”—Press on! while yet ye may!

JAMES WILLIAM MILLER

A POET'S REVERIE.

Thus as she spake, all things appear'd to see
And feel the presence of divinity.
The brooks went downward with a gladlier cheer;
The trees bow'd gently, with rejoicing fear;
Beneath her feet the gay earth shone new-vested,
And o'er her head a skyey glory rested;
Her beck was to me, and my thought once more
Heard her calm voice, more serious than before.
And silently I bow'd to her; and then
Wander'd above me one accepting strain,
And I rose up; of that sweet vision there
Was not one tint upon the dewy air.
Yet, o'er the pale hills of the distant west,
Went calmly down one golden star to rest;
And as on me its lingering glance was cast,
I knew her smile; thus had her spirit pass'd:
And in that moment, I became to her,
And yet am now, a happy worshipper.

JAMES G. BROOKS

GREECE.

1822.

THE DIRGE.

FREDERIC S. HILL

MUSINGS.

A FRAGMENT.

Methought I stood
Upon a field where slaughter once had rode
With reeking scimitar, and plumes that hung
Flapping upon his helmet, drench'd with blood;—
And there were graves, that had been digg'd
By soldiers' hands—the turf turn'd up in haste,
With blades still hot from battle—and the grass
Was thick—a heart had gush'd on every root,
And it was fed with clotted gore, until
It lifted up its tall, rank spires of green,
Around that place of carnage, marking out
The spot where desolation's hand had fall'n.
So where the ruins of some city lie,—
Destruction's monuments—luxuriantly
The mantling ivy spreads its leafy arms
O'er every mouldering shaft—embracing close
Each fluted column, as it were to hide
The lone prostration of the beautiful.
In that unholy place, methought I stood
In midnight solitude—and one approach'd,
Whose step resounded 'mid the tombs, as if
The sheeted dead were troubled—and their sleep
Disturb'd and broken by the stranger's walk.
He had a princely presence, and his glance
Might make the boldest cheek grow pale with awe;
His brow was that of majesty—and yet
An unquell'd spirit seem'd at work within—
A mighty spirit for that bosom heaved,
And there were flashes passing o'er that brow
Like lightning o'er a marble firmament.
He trod upon a grave—there was a sound—
A bursting sound beneath the hollow earth,
And he who lay there, woke—and rose;—and yet
No terror smote that proud one's heart—nor stay'd
The beating of his pulses, but he gazed
In calmness at the form, who beckon'd him
Forth from that Golgotha. The spectre led,
And they toil'd on, in paths that mortal foot
Till then had never press'd. The cataract,
That like the wrath of God bore down—was cross'd;
And when the tempest in its fury came,
They battled onward—and the strife was like
The combat of a band of giants, when
They fight for domination, and put forth,
Their utmost strength, until their sinews snap,
And the blood rushes like a lava stream.
That youthful warrior follow'd still the track
Of him clothed in unearthly robes, until
They reach'd a mountain's base; then in a voice
That caused my flesh to quake, and the cold sweat
To stand upon my brow, he bade him mount
The precipice, and scale the jutting cliff.
There was a rustling of the panoply
Which he had on—an outstretch'd arm—and then
Blue lightning shot across a dome that stood
Upon that rocky parapet—I saw
A fiery inscription on the base
Of that aspiring temple—
AMBITION—

PERSIAN SONGS.

THE MAIDEN TO HER LOVER.

THE LOVER'S REPLY.

OLIVER C. WYMAN

THE DEVOTEE.

TO THE CLOUDS.

THE BRIDAL.

SONG OF THE BEE.

Away, away, to the anxious flower
That droops and pines for its truant bee;
With beauty renew'd like the morning hour
'T will wait for my coming with anxious glee.
Ah little, but little, the rose-spirit dreams
Of the last dear place of her wanderer's rest—
Like the evening dew, in the mountain streams,
She would waste should I tell of the tulip's breast.
Away, away, for the earliest kiss
Must be mine from the freshest and sweetest rose;
Oh! there 's nought upon earth like the young bee's bliss,
When the morning rose-leaves over him close.
Hid from the beam of his rival—Sun,
Couch'd in the bosom of beauty's flower,
He rests, till its choicest treasures are won,
From the scorching ray or the drenching shower.

W. G. CROSBY

TO A LADY, WITH A WITHERED LEAF.

ASA M. BOLLES

THE ALBUM.

HENRY J. FINN

THE TRIBUTE OF TRUTH.

THE FUNERAL AT SEA.

EMMA C. EMBURY

JANE OF FRANCE.

STANZAS.

HENRY WHITING

ONTWA.

GEORGE W. PATTEN

THE ISLE OF LOVE.

THE WARRIOR.

THE MOTHER.

WILLIS G. CLARK

LINES WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.

EXTRACT FROM A NEW YEAR ADDRESS.

ROBERT MORRIS

THE BROKEN HEARTED.

EBENEZER BAILEY

THE TRIUMPHS OF LIBERTY.

ADDRESS TO THE MERMAID.

GRENVILLE MELLEN

DREAM OF THE SEA.

MOUNT WASHINGTON.

THE AIR VOYAGE.

A VISION.

CHARLES J. LOCKE

A DREAM OF THE OCEAN.

THE HARP OF THE BATTLE.

THE QUEEN OF THE MIST.

FREDERIC MELLEN

SABBATH EVENING.

THE HERDSMAN'S GRAVE.

WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY

HYMN OF NATURE.

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

T. W. STONE.

THE BAY OF NAPLES.

I. M'LELLAN

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.

This grassy hillock, with its rustic urn,
And its light hedge of snowy roses, train'd
By some sweet hand, is the abiding place
Of one most beautiful. A sweeter child
Than this frail tenant of the churchyard cell,
You would not meet through all the village round.
She perish'd in the heyday of her life,
Ere yet the frosts of trouble or of care
Had chill'd the gentle freshness of her youth.
She was of all the rural feasts the queen—
The merriest when the dance wheel'd round the tree
At summer eventide, or when it swept
The hearth-stone of the jocund husbandman,
In winter's chilly and tempestuous night.
Oh! there is not a happy bird that fills
The open valley with her sylvan song,
When night is darkening all the golden woods,
That might surpass the compass of her voice
In its deep, delicate richness! In the grave
She sleepeth now, where everything is mute!
Long shall the poor man, and the aged dame,
And orphan child, remember her sweet smile
And her benignant acts; for well she loved
To minister unto the broken heart,
And help the poor blind beggar on his way,
And succor him with travel sore athirst,
And shelter, from the rain and wintry hail,
The man that had not where to lay his head;
And ever there the grateful traveller bless'd
That sweet, young face, that smiled his gloom away,
And woke the song of gladness in his heart.
And here her lover rests!
Beneath yon ridge,
Whereon the weeds grow rank, is hid the dust,
The plume, the bloody sword, the spur, and scarf
Of one who fought for fame, and found it not.
He was a wild and reckless, wayward boy,
The leader of the noisy village troop
In all their careless sports—one stout of heart
And strong of hand, and foremost in the rush
Of boyish battle. Yet his fiery soul
Would melt when Sorrow told her wretched tale,
Or Pain the gloomy history of her grief,
Or Age her melancholy words.
The youth
Had pledged his honest love to that meek girl,
And in the innocent fondness of her heart,
She bless'd him with her love.
But time wore on,
And he had heard the savage trump of war
Sound in the peaceful vale, and heard the tramp
And neighing of the charger, and the clang
Of martial arms, and shouts of armed men,
And saw the gairish flag of battle float
Beside the cottage of his infancy.
He clothed him in the garb of strife, and placed
Its sword upon his thigh, and search'd for fame
“E'en at the cannon's mouth.”
And he came back
A bruised, and sick, and broken-hearted man,
To linger out his few sad days on earth
And die, and be at rest;—and by his side
They placed that bruised reed that leant on him.
“After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.”

J. B. VAN SCHAICK

JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND STILL.

The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers
Flash'd the red sunbeams gloriously back,
And the wind-driven banners, and the steel
Of her ten thousand spears caught dazzlingly
The sun, and on the fortresses of rock
Play'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'd
To the stern men who girded by its light.
Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breath
Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon,
Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet
Wild spices, and the trees of gum were shook
By the rude armor on their branches hung.
Suddenly in the camp without the walls
Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war
Gather'd around their kings, and “Joshua!
From Gilgal, Joshua!” was whisper'd low,
As with a secret fear, and then, at once,
With the abruptness of a dream, he stood
Upon the rock before them. Calmly then
Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare
And hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;—
“God of this people, hear! and let the sun
Stand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moon
Rest in the vale of Ajalon!” He ceased—
And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earth
Stands on her axis indolent. The sun
Pours the unmoving column of his rays
In undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still;
The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face;
The clouds and vapors that at night are wont
To gather and enshroud the lower earth,
Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up,
Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand,
Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining down
In broken masses on the astonish'd plains.
The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds;
The weary birds go to their leafy nests,
But find no darkness there, and wander forth
On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest;
The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews,
Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat,
Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart.
On with thy armies, Joshua! The Lord
God of Sabaoth is the avenger now!
His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath
Poureth the beams of the retarded sun,
With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight.
The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky;
Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice,
Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels.
On! till avenging swords have drunk the blood
Of all Jehovah's enemies, and till
Thy banners in returning triumph wave;
Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds,
And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth,
Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God,
Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies.

JOHN W. WHITMAN

THE JERSEY PRISON SHIP.

JOSEPH H. NICHOLS

BENNETT'S BRIDGE.

THE FALLS OF THE HOUSATONICK.

JAMES O. ROCKWELL

TO THE ICE MOUNTAIN.

MILTON WARD.

THE LYRE.

There was a Lyre, 'tis said, that hung
High waving in the summer air;
An angel hand its chord had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.
Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain,
Than ever shell of Mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.
When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell
Bright with the tears, that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,
Waved lightly his soft azure wing;
What touch such music could inspire!
What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,
The birds, that sweetly warbled by,
And the soft echo from the hills,
Were heard not where that harp was nigh.
When the last light of fading day
Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay,
While night had darken'd all the rest,
Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,
That harp its plaintive murmurs sigh'd
Along the dewy breeze of even;
So clear and soft they swell'd and died,
They seem'd the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,
And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,
Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play.
But soon the bloom of summer fled—
In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast—
The tempest's fury raged along—
Oh! for some angel, as they pass'd,
To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shriek'd—how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seem'd too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm.
It loudly shriek'd—but ah! in vain—
The savage wind more fiercely blew;
Once more—it never shriek'd again,
For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrill'd with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,
Was dreadful—but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer play'd
Gently upon its shatter'd form,
And the light zephyrs o'er it stray'd,
That lyre they could not wake or warm.

GEORGE LUNT

THE GRAVE OF BYRON.

MARY E. BROOKS

ROMANCE.

PSALM CXXXVII.

GEORGE P. MORRIS

WOMAN.

THE MINIATURE.

WHAT CAN IT MEAN?

G. WALLINGFORD CLARKE

THE BURIED MAID.

INSCRIPTION.

Whoe'er thou art, to whom this secret shade
Inviting seems, where many a wild flower flings
Its odor round, and many a murmur soothes
Of distant falling waters the pleased ear;—
If solitude may claim thy thoughts awhile,
Here rest and meditate—her cell is here.
And say, does love thy willing bosom bind,
Thy heart all anxiousness,—thy soul all sigh?
Haply the virgin, in whose clasping arms
A promised paradise thy fancy paints,
Whose swelling bosom heaves upon the sight
More beautiful than ocean's foam-tipt wave—
Whose kindling eyes, with lavish lustre, thrill
Thy trembling frame,—(a meek simplicity,
And innocence assuming,—specious show!)
Exults, in wanton triumph, at thy sighs,
And mocks their incense.—Rouse thee from thy trance;
And let the light of reason guide thee safe
To love's pure altar. Does ambition urge
Thy steps to tempt her dangerous paths?—Beware!
Think how the storm can rage:—yet the rough blast
That lays the mighty oak a ruin round,
With all its hundred arms that waved to heaven,
Passes as harmless o'er the lowly blossom,
As does the zephyr's sigh. And rivers strong,
Rushing their rugged channels through, each rock,
Opposing, chafes to angry foam and roar.
While the hush'd stream, fed from its placid fount,
Winds through the flow'ry vale its silver way:
And, as a quiet pilgrim seeks his shrine,
Flows on, to wed with ocean's distant tide.
Mortal!—whoe'er thou art, should thy pursuit
Be happiness—thou need'st not wander far,
If in thy breast no baneful passions wage
Unholy warfare; and religion mild
Has led thy steps to her own hallow'd mount,
Where hope, with upward eye, and seraph wand
Points to the sky:—but if thy blacken'd heart
Nourish revenge, or hatred, or the asp
Of envy pale—or discontentment's gall
O'erflows within—or filthy avarice
Disturbs thy dreams,—thou, curst of heaven, shalt find
Peace but a sound—and happiness a shade!

THE NUN.

WILLIAM CROSWELL.

CONFIRMATION.

The white-stoled Bishop stood amid a crowd—
Noviciates all—who, tutor'd to revere
The mitre's holy offices, drew near,
And, after sins renounced, and pledges vow'd,
Pale with emotion and religious fear,
In meek subjection, round the chancel, bow'd,
To hallow'd hands, that o'er them, one by one,
Fell, with a Prelate's thrilling benison.
Thou who canst make the loadstone's touch impart
An active virtue to the temper'd steel,
Oh let thy hand rest on them till they feel
A new-born impulse stirring in the heart,
And, swinging from surrounding objects, free,
Point, with a tremulous confidence to Thee!

DRINK AND AWAY.

HOME.

SONNET VINDICATORY.

Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;
And Hermits are contented with their cells;
And Students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells.
In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who 've felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find short solace there, as I have found.

SOUTH SEA MISSIONARIES.

CHRISTMAS.

JAMES HALL

WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.

'T was far beyond yon mountains, dear, we plighted vows of love,
The ocean wave was at our feet, the autumn sky above,
The pebbly shore was covered o'er with many a varied shell,
And on the billows' curling spray, the sunbeams glittering fell.
The storm has vexed that billow oft, and oft that sun hath set,
But plighted love remains with us, in peace and lustre yet.
I wiled thee to a lonely haunt, that bashful love might speak,
Where none could hear what love revealed, or see the crimson cheek;
The shore was all deserted, and we wandered there alone,
And not a human step impress'd the sand beach but our own;
The footsteps all have vanish'd from the billow beaten strand—
The vows we breathed remain with us—they were not traced in sand.
Far, far, we left the sea-girt shore, endear'd by childhood's dream,
To seek the humble cot, that smiled by fair Ohio's stream.
In vain the mountain cliff opposed, the mountain torrent roar'd,
For love unfurl'd her silken wing, and o'er each barrier soar'd;
And many a wide domain we passed, and many an ample dome,
But none so bless'd, so dear to us, as wedded love's first home.
Beyond these mountains, now are all, that e'er we loved or knew,
The long remembered many, and the dearly cherished few;
The home of her we value, and the grave of him we mourn,
Are there; and there is all the part to which the heart can turn;
But dearer scenes surround us here, and lovelier joys we trace,
For here is wedded love's first home—its hallowed resting place.

A. M. WELLS.

HOPE.

THE TAMED EAGLE.

R. H. WILDE

A FRAGMENT.

SAMUEL BARTLETT PARRIS

ON A SPRIG OF JUNIPER, FROM THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON, PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR.

WILLIAM CUTTER

THE VALLEY OF SILENCE.

CHARLES C. BEAMAN

THE WATER EXCURSION.

A VISION.

EVENING THOUGHTS.

LOUISA P. SMITH

THE HUMA.

RECOLLECTIONS.

J. G. WHITTIER

THE SICILIAN VESPERS.

F. S. ECKHARD

THE RUINED CITY.