LIBRARY UNlVurf^iy of CALIFORNIA SAN DltQO presented to the LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO by FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY MR. JOHN C. ROSE donor X Lti THE AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK POETRY, WITH OCCASIONAL NOTES. BY GEORGE B. CHEEVER. PHILADELPHIA : PUBLISHED BY HERMAN HOOKER, N. W. CORNER OF CHESNUT AND FIFTH STREETS. 1838. DISTRICT OP MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT: District Clerk's Offict. BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the seventh day of January, A. I). 18:!1, in the tifly-Iil'th year of the Independence of the llnitcil States i America, CABTEH, HKNDEK AND KAIICOCK, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a hook, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following, to wit: "The American Common-Place Book of Poetry, with Occasional Notes. By (Jeorni 1 H. t'lieever." In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, " An Act tor the encouragement of learning, hy securing the CO|M maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of during the times therein mentioned ;" and also to an act, entitled, " An Act supplementary to an act, entitled, 'An Act for the encourage- ment of learning, hy securing the copies of maps, charts and hooks, to Ihe authors and proprietors of siidi copies during the times therein mentioned ;' and extending the benefit.- thereof to the arts of design- l"S> enslaving, and etching historical and other prints." JNO. W. DAVIS, } Cle f rk .. f tAe ' ( nf .Vujsac I PREFACE. THE unexpected favor, with which the American Common -Place Book of Prose was received, encouraged its publishers to hope that a similar volume of extracts from American poetry might be attended with the same success. It is true, that there are more good prose writers in our country than there are poets ; but it would be strange, indeed, if enough of really excellent poetry could not be found to fill a volume like this. It is not pretended that every piece, hi the following selection, is a stately and perfect song, inspired by " the vision and the faculty divine," and containing, throughout, the true power and spirit of harmony ; but eveiy lover of poetry will find much to delight a cultivated imagination, and much to set him on thinking ; and every religious mind will be pleased that a volume of American poetry, so variously selected, presents so many pages imbued with the feelings of devotion. If all the extracts are not of sufficient excellence to excite vivid admiration, most of them are of the kind that meet us Like a pleasant thought, When piich are wanted 4 PREFACE. They are generally simple and unpretending in ornament, quiet and unambitious in their spirit. The poetry of devotion is the rarest of all poetry. It is sad to think how few, of all the poets in the English language, have possessed or exhibited the Christian character, or had the remembrance of their names associated with the thoughts of Christ and his cross, or the feelings to which the great theme of redemption gives rise in the bosom of the Christian. We may find plenty of the sentimentality of religion, expressed, too, in beautiful language but as cold as a winter night's transitory frost-work on our windows. A few beloved volumes, indeed, have their place in the heart ; but they are few ; and of these the praise belongs not exclusively to the genius of poetry, but to a far more precious and elevated spirit the spirit of the Bible. What bosom, that possesses this, does not contain the gerrn 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 fxrcllence than that of mere genius. Poetry herself acknowledges a power which is not in her, and observes a deep and sublime emotion excited, which she cannot, unassisted, produce or maintain in the souls of her listeners. When she becomes the handmaid of piety, she finds herself adorned and enriched (in another PREFACE/ 6 sense than Virgil's) with a beauty and a wealth that are not her own : Miraturque novos fructus, et non sua poma. All the pieces in this volume are of the purest moral character ; and, considering its limits, and the comparative scantiness of American poetry, a good number of them contain, in an uncommon degree, the religious and poetical spirit united. The importance of having books of this nature sweet and chaste in their moral influence, as well as refined in their intellectual and poetic?! character, is not enough appreciated. None can tell hotr much good a volume like this may accomplish, if an editor keeps such a purpose La view. A thought upon death and eternity may be rendered acceptable, through the medium of poetry, to many a mind, that would otherwise have fled from its approach. A voice from the grave and the other world may possibly here find hearers who would listen to it no where else. A devout and solemn reflection may steal, with the poetry of this volume, into the most secret recess of some careless heart, and there, through the goodness of Him. who moves in a hidden and mysterious way, "his wonders to perform," and whose spirit can touch the soul with the hi'mblest instruments, prove the first rising of that blessed well of water, which spiingeth up to everlasting life. 1 * 8 PttEFACE, Many of the finest pieces in this volume have been drawn out from corners where they bad long lain forgotten and neglected. Some of the devotional melodies are almost as sweet as any in the language. There are several fugitive anonymous pieces, that deserve a place along with those of the truest poets. The extracts from acknowledged sources are as various as they are beautiful. None can describe nature with a simpler and more affecting beauty than Bryant. None could draw an American landscape in truer colors, and throw more endearingly around it the charm of moral and devout reflection, than Wilcox. In the bold delineation of external scenery, and in painting human passion, pliilosophy, religion, and the domestic affections, none have displayed a more powerful fancy, or a deeper pathos of feeling, than Dana. Few have written nobler odes than Pierpont. Burns himself could hardly have thrown off a sweeter extempore effusion than some of Brainard's. In the difficult field of sacred drama, Hillhouse has shown a rich and classic imagination. Few will contest the beauty of Willis's Scripture pieces. Others might be named, whose poetry at once individualizes their genius in the mind; but it is unnecessary. May the volume, thus selected, please and do good. t TABLE OF CONTENTS. A Sacred Melody. . Anonymous 17 Activ Christian Benevolence the Source of Happiness. Carlos Wilcot 17 Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood. Bryant 19 The D<;ath of Sin and the Life of Holiness R. II. Dana 20 A Demon's false Description of fallen Intelligences. . H'dllLoiise 22 Hadad's Description of the City of David irillhomt 25 The Song at Twilight Lucretia Maria DavUsnn 25 Hagar in the Wilderness JV. P. Willi* 27 , Return of the Buccaneer , R. H. Dana 30 Ap|>earance of the Spectre Horse and the Burning Ship. R. 11. Dana 3] The Death of the Flowers Bryani 35 TheSkias. . . Bryant 36 From " The Minstrel Girl." J. G. Wkittier 37 " Weep for yourselves, and for your Children." . . Mrs. Sigournei; 38 The sudden coming on of Spring after Ion; Rains. . Carlos tVilcox 39 Slavery Carlos WUcox 41 Hymn for the African Colonization Society. . ... Pierfont. 42 Dedication Hymn Pierpont. 43 Evening Music of the Angela. Ifdlhouse. 44 Vernal Melody in the Forest Carlos Wi/cax. 45 Close of the Vision of Judgment Hillhouse. 46 " As thy Day, so shall thy Strength be." .... Mrs. Slgourney. 48 The Pilgrims Mrs. Sigouraey. 48 The Coral Grove Percival. 50 Hebrew Melody Mrs. J. G. Brooks. 51 To a Child Anonymous. 51 The Western World Bryant. 52 To a Waterfowl Bryant. 54 The Constancy of Nature contrasted with the Changes in Life. Dana. 55 <; And fan; thee well, my own green, quiet Vale." .... Dana. 56 Sonnet. The Free Mind W. L. Garrison. 57 Marco Rozzaris F. G. Jfallec/c. 58 Wwhawkrn F. G. Hallcck. 60 On laying the Cornet Stone of the Bunker Uill Monument. Picrponi.. 61 8 TABLE OV CONTENTS. Pj'.;e. Holier-nil and Cowpcr Carlos Wilcoz. Cl To the Dead.. , . Brainard. 63 The Denp. 7 Brainard. 64 S-.ir after a Summer Shower. Andrews JVurton. 65 The Chill's Wish in Juno Mrs. Oilman. 66 From " The Minstrel Girl." J. O. Whittier. 66 Description of a sultry Summer's Noon Carlos Wllcoz. 68 The Dying Child Christian Examiner. 70 Looking unto Jesus Christian Examiner. 71 S--:i from Hadiid flillhouse. 72 .Roman Catholic Chaunt. From " Percy's Masque." . HUlhouse. 76 Song From the. Talisman. 77 September Carlo* Wilcoz. 77 On the Loss of Professor Fisher Brainard. 78 Mir Words Anonymous. 79 " He knowtith our Frame, He remembereth we are Dust." R. II. Dana. 80 Immnrtiility R. II. Dunn. 80 The mystemus Music of Ocean. . . . Walsh's National Gazette. 82 Summer Wind. ... Bryant. 83 Summer Evening Lightning Carlos IPilcoz. 84 Spring JV. P. Willis. 85 To Seneca Lake Percival. 85 Mount Washington , N. H O. Mellcn. 86 To the Dying Year J. O. WlutUer. 87 The Captain. A Fragment Brainard. 88 " They Unit seek me early, shall find me." . . . Columbian Star. 89 A Son's Farewell to his Mother, &c Connecticut Observer. 90 " [Iu>hud is the Voice of Judah's Mirth." . From the Port-Folio. 90 Extract from a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College, in 1826 JV. P. Willis. 91 Retirement Anonymous. 94 To the River Arve Talisman. 93 The Burial Anonymous. 96 On the Loss of a pious Friend Brainard. 96 IIMTUJ From the Port-Fulio. 97 Sunset in September Carlos Witcox. 98 From " The Buccaneer." R. H. Dana. 100 Sonnet Bryant. 101 Piiwnr of the Soul in investing external Circumstance: with the line of its own Feelings R. 11. Dana. 103 Fprini; in Town Bryant. JOS Tin- Sabbath Carlos Wilcoz. 105 Industry and Prayer Carlos Wdcux. 108 TABLE OP CONTENTS. 9 Consolations of Religion to the Poor. . .... Pcrcival. 107 Extract from " The Airs of Palestine " Pierpont. 107 On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh Brainard. 1 From "The Minstrel Girl." J. O. Whittier. 110 The Torn Hat JV. P. Willis. Ill " The Memory of the Just is blessed." .... Mrs. Sigoumey. 112 The Wife JV. Y. Daily Advertiser. 113 Song of the Stars Bryant. 114 Summer Evening at a short Distance from the City. . Alonzo Lewis. 115 Introduction to the Poem of " Yamoyden." . . . Robert C. Sands. 116 Diiwn JV. P. mills. 119 The Restoration of Israel J. W. Eastburn. 120 The Buried Love '... Rufus Dawes. 121 The Missionary W. B. Tappan. 123 Missions Mrs. Sigou.rn.ey. 123 The Fear of Madness Lucretia Maria Davidson. 125 The Matin Hour of Prayer Anonymous. 125 Song From Yamoyden. 127 Solitude Mrs. Sigourney. 127 Bishop Ravenscroft 6. W. Doane. 128 The Life of God in the Soul of Man R. H. Dana. 130 To Pneuma J. W. Eastbvm. 133 To a Star Lucrctia. Maria Davidson. 134 Thanatopsis Bryant. 135 Sacred Melody JV. Y. American. 137 The Graves of the Patriots Percival. 138 Funeral Hymn Christian Examiner. 139 To Laura, two Years of Age JV. P. Willis. 141 " The dead Leaves strew the Forest-walk." .... Brainard. 142 Reasons of Prayer Henry Ware, Jr. 143 Effect of the Ocean and its Scenery on the Mind of th Buccaneer, when agitated with Remorse for his Crime R. H. Dana. 145 The third and last Appearance of the Spectre Horse, &e. R. H. Dana. 147 God's first Temples. A Hymn Bryant. 149 Scene from " Hudad." Hillhouse. 152 Extract from " The Airs of Palestine." Pierpont. 156 The Falls of Niagara Brainard. 157 At Musing Hour T. Wells. 157 Evergreens Pinkney. 153 The Flower Spirit Anonymous. 158 " Man giveth up the Ghost, and where is he?" Christian Examiner. 159 Woods in Winter Longfellow. 160 A Last Wish , Anonymous. 161 10 TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Winged Worshippers Charles Sprague. 162 Death of an Infant Mrs. Sigonrney. K'j.'J Burns F. G. Halleck. 163 , Mary Ma>;dalun. From the Spanish Bryant. Be Humble Jones. 167 Sabbath Evening Twilight . Anonymous. 168 The Burial of Arnold JV. P. Willis. Ki9 Lines to a Child on his Voyage to France, &c. . . Henry Ware, Jr. 170 New England Perciaal. 172 The Damsel of Peru Bryant. 173 Power of Maternul Piety Mrs. Sigourney. 175 Niagara. From the Spanish. U. States Review and IM.erary Gazette. 177 Absalom JV. P. Willis. 173 Hymn of Nature W. 0. B. Peabo'ly. 181 The Garden of Gethsemane Pierpont. 183 Trust in God Percival. 183 Heaven Christian Examiner. 184 Geehale. An Indian Lament Anonymous. 185 PCIMV from " Percy's Masque." Hill/louse. 186 To S****, weeping Jltanymous 1!U AiUumn Longfellow. 193 The Bucket Samuel Woodworth. 194 The Snow-Flake Hannah F. Gould. 195 " [ am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life." . . . Anonymous. 196 The Iceberg J. O. Rockwell. 197 Hymn Pierpont. 198 The Bride Anonymous. 199 On seeing an Eagle pass near me in Autumn Twilight. . G. Mr.llen. 200 To the Hon. Theodore Frelinghuysen, on rending his eloquent Speech in Defence of Indian Rights W. L. Garrison. 201 Genius Slumbering Percival. 202 Genius Waking Percival. 204 The Spirit of Poetry Longfellow. 206 Incomprehensibility of God Jt/iss Elizabeth Townsend. 207 Lament of a Swiss Minstrel ov^r the Ruins of Goldau. . . J. JVeal. 209 Lines on visiting the Burying-Ground at New Haven. Christian Disciple. 211 Tho Pilgrim Futhers Pierpont. 211 Song of the Pilgrims T. C. Vpham. 212 Dedication Hymn . JV. P. Willis. 213 Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars Hillhouse 214 The Land of the Bbst W. 0. B. Peab^dy. 215 TABLE OP CONTENTS. 11 Pase. To the Moon Massachusetts Spy. 216 gong. ... From Yamoyden. 217 The Light of Home Mrs. Hale. 218 The American Flag F. O. Hallcck. 218 To the Ursa Major Henry Ware, Jr. 250 " Look not upon the Wine whon it is red." .... JV. P. Willis. 224 To ***+, on the Death of a Friend Andrews Norton. 225 Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth Ediaard Everett. 225 Apostrophe to the San Percioal. 223 " I thought it slept." Henry Pickering. 230 The Snow-Storm Anonymous. 231 " I went and washed, and I received sight." New York Evening Post. 232 The Huma Louisa P. Smith. 233 The Paint King Washington Allston. 233 The murdered Traveller Bryant. 239 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake F. O. Hallcck. 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. /Tin tn o-ton. 248 The two Homes Anonymous. 249 To a Sister Edward Everett. 250 To the Moon Walsh's National Gazette. 251 My native Land My native Place Anonymous. 252 " Awake, Psaltery and Harp ; I myself will awake early. "Anonymous. 253 Isaiah xxxv Brainard. 254 On listening to a Cricket Andrews Norton. 255 March Bryant. 256 April Longfellow. 257 May Percioal. 258 Mounds on the Western Rivera. M. Flint. 259 Burial of the Minisink Longfellow. 260 To the Eagle Percival. 262 Salmon River Brainard. 264 To the Evening Wind Bryant. 265 The Grave of the Indian Chief. Percival. 267 Escape from Winter Percival. 267 Bury me with my Fathers Andrews Norton. 269 Redemption W. B. Tappan. 269 On the Close of the Year Christian Examiner. 270 Saturday Afternoon JV. P. Willis. 271 12 . TABLE OF CONTENTS. Fw. Fall of Tecumseh Jfeu York Statesman. 272 The Missionaries' FarewclL Anonymous. 274 Mozari s Roi|uiom Rufus Dawes. 275 " I will be glad in the Lord'." P*alm civ. 34. .... Anonymous. 276 To the Memory of a Brother Anonymous. 277 A Home everywhere S. Graham. 278 The Time to Weep Anonymous. 280 The Autumn Evening W.Q.B. Peabody. 281 Lines on revisiting the Country Bryant. The Spirit's Song of Consolation F. W. P. Greenwood. 283 Colonization of Africa Brainard. 284 Fable of the Wood Bone and the Laurel. . . Monthly Anthology. 284 A Castle in the Air Professor Friabic. 286 The Consumptive Rockingham GaieUe. 289 Lines to the Western Mummy W . E. Gallaudet. 289 Song Anonymous. ?jl The Life of the Blessed. From the Spanish Bryant. 291 V The Sunday School Mrs. Sigourney. 293 " They went out into the Mount of Olives." Pierpont. 293 The Lily Percival. 294 The Last Evening before Eternity . Hilthouse. 294 Wyoming. Halleck. 296 Bonnet to Bryant. 298 Daybreak R. H. Dana. 298 i Sonnet Bryant. 300 \ Hymn for the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanic Association. Pierpont. 301 VThe little Beach Bird R. H. Dana. 302 i Address of the Sylph of Autumn to the Bard. . Washington Allston. 303 Omnipresence Anonymous. 305 Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner. Longfellow. 306 N The Raising of Jairus's Daughter JV. A. Review. 307 Departure of the Pioneer Brainard. 308 The Alpine Flowers Mrs. Sigoumey. 309 ^ A Child's first Impression of a Star JV. P. H'iltU. JIO The Leper JV. p. Willis. 310 Versification of the Beginning of the Last Book of the Martyrs. Alexander H. Everett. JM Autumn Anonymous. 315 The Treasure that waxeth not old D. Huntingdon. 31t> Fragment of an Epistle written while recovering from severe Illness. P. //. Dana. 318 TABLE OP CONTENTS. 13 Page. Lines occasioned by hearing a little Boy mock the Old South Clock, as it rung the Hour of Twelve Mrs. Child. 321 Hymn to the North Star Bryant. 322 ' Connecticut. From an unpublished Poem F. O. HalUck. 303 The Rising Moon W. 0. B. Peabody. 325 America to Great Britain IV. Jlllston. 323 The Night-flowering Cereus Unitarian Miscellany. 327 God is Good Anonymous. 328 Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles Anonymous. 329 The Dying Child Carlos Wilcox. 330 To a Musquito New York Review. 331 Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God Longfellow. 333 The Blind Man's Lament J. W. Eustburn. 334 The Dying Girl Mrs. Halt's Magazine. 335 Autumn W. 0. B. Peabody. 336 Spring W. O. B. Peabody. 336 Summer W. O. B. Peabody. 337 Rosalie Mrs. Halt's Magazine. 338 To a young Invalid, condemned, by accidental Lameness, to perpetual Confinement Henry Pickering. 339 The Sage of Caucasus! Hill/louse. 340 Tho Resolution of Ruth Christian Examiner. 341 Live for Eternity Carlos Wilcox. 342 Dedication Hymn Pierpont. 343 The Indian Summer Brainard. 344 To William. Written by a bereaved Father. . W. O. B. Peabody. 345 Part of the 19th Psalm J. W. Eastbum -347 " What is that, Mother ."' O. W. Doane. 347 Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson. . . . Mrs. Sigoumey. 34S The Indian's Tale J. O. Wliittier. 349 Setting Sail Percival. 351 A Thanksgiving Hymn Henry Ware, Jr. 353 The Temple of Theseus J. W. Eastburn. 355 On the Death of a beautiful young Girl. . . . Connecticut, Mirror . 356 Lines to a Lady of great musical Talent Mrs. Child. 356 Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Charles- town Pierpont. 357 The Family Pible . Anonymous. 359 The Notes of the Birds /. McLellan, Jr. 359 Sentimental Music . F. G. Halleck. >>'J The Silk Worm. Mrs. Hale. 363 2 14 TABLE OP CONTENTS. ap The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth Day of the Author's Mother Frinbie. 364 Tho Soul's Defiance Anonymous. 365 Hymn lor the second Centennial Anniversary of the City of Boston. Pierpont. 366 Napoleon at Rest Pierpont. 308 The Death of Napoloon /. McLellan, Jr. 369 Jerusalem Brainnrd. 370 The Angler's Song /. McLellan, Jr. 37* Who is my Neighbor ? Anonymous. 373 Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 613 Christian Mirror. 374 ' Broken-hearted, weep no more." .... Episcopal Watchman. 375 The Sweet Brier Brainard. 376 Mot her, What is Death ? Mrt. Oilman. 376 Last Prayers Mary Ann Browne,. 377 A Noon Scene Bryant. 379 New England's Dead /. McLellan, Jr. 381 Installation Hymn Pierpont. 382 The Wanderer of Africa . Alamo Lewis. 383 A Legend J. O. Whittier. 384 They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither." Rev. xi. 12 Mrs. Sigottmfy. 386 Occasional Hymn Pierpont. 387 The Sleeper Commercial Advertiser. 388 God's Omnipresent Agency Carlos Wilcox. 389 The Farewell. . Anonymous. 389 Sunrise on the Hills Anonymous. 390 Lines on passing the Grave of my Sister Micah P. Flint. 391 The Revellers Ohio Backwoodsman. 393 " I would not live always." jB.fi. Thatcher. 394 The Disimbodied Spirit W. 0. B. Peabody. 395 Lines on hearing of the Death of Garafilia Mohalbi. Mrs. Sigourney. 396 Crossing tlie Ford O. W. H. 396 Hymn of the Cherokee Indian J. McLellan, Jr. 397 Lake Superior S. O. Oaod,-ich. 398 Oriental Mysticism Leonard Woods. 400 To a Sister about to embark on a Missionary Enterprise. B B. Thatcher. 401 The Pilgrim Fathers Charles Spragut 403 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Allston.W. . . . 233,303,326 Anonymous. 17, 51, 79, 94, 96, 125, 158, 161, 168, 185, 191, 196, 199, 231, 249, 252, 253, 274, 276, 277, 280, 291, 305, 315, 328, 329, 359, 365, 373, 389, 390 Brainard, J. G. C. 63, 64, 78, 88, 96, 109, 142, 157, 254, 264, 284, 308, 344, 370, 376 Brooks, Mrs. J. G 51 Browne, Mary Ann 377 Bryant, W. C. 19, 35, 30, 52, 54, 83, 101, 103, 114, 135, 149, 166, 173, 239, 244, 256, 265, 282, 291, 298, 300, 322, 379 Child, Mrs 321,356 Christian Disciple. . . . 170,211 Christian Examiner. 70,71, 139, 159, 184, 240, 270, 341 Christian Mirror 374 Columbian Star 89 Commercial Advertiset . 388 Connecticut Mirror. . . . 356 Connecticut Observer. ... 90 Dana, R. H. 20, 30, 31, 55, 56, 80, 80, 100, 102, 130, 1-55, 147,241, 247, 298, 302, 318 Davidson, Lucretia M. 25, 125, 134 Dawes, R 121,275 Doane, G. W 123, 347 Riga. Eastburn. J. \V. 120, 133, 334, 347, 355 Episcopal Watchman. . . . 375 Everett, E 225,250 Everett, A. II 314 Flint, M 259 Flint, M. P 391 Frisbie, L 286,364 Gallaudet, W. E 280 Garrison, W. L. ... 57.12UI Gilman, Mrs 66, *7B Goodrich, S. G L'Vti Gould, Hannah F ll>S Graham, S. ';>3 Greenwood, W. P -^cJ Hale, Mr 2H, 363 Hallcck, F. G. 58, 60, 163, 2lb, I -M, 296, 323, 3G2 Hillhousc, J. A. 22, 25, 44, 46, 78, 76, 152, 186, 214, 294, 340 Huntington, D. . . . 248,316 Idle Man 246 Jones. ......... 167 Ladies' Magazine (Mrs. Male's). 335,338 Lewis, A 115, 383 Longfellow, G. W. 160, 193, 206, 257, 260, 306, 332 16 INDEX OP AUTHORS. Massachusetts Spy 216 McLellan, I. Jr. 359, 369, 372, 381, 397 Mellon, G 86,200 Monthly Anthology ... 284 National Gazette (Walsh's). 82,251 Noal, 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. . 303 . 396 Peabody, W. O. B. 181, 215, 281, 325, 336, 336, 337, 345, 395 Percival, J. G. 50, 85, 107, 138, 172, 183, 232, 204, 228, 258, 262, 267, 267, 294, 351 Pickering, H 230, X?9 Pierpont, J. 42, 43, 61, 107, 156, 183, 198, 211, 293, 301, 343, 357, 366, 368, 332, 337 Pinkney, E. C 158 Port Folio 90,97 Rockingham Gazette, Rockwell, J. O. . . . 288 . 197 Sands, R. C 116 Sigourney, Mrs. 38, 48, 48, 112, 123, 127, 163, 175, 292, 309, 348. 386, 396 Smith, Louisa P .... 233 Spraguc, C 162, 403 Talisman. . . . Tappan, W. B. . . Thatcher, B. B. . . Townsend, Elizabeth. . 77,95 123,269 394, 401 . 207 Unitarian Miscellany. . . . 327 U,)ham, T. C 212 U. S. Rev. & Lit. Gazette. . . 177 Ware, H. Jr. . . .143,220.353 Wells, T 157 Whittier,J.G. 37,66,87, 110,349,384 Wilcox, C. 17, 39, 41, 45, 61, 68, 77, 84, 98, 105, 106, 330, 342, 389 Willis, N. P. 27, 85, 91, 111, 119, 141, 169, 178,213,224,271,310, 310 Woodworth 194 Woods, L 400 Yamoyden, 127,217 AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. A Sacred Melody. ANONYMOUS. BE thou, God ! by night, by day, My Guide, my Guard from sin, My Life, my Trust, my Light Divine, To keep me pure within ; Pure as the air, when day's first light A cloudless sky illumes, And active as the lark, that soars Till heaven shine round its plumes. So may my soul, upon the wings Of faith, unwearied rise, Till at the gate of heaven it sings, Midst light from paradise. Active Christian Benevolence the Source of sublime and lasting Happiness. CARLOS WILCOX. WOITLDST thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold i Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold. 'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unrolled, Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 2* 18 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy numbered hours To take their swift and everlasting flight; Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed ; Do something do it soon with all thy might; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind; Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit To li.^ht 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 arid showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groves, And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, To measure worlds, and follow where each moves? Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ? Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace, By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece ? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame, Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 19 And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame; "Tis infamy to die and not be missed, Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. Rouse to some work of high and holy love. And thou an angel's happiness shall 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,, BRYAWT 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, \nd made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. Misery is wed To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes Of undissembled gladness : the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while, below, The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment : as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to cnjcy 20 COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of POETRY. Existence, than the winged plunderer That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, The old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees, That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude, Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and, tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems with con.inuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dip? 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 DeatU of Sin and the Life of Holiness. DANA. BE warned! Thou canst not break or 'scape the power In kindness given in thy first breathing hour : Thou canst not slay its life : it must create ; And, good or ill, there ne'er will come a date To its tremendous energies. The trust, Thus given, guard, and to thyself be just. Nor dream with life to shuffle off this coil ; It takes fresh life, starts fresh for further toil, And on it goes, for ever, ever on, Changing, all down its course, each thing to one With its immortal nature. All must be, Like thy dread self, one dread eternity. Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath, Uncalled by God. We look, and name it death. Mad wretch! the soul hath no last sleep; the strife To end itself, but wakes intenser life In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er! Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more ? What! life destroy itself? O, idlest dream, Shaped in that emptiest thing a doubter's scheme. Think'st in a universal soul will murjce Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 21 Or, no less skeptic, sin will have an end, And thy purred spirit with the holy blend In joys as holy ? Why a sinner now ? As falls the tree, so lies it. So shall 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 ia a quibbling sense ? That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence. Then, with thy spirit from the body freed, Thou'lt know, thou'lt see, thou'lt feel what's life, indeed. Bursting to life, thy dominant desire Will upward flame, like a fierce forest fire ; Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash A wild disaster round, like its own wo Each wave cry, " Wo for ever!" in its flow, And then pass on from far adown its path Send back commingling sounds of wo and wrath Th' indomitable Will then know no sway : God calls Man, hear Him ; quit that fearful way! Come, listen to His voice who died to save Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave ; From darkness showed a path of light to heaven ; Cried, " Rise and walk ; thy sins are all forgiven." Blest are the pure in heart. 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 leara How that, in all things else, thou may'st discern His forming, his creating power how bind Earth, self and brother to th' Eternal Mind. Linked with th' Immortal, immortality Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee, 22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETUY. To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day, And that but changing life, miscalled decay ? Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart To pour a stream of life ? to make a part With thy eternal spirit things that rot, That, looked on for a moment, are forgot, But to thy opening vision pass to take New forms of life, and in new beauties wake? To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear Its hues and odors to some fresher air ; Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere, That softly answers to thy listening ear. In one eternal round they go and come ; And where they travel, there hast thou a home For thy far-reaching thoughts. O, Power Divine, Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine ? Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go! Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and wo! Nay, rather let uie use the world aright : Thus make me ready for my upward flight. A Demon's false Description of his Race of fallen Intelli- gences. A Scene from Hadad. HILLHOUSE. Tamar. I SHUDDER, Lest some dark Minister be near us now. Hadad. You wrong them. They are bright Intelligences, Robbed of some native splendor, and cast down, 'Tis true, from heaven ; but not deformed, and foul, Revengeful, malice- working fiends, as fools Suppose. They dwell, like princes, in the clouds; Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky ; Or arch their palaces beneath the hills, With stones inestimable studded so, That sun or stars were useless there. Tarn. Good heavens ! Had. He bade me look on rugged Caucasus, Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken, Naked, and wild, as if creation's ruins Were heaped in one immeasurable chain Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 23 Of everlasting winter. But within Are glorious palaces, and domes of light, Irradiate halls, and crystal colonnades, Vaults set with gems, the purchase of a crown, Blazing with lustre past the noon-tide beam, Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth. Tarn. Unheard of splendor ! Had. There they dwell, and muse, And wander; Beings beautiful, immortal. Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky, Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come, And glow with light intense, imperishable. Thus, in the sparry chambers of the sea And air-pavilions, rainbow tabernacles, They study Nature's secrets, and enjoy No poor dominion. Tarn. Are they beautiful, And powerful far beyond the human race ? Had. Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it. When The sage described them, fiery eloquence Flowed from his Hp3, his bosom heaved, his eyes Grew bright and mystical ; moved by the theme, Like one who feels a deity within. Tain. Wondrous! What intercourse have they with men? Had. Sometimes they deign to intermix with man, But oft with woman. Tain. Hah ! with woman ? Had. She Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft, And beautiful, and heavenly, like themselves. They have been known to love her with a passion Stronger than human. Tarn. That surpasses all You yet have told me. Had. This the sage affirms ; And Moses, darkly. Tarn. How do they appear ? How manifest their love ? Had. Sometimes 'tis spiritual, signified By beatific dreams, or more distinct And glorious apparition. They have stooped To animate a human form, and love Like mortals. Tarn, Frightful to be so beloved ! 24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT, 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. O, 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 O, no My thoughts but wandered Oft, alas ? they wander. Tarn. Why dost thou speak so sadly now ? and loJ 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 ! Tarn. 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. Tarn. What ails thee, Hadad ? Draw me not so close. Had. Tamar ! I need thy love more than thy love Tain. 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.] COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 25 Oh ! where, In the illimitable space, in what Profound of untned 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 1 be groaning ? [Exit.-] HadacCs Description of the City of David. HILLHOUSB. 'Tis so; the hoary harper sings aright; How beautiful is Zion ! Like a queen, Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness, Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods, Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Wave their dark beauty round the tower of David. Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, The embrazures of alabaster shine ; Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound To Judah's mart with orient merchandise. But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned, Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense, Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here, Where saints and prophets teacb, where the stern law Still ppeaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, And where the Glory hovers, here I war. The Song at Twilight. LUCHETIA MARIA DAVIDSOW. WIIEX evening spreads her shades around, And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; When nft a murmur, not a sound, To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; *The remains and a biographical sketch of this remarkable girl were published last year by Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse. An interesting review of the volume appeared soon after in the London Quarterly : we are not 3 26 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. When the broad orb of heaven is bright, And looks around with golden eye ; When Nature, softened by her light, Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; Then, when our thoughts are raised above This world, and all this world can give, 0, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive. The song which thrills my bosom's core, And, hovering, trembles half afraid, 0, sister, sing the song once more Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 'Twere almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing, And wafted by their breath away. When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, Shouldst thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, And, sister, sing the song 1 love ? aware that it has been noticed in any periodical in this country. Southey has rendered himself distinguished for his attention to youthful genius. Except the cases of Chatterton and Henry Kirke White, he thinks there is no instance on record of " so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of Intellectual advancement," as is exhibited in the history of this young lady. "In these poems, there is enough of originality, enough of aspira- tion, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the frierrda and parents of the deceased, could have formed ; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes." " She was peculiarly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy ; she wished to hear it only at twilight ; thus, with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the windharp in the window when she was composing, seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible ; for it is said, that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost fainting ; yet it was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to these verses, addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister. " To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses, in one place, approach the verge of meaning, but are on the wrong side of the line : to none can it he necessary to say^ that they breathe the deep feel- ins of a mind essentially poetical." The piece here referred to, is thai extracted above. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 27 Hagarin the Wilderness. N. P. WILLIS. THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew. And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were caroling as life Were 9 new thing to them ; but, oh ! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood left them ; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up Into his mother's face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swelled, Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn 28 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETHY. Is passing lair 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 j 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 silencs, 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 of the lulls were in the shade, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 29 And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips For water ; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, For it was better than the 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 ; I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye! And could I see thee die ? 4 1 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 ! 3* 30 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY, And now the grave for its cold breast hath won (hte, And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; And oli ! 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 of his mother's hand. Return of the Buccaneer. RICHARD H, DAITA. WITHIJT our bay, one stormy night, The isle's men saw boats make for shore, With here and there a dancing light That flashed on man and oar. When hailed, the rowing stopt, and all was dark, " Ha ! lantern work ! We'll home ! They're playing shark!" Next day, at noon, towards the town, All stared and wondered much to see Matt and his men come strolling down. The boys shout, " Here conies Lee !" " Thy ship, good Lee ?" " Not many leagues from shore Our ship by chance took fire." They learnt no more. He and his crew were flush of gold. " You did not lose your cargo, then ?" ' Learn where all's fairly bought and sold." ijHeaven prospers those true men. Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook Our ways of sin, and honest courses took! " Wouldst see my log-book .' Fairly writ, With pen of steel, and ink like blood! How lightly doth the conscience sit! Learn, truth's the only good." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 3J 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 tc the Buccaneer. IBID. " To-night's our anniversary ; And, mind me, lads, we'll have it kept With royal state and special glee! % Better with those who slept Their sleep that night, had he be now, who slinks! And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks!" The words they spoke we may not speak. The tales they told we may not tell. Mere mortal man, forbear to seek The secrets of that hell ! Their shouts grow loud. 'Tis near mid-hour of night. What means upon the waters that red light ? Not bigger than a star it seems ; And, now, 'tis like the bloody moon; And, now, it shoots in hairy streams Its light! 'Twill reach us soon ! A ship ! and all on fire ! hull, yards and mast ! Her sheets are sheets of flame ! She's nearing fast ! And now she rides, upright and still, Shedding a wild and lurid light 32 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Around the cove on inland hill, Waking the gloom of night. All breaches of terror ! Men in dumb amaze Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze. It scares the sea-birds from their nests. They dart and wheel with deaf'mng screams ; Now dark, and now their wings and breasts Flash back disastrous gleams. O, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth ? The world, man, is wailing o'er thy birth. And what comes up above that wave, So ghastly white ? A spectral head ! A horse's head (May heaven save Those looking on the dead, The waking dead!) There on the sea he stands The spectre-horse ! he moves ; he gains the sands ! Onward he speeds. His ghostly sides Are streaming with a cold, blue light. Heaven keep the wits of him who rides The spectre-horse to-night ! His path is shining like a swift ship's wake ; He gleams before Lee's door like day's gray break. The revel now is high within : It breaks upon the midnight air. They little think, midst mirth and din, What spirit waits them there. As if the sky became a voice, there spread A sound to appal the living, stir the dead. The spirit-steed sent up the neigh. It seemed the living trump of hell, Sounding to call the damned away, To join the host that fell. It rang along the vaulted sky : the shore Jarred hard, as when the thronging surges roar. It rang in ears that knew the sound ; And hot, flushed cheeks are blanched with fear, And why does Lee look wildly round.' Thinks he the drowned horse near ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. He drops his cup ; his lips are stiff with fright. Nay, sit thee down ! It is thy banquet ni^ht. " 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!' " He's now astride the spectre's back, With rein of silk, and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed ! the rein is slack Within his senseless hold : Nor doth he touch the shade he strides, upborne By an unseen power. God help thee, man forlorn ! He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! And now they're on the hanging steep ! And, now, the living and the dead, They'll make thi 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 flume. From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet's the same ! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light. Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. Thou ne'er again wilt curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip ! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound ! What see you, Lee, the bodies of the drowned ? 34 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY, " I look where mortal man may not Into the chambers of the deep. I see the dead, long, long forgot; I see them in their sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, Save he who leagues his soul with death and wo." Thou mild, sad mother, waning moon Thy last, low, melancholy ray Shines towards him. Quit him not so soon! Mother, in mercy, stay ! Despair and death are witli him ; and canst thou, With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now ? O, thou wast born for things of love ; Making more lovely in thy shine Whate'er thou look'st on. Hosts above, In that soft light of thine, Burn softer : earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. Thou'rt going down ! Thou'st left him unforgiven ! The far, low west is bright no more How still it is ! No sound is heard At sea, or all along the shore, But cry of passing bird. Thou living thing, and dar'st thou come so near These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear ? Now long that thick, red light has shone On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay, On man'and horse that seem of stone, So motionless are they. But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : The night is going faint, gray dawn returns. The spectre-steed now slowly pales ; Now changes like the moonlit cloud. That cold, thin light, now slowly fails, Which wrapt them like a shroud. Both ship and horse are fading into air. Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there! The morning air blows fresh on him ; The waves dance gladly in his sight ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 35 The sea-birds call, 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 of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but th cold November rain. Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, 36 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. The Skies. BRYANT. AY, gloriously thou standest there, Beautiful, boundless firmament! That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, And round the horizon bent, With that bright vault and sapphire wall, Dost overhang and circle all. Far, far below thee, tall gray trees Arise, and piles built up of old, And hills, whose ancient summits freeze In the fierce light and cold. The eagle soars his utmost height ; Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. Thou hast thy frowns : with thee, on high, The storm has made his airy seat : Beyond thy soft blue curtain lie His stores of hail and sleet : Thence the consuming lightnings break; There the strong hurricanes awake. Yet art thou prodigal of smiles Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern : Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, A song at their return ; The glory that comes down from thee Bathes in deep joy the land and sea. I COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 eartt 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 Girl." JAMES G. WHITTIEK. HER lover died. Away from her, The ocean-girls his requiem sang, And smoothed his dreamless sepulchre Where the tall coral branches sprang. And it was told her how he strove With death ; but not from selfish fear: It was the memory of her love Which made existence doubly dear. They told her how his fevered sleep Revealed the phantom of his brain He thought his love had com* to keep Her vigils at his couch of pain ; 4 38 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And he would speak in his soft tone, And stretch hi* arms to cla^p the air, And then awaken with a moan, Ami weep that there was nothing there I And wluu he bowed him id/' at Ian Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse, Even as the weary spirit passed, Her name was on hij marble lips. She heard the tale ; she did not weep ; It was too strangely sad for tears ; And so she kept it for the deep Rememberings of after years. She poured one lone and plaintive wail For the loved dead it was her last- Like harp-tones dying, on the gale Her minstrelsy of spirit passed: And she became an altered one, g 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."- S. SlGOUHNEY. 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 wo mourn For those who sin no more ? We mourn for those who weep, Whom stern afflictions bend COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 39 With anguish o'er the lowly sleep Of lover or of friend ; But they to whom the sway Of pain and grief is o'er, Whose tears our God hath wiped away, Oh, mourn for them no more ! The sudden Coming on of Spring after long Rains. CARLOS WILCOX. THE spring, made dreary by incessant r?.in, 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, Was nothing visible to give to May, Though far advanced, an aspect more like her's Than like November's universal gloom. All day, beneath the sheltering hovel, stood The drooping herd, or lingered near to ask The food of winter. A few lonely birds, Of those that in this northern clime remain Throughout the year, and in the dawn of spring, At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat, Come suddenly to view with lively notes, Or those that soonest to this clime return From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen, But with their feathers ruffled, and despoiled Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute, Or only skipping, with a single chirp, In quest of food. Whene'er the heavy clouds, That half way down the mountain side oft hung, As if o'erloaded with their watery s*jre, Were parted, though with motion unobserved, Through their dark opening, white with snow appeared Its lowest, e'en its cultivated, peaks. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. With sinking heart the husbandman surveyed The melancholy scene, and much his fears On famine dwelt ; when, suddenly awaked At the first glimpse of daylight, by the sound, Long time unheard, of cheerful martins, near His window, round their dwelling chirping quick, With spirits by hope enlivened, up he sprung To look abroad, and to his joy beheld A sky without the remnant of a cloud. From gloom to gayety and beauty bright So rapid now the universal change, The rude survey it with delight refined, And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout. Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds, Start at the touch of vivifying beams. Moved by thuir secret force, the vital lymph Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field A flood ot verdure. Clothed, in one short week, Js naked nar.ire 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 twil; ;ht 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, tho sportive night-hawk, seen Flying awhile at random, uttering oft A cheerful cry, attended with a shake Of level pinions, dark, but, when upturned, Against the brightness of the western sky, One white plume showing in the midst of each, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 4J 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 cornea, 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 righta. So speaks the charter of a nation proud Of her unequalled liberties and laws, 4* 42 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 ? for a mantle to conceal her shame ! But why, when Patriotism cannot hide The ruin which her guilt will surely bring If unrepented ? and unless the God Who poured his plagues on Egypt till she let The oppressed go free, and often pours his wrath, In earthquakes and tornadoes, on the isles Of western India, laying waste their fields, Dashing their mercenary ships ashore, Tossing the isles themselves like floating wrecks, And burying towns alive in one wide grave, No sooner ope'd but closed, let judgment pass For once untasted till the general doom, Can it go well with us while we retain This cursed thing ? Will not untimely frosts, Devouring insects, drought, and wind and hail, Destroy the fruits of ground long tilled in chains ? Will not some daring spirit, born to thoughts Above his beast-like state, find out the truth, Tnat Africans are men; and, catching fire Faim 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* O God, the stains From Afric's shore i And, while her palm-trees bud, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 43 Let not her children's blood With her hroad 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, God, those chains, Clanking on Freedom's plains, By Christians wrought ! Them, who those chains have worn, Christians from home have torn, Christians have hither borne, Christians have bought ! Cast down, great God, the fanes That, to unhallowed gains, Round us have risen Temples, whose priesthood pore Moses and Jesus o'er, Then bolt the black man's door, The poor man's prison ! Wilt thou not, Lord, at last, From thine own image, cast Away all cords, But that of love, which brings Man, from his wanderings, Back to the King of kings, The Lord oflords ! Dedication Hymn. PIERPOJCT. O THOTJ, to whom, in ancient time, The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, Whom kings adored in songs sublime, And prophets praised with glowing tongue, 44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Not now, on Zion's height alone, The favored worshipper may dwell, Nor where, at 3ultry 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 neaven, 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. 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 Angela. HILLHOUSE. Low warblings, now, and solitary harps, Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices. Louder as they swelled, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mixed with clear silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven ; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes, Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed bell, Coine, like the echo of his early joys. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 45 In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down. Vernal Melody in the Forest. CARLOS WILCOX." WITH sonorous notes Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, Ul chanted in the fulness of delight, The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed With bushy sides, and covered high above With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, Like pillars rising to support a roof, It seems a temple vast, the space within Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, The merry mocking-bird together links In one continued song their different notes, * He was a true poet, and deeply interesting in his character, both as a man and a Christian. He resembled Cow per in many respects ;--in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities in the modest and re tiring disposition of his mind in its tine culture, and its original poetical cast and not a little in the character of his poetry. It has been said with truth, that, if he had given himself to poetry as his chief occupation, he might have been the Cowper of New England. We pretend not to place his unfinished and broken compositions on a level with the works of the author of the Task ; but they possess much of his spirit, and, at the same time, are original. Like Cowper, "he left the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and passion, for those of real life and simple nature, and for the developement of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral and religious truth." Amidst the throngs of imitators, whose names have crowded tlie pages of the annuals and magazines, his is never to be seen ; and the merits of his poetry are almost unknown to those who regulate the criticisms of the public journals. But it is both a proof anda consequence of his original powers and his elevated feelings, that, instead of devoting his mind to the composition of short, artificial pieces for the public eye, he started at once upon a wide and noble subject, with the outline in his mind of a magnificent moral poem. The history, the sce- nery, and the public and domestic manners in this country, afforded scope for the composition of another Task, which, if the powers of the writer were equal to his subject, would be more for America, and the religious world, than even Cowper's was for England and his fellow men. Mr. Wilcox did not live to execute his design ; but the fragments he has left us are so rich, in a vein of unaffected poetry and piety, that they make us sorrowful for what we have lost, and indisnant that his merits are so little known and appreciated beyond a small circle of affectionate Christian Gientls. ED. 46 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Adding new life and sweetness to them all. Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields Frequents the stony wall and briery fence, Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat, Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; But oft, a moment after, re-appears, First peeping out, then starting forth at once With a courageous air, yet in his pranks Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far Till left unheeded. Close of the Vision of Judgment. HILL.HOTTSB. 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-trellised minarets, Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnished domer Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun, So from the hill the cloudy curtains rolled, And, in the lingering lustre of the eve, Again the Savior and his seraphs shone. Emitted sudden in his rising, flashed Intenser light, as toward the right hand host Mild turning, with a look ineffable, The invitation he proclaimed in accents Which on their ravished ears poured thrilling, like The silver sound of many trumpets heard Afar in sweetest jubilee ; then, swift Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left, That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them Seemed like the crush of Heaven, pronounced the doom The sentence uttered, as with life instinct, The throne uprose majestically slow ; Each angel spread his wings ; in one dread swell Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets, And harps, acd golden lyres, and timbrels sweet, And many a strange and deep-toned instrument COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 47 Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth, And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim Of all the ransomed, like a thunder-shout. Far through the skies melodious echoes rolled, And faint hosannas distant climes returned. Down from the lessening multitude came faint And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal, All else in distance lost, when, to receive Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded. Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse The wicked caught of Paradise, where streaks Of splendor, golden gleamings, radiance shone, Like the deep glories of declining day, When, washed by evening showers, the huge-orbed sun Breaks instantaneous o'er the illumined world. Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by, Slow turning to the light their snowy wings. A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped The hapless outcasts, when upon the Lord The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stow. Wistfully gazing on the cold gray heaven, As if to catch, alas ! a hope not there. But shades began to gather, night approached, Murky and lowering ; round with horror rolled On one another their despairing eyes, That glared with anguish ; starless, hopeless gloom Fell on their souls, never to know an end. Though in the far horizon lingered yet A lurid gleam ; black clouds were mustering there ; Red flashes, followed by low, muttering sounds, Announced the fiery tempest doomed to hurl The fragments of the earth again to chaos. Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged Their dark, impure abyss, as sea-foul dive Their watery element. O'erwhelmed with sights And sounds of horror, I awoke ; and found For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo, The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed Serene and peaceful. Gladly I surveyed her Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven, And blessed the respite ere the day of doom. 48 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. "As thy Day, so shall thy Strength be." MRS. SlGOURNEY. 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 nee, 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 sou! 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 49 And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave, Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round, Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, And savage men, who through the thickets peer With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps To this drear desert? Ask of him who le't His father's home to roam througli 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 mail, and habitable earth, Is severed? Can ye tell what pangs were there, What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart, What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, Their distant, dear ones ? Long, with straining eye, They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness Sank down into their bosoms ? No! they turn Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life Fade into air. Up in each girded breast There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, A loftiness, to face a world in arms, To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay Upon the sacred altar the warm blood Of slain affections, when they rise between The soul and God. And can ye deem it strange That from their planting such a branch should bloom As nations envy : Would a genii, 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, theit bold vine spread forth In giant strength. Its early clusters, crushed In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host 5 60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. A draught of deadly wine. 0, ye who boast In your free veins the blood of sires like these, Lose not their" lineaments. Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart, or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core From manly virtue, or the tempting world Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, Turn ye to Plymouth's beach, and on that rock Kneel in their foot-prints, and renew the vow They breathed to God. The Coral Grove. PERCIVAL. DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and the waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air : There, with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter: There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea : And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful Spirit of storms, Has made the top of the waves his own : And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 51 Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove* Hebrew Melody. MRS. J. G. BROOKS. Jeremiah x. 17. FROM the hall of our fathers in anguish we fled, Nor again will its marble re-echo our tread, For the breath of the Siroc has blasted our name, And the frown of Jehovah has crushed us in shame. His robe was the whirlwind, his voice was the thunder, And earth, at his footstep, was riven asunder; The mantle of midnight had shrouded the sky, But we knew where He stood by the flash of His eye. 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. ANONYMOTTS. " The memory of thy name, dear one, Lives in my inmost heart, Linked with a thousand hopes and feari, 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 ; Bui her majestic port the willing mind, 53 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll Be FREE not chiefly from the iron chain, But from the one which passion forges ; be The master of thyself ! If lost, regain The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free. Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet, And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet. Seek VIRTUE. Wear her armor to the fight ; Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might By each contending, turbulent ill of life. Seek Virtue ; she alone is all divine ; And, having found, be strong in God's own strength and thine. THUTH FREEDOM VIRTUE these, dear child, liav* power, If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour : Neglect them thy celestial gifts are vain In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled ; Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled. The Western World. BRYANT. LATE, from this western shore, that morning chased The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud Amid the forest; and the bounding deer Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. And where hii 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 53 Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or hring 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 wkh blood ; All died the wailing babe the shrieking maid And in the flood cf fire that scathed the glade, The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ; No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, And ever by their lake lay moored the light canoe. Look now abroad another race has filled These populous borders wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms t^re 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* i 64 COMMONPLACE BOOK OP POETHY. Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last tetters 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. BRTAKT. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way . Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side .' There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shall thou find a summer home, and rest Aod scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. COMMON-PLAdfi BOOK OF fOETRIf. 55 Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight* In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. The Constancy of Nature contrasted with the Changes in Human Z,j/e. How like eternity doth nature seem To life of man that short and fitful dream! 1 look around me ; no where can I trace Lines of decay that mark our human race. These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours. Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come. Long years have past since this Was last my home ! And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame ; But all this vale shuts in is still the same : 'Tis I alone am changed ; they know me not : I feel a stranger or as one forgot. The breeze that cooled my warm and youthful brow, Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now. The leaves that flung around me sun and shade, While gazing idly on them, as they played, Are holding yet their frolic in the air; The motion, joy, and beauty still are there But not for me ! 1 look upon the ground : Myriads of happy faces throng me round, Familiar to my eye ; yet heart and mind In vain would now the old communion find. Ye were as living, conscious beings, then, With whom I talked but I have talked with men! With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts I've met; Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset; Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow; Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show. 50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Jlndfare 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 golden light. Thoughtful and silent for awhile he then Talked of my coming." Thou'lt not go again From thine own vale ; and we will make thy home Pleasant ; and it shall glad thee to have come." Then of my garden and my house he spoke, And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope ; And grew more bright and happy in his talk Of social winter eve, and summer walk. And, while 1 listened, to my sadder soul A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole ; Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man. At length I spake " No ! here I must not stay I'll rest to-night to-morrow go my way." He did not urge me. Looking in my face, As he each feeling of the heart could trace, He prest my hand, and prayed I might be blest, Where'er I went, that Heaven would give me rest. The silent night has past into the prime Of day to thoughtful souls a solemn time. For man has wakened from his nightly death, And shut up sense to morning's life and breath. He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept Their glorious watch while he, unconscious, slept, Feels God was round him while he knew it not Is awed then meets the world and God's forgot So may I not forget thee, holy Power! Be to me ever as at this caiui hour. The tree tops now are glittering in the sun : Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun. Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled, Strange to the living, knowing but the dead; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 57 A homeless wanderer through my early home ; Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come? To pass each cottage, and to have it tell, Here did thy mother, here a playmate dwell ; To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom, And see th<it 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. SONXET. 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 balne his design, And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways : *This sonnet, written during Mr. Garrison's despotic imprisonment, pos- sesses anohloness and an energy in the .thought, a corresponding ease and originality in the expression, and an a-iliijue richness in ils whole structure, which mfcke 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 frucdiim. But it n':eds patience and prudence, as well as stern moral courage. Die possible result of the Coloni/.alion Society, and the success tvhicn may attend tho efforts for the entire abolition of slavery in this coun- try, constitute the gri'at problem, on the solution of which our prosperity, and perilling even our existence as a irition, depends. Every man who can speak, every editor who can influence the public mind, should certainly he doing all in his power to hasten forward the period of complete emancipa- tion. " Speed it, O Father ! Lot thy kingdom come 1" ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control ! No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes ! It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers; It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale, Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. '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 Plntoui, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. Hit 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 tires, Strike for the green graves of your sires, God and your native land !" COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 59 They fought, like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, And thou art terrible : the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame s One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Weehawken. F. G. HALLECK. I 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 Ol 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 th^re, In wild reality. When life is old, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold Its memory of this; nor lives there one, Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 61 On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monu- ment. PlERPONT. 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 Jn prayer and battle for a world. Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground: And we, the children of the brave, From thj four winds are gathered round, To ky our offering oil their grave. Free as the winds around us blow, Free as the waves below us spread, We rear a pile, that long shall throw Its shadow on their sacred bed. But on their deeds no shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, And thy right hand shall guard their fame. Rousseau and Cowper. CARLOS WILCOX. ROUSSEAU could weep ; yes, with a heart of stone. The impious sophist could recline beside The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone On all its loveliness at even tide On its small running waves, in purple dyed, Beneath bright clouds or all the glowing sky, 6 62 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, And on surrounding mountains wild and high, Till tears unbidden gushed from his enchanted eye. But his were not the tears of feeling fine Of grief or love ; at fancy's flash they flowed, Like burning drops from some proud lonely pine By lightning fired; his heart with passion glowed Till it consumed his life, and yet he showed A chilling coldness both to friend and foe, As Etna, with its centre an abode Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow Of all its desert brow the living world below. Was he but justly wretched from his crimes ? Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen, With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes Genius and feeling, and to things unseen Lifts the pure heart through clouds, that roll between The earth and skies, to darken human hope ? Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope ? He, too, could give himself to musing deep ; By the calm lake, at evening, he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast, by not an insect fanned, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or, through the still and dewy atmosphere, The pipe's soft tones, waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear. And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, In the pine grove, when low the full moon, fair, Shot under lofty tops her level beams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 63 'Twas thus, in nature's bloom and solitude, He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage ; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age ; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. To that bright world where things of earth appear Stripped of false charms, my fancy often flies, To ask him there what life is happiest here ; And, as he points around him, and replies With glowing lips, my heart within me dies, And conscience whispers of a dreadful bar, When, in some scene where every beauty lies, A soft, sweet pensiveness begins to mar The joys of social life, and with its claims to war. To the Dead. BRAINARD. How many now are dead to me That live to others yet ! How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look which we Till dead can ne'er forget. Beyond the blue seas, far away, Most wretchedly alone, One died in prison, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, And never hope or comfort's ray In his lone dungeon shone. Dead to the world, alive to me ; Though months and years have In a lone hour, his sigh to me Comes like the hum of some wild bee, And then his form and face I see As when I saw him last. 64 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And one, with a bright lip, and cheek, And eye, is dead to me. How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek! His lip was cold it would not speak ; His heart was dead, for it did not break ; And his eye, for it did not see. Then for the living be the tomb, And for the dead the smile ; Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloom Dim is such glare ; but bright the gloom Around the funeral pile. The Deep. BHAINARD. THERE'S beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky ; And, though the light shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below ; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid, And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine. There's beauty in the deep. There's music in the deep : It is not in the 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. Theife's quiet in the deep : Above, let tides and tempests rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; Above, let care and fear contend, with sin and sorrow to the end : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY 65 Here, far beneath the tainted foam, That frets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep. Scene after a Summer Shower. PROFESSOR NORTOW. THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky ! In grateful silence, earth receives The general blessing ; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; The wind flows cool ; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene Its floating veil of mist is flung ; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops 01 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 sounrls from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. 6* COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETKY. Drink in her influence ; low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy lir, And 'mid this living light expire. The Child's Wish in June. Mas. GILMAW. MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play, Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers a)l 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. Peer Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, And the Hies go about him one by one ; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, But very lazily flieth he, And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat. You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near, And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. I wish, oh, I wish, I was yonder cloud, That sails about with its misty shroud ; Books and work I no more should see, And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. From " The Minstrel Girl." JAMES G. WHITTIKB- SHE leaned against her favorite tree, The golden sunlight melting through The twined branches, as the free And easy-pinioned breezes flew COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 07 Around the bloom and greenness there, Awaking all to life and motion, Like unseen spirits sent to bear Earth's perfume to the barren ocean That ocean lay before her then Like a broad lustre, to send back The scattered beams of day again To burn along its sunset track ! And broad and beautiful it shone ; As quickened by some spiritual breath, Its very waves seemed dancing on To music whispered underneath. And there she leaned, that minstrel girl ! The breeze's kiss was soft and meek Where coral melted into pearl On parted lip and glowing cheek ; Her dark and lifted eye had caught Its lustre from the spirit's gem ; And round her brow the light of thought Was like an angel's diadem ; For genius, as a living coal, >Had touched her lip and heart with Same, 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Rested his front of fire, to shed A glory round his ocean-grave : And sunset far and gorgeous hung A banner from the wall of heaven A wave of living glory, flung Along the shadowy verge of even. Description of a sultry Summer's JVoort.* CARLOS WILCOX. A SULTRY NOON, not in the summer's prime, When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, But near its close, when vegetation stops, And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, Its images of silence and of rest, The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken, on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines, in sweet repose. Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stana, The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath Brushes along the surface with a shade Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. The slender stalks their heavy bended heads Support as motionless as oaks their tops. O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still ; E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside * How perfect is this description of the hot noon of a summer's day in the country ! anil yet how simple and unstudied ! Several of its most expressive images are entirely new, and the whole graphic combination is original a quality very difficult to attain afV'r Thomson and Cowpcr. The thistle alighting sleepily on the grass, the yellow-hirmmer mutely picking the seeds, the grasshopper snapping his win;;*, and the lo\<- sinking of tho locust all the images, indeed, make uo a j>icturo inimitably beautiful ami true to na- luro. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 Kke sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves, With each new impulse chimes a feeble uoie. 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. Ol'ttimes, though seldom seen, The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves, Is heard to moan, as if at every breath Panting aloud. The hawk, in mid-air high, 70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. On his broad pinions sailing round and round, With not a flutter, or but now and then, As if his trembling balance to regain, Utters a single scream, but faintly heard, And all again is still. The Dying Child. CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. 'Tis dying ! life is yielding place To that mysterious charm, Which spreads upon the troubled face A fixed, unchanging calm, That deepens as the parting breath Is gently sinking into death. A thoughtful beauty rests the while Upon its snowy brow ; But those pale lips could never smile More radiantly than now ; And sure some heavenly dreams begin To dawn upon the soul within ! that those mildly conscious lips Were parted to reply To tell how death's severe eclipse Is passing from thine eye ; For living eye can never see The change that death hath wrought in thee. Perhaps thy sight is wandering far Throughout the kindled sky, In tracing every infant star Amid the flames on high ; Souls of the just, whose path is bent Around the glorious firmament. Perhaps thine eye is gazing down Upon the earth below, Rejoicing to have gained thy crown, And hurried from its wo To dwell beneath the throne of Him, Before whose glory heaven is dim. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 71 Thy life ! how cold it might have been, If days had grown to years! How dark, how deeply stained with sin, With weariness and tears ! How happy thus to sink to rest, So early numbered with the blest! 'Tis well, then, that the smile should lie Upon thy marble cheek : It tells to our inquiring eye What words could never speak A revelation sweetly given Of all that man can learn of heaven. Looking unto Jesus. CHRISTIAN EXAMINEK. THOTJ, 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 ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Aou, who art our life, Be with us through the strife ! Was not thy head by earth's fierce tempests bowed? Raise thou our eyes above, To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, through the cloud. Even through the awful gloom, Which hovers o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be ; Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy way to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to thee. Scene from Hadad. HILLHOUSE. The garden of ABSALOM'S house on Mount Zion, near the palace, over looking the city. TAMAR sitting by a fountain. Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha; Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. Blest hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair, So softly glowing, so contemplative, Hath set, and sanctified to look on man. And, lo ! the smoke of evening sacrifice Ascends from out the tabernacle. Heaven Accept the expiation, and forgive This day's offences ! Ha ! the wonted strain, Precursor of his coming! Whence can this It seems to flow from some unearthly hand Enter HADAD. Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount, Herself, or heaven ? Tarn. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence Those sad, mysterious sounds. Had. What sounds, dear princess ? Tarn. Surely, thou know'st ; and now I almost think Some spiritual creature waits on thee. Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends Up from the city to these quiet shades ; A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, And voices from the hills. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 73 Tarn. The sounds I mean Floated like mournful music round my head, From unseen fingers. Had. When? Tarn. Now, as thou earnest. Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought To ecstasy ; or else thy grandsire's harp Resounding from his tower at eventide. I've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones, Till the broad moon, that rose o'er Olivet, Stood listening in the zenith ; yea, have deemed Viols and heavenly voices answered him. 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 1 fear Judah would call me infidel to Moses. Tarn. How like my fancy ! When these strains precede Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think Some gentle being, who delights in us, Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming; But they are dirge-like. Had. Youthful fantasy, Attuned to sadness, makes them seem so, lady. So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever, As signs of rest and peace ; tht watchman's call, The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump Announcing the returning moon, the pipe Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell, Send melancholy to a drooping soul. Tarn. But how delicious are the pensive dreams That steal upon the fancy at their call ! Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest. Meek Labor wipes his brow, and intermits The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot; Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks and, hark ' 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 Ha, who formed Earth and the stars, had power to make eternal. 7 74 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Tarn. Ah, Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend Who gave so much, because he gave not all ? Had. Perfect benevolence, methinks, had willed Unceasing happiness, and peace, and joy; Filled the whole universe of human hearts With pleasure, like a flowing spring of life. Tarn. Our Prophet teaches so, till man rebelled. Had. Mighty rebellion ! Had he 'leagured heaven With beings powerful, numberless, and dreadful, Strong as the enginery that rocks the world When all its pillars tremble ; mixed the fires Of onset with annihilating bolts Defensive volleyed from the throne ; this, this Had been rebellion worthy of the name, Worthy of punishment. But what did man ? Tasted an apple ! and the fragile scene, Eden, and innocence, and human bliss, The nectar-flowing streams, life-giving fruits, Celestial shades, and amaranthine flowers, Vanish ; and sorrow, toil, and pain, and death, Cleave to him by an everlasting curse. Tarn. Ah ! talk not thus. Had. Is this benevolence ? Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me ; For I was tutored in a brighter faith. Our Syrians deem each lucid fount, and stream, Forest, and mountain, glade, and bosky dell, Peopled with kind divinities, the friends Of man, a spiritual race, allied To him by many sympathies, who seek His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts, Cool with their waves, and fan him with their airs. O'er them, the Spirit of the Universe, Or Soul of Nature, circumfuses all With mild, benevolent, and sun-like radiance ; Pervading, warming, vivifying earth, As spirit does the body, till green herbs, And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars, rise ; And shooting stellar influence through her caves, Whence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre. Tarn. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams- Had. These deities They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites, Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrinei COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 75 With Nature's bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers. Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks Tarn. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar. Had. Nay, sweet. Having: enjoyed all pleasures here That Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love, At death, the happy Syrian maiden deems Her immaterial nies 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. Tain. But thou believ'st not this. Had. 1 almost wish Thou didst ; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar, Thy spirit is too tender for a law Announced in terrors, coirpled 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 unextiriguished in the deeps of hell. Jealous, implacable Tarn. Peace ! impious ! peace ! Had. Ha ! says not Moses so ? The Lord is jealous. Tarn. Jealous of our faith, Our love, our true obedience, justly his; And a poor recompense for all his favors. Implacable he is not ; contrite man Ne'er found him so. Had. But others have, If oracles be true. Tarn. Little we know Of them ; and nothing of their dire offence Had. I meant not to displease, love ; but my soul Sometimes revolts, because I think thy nature Shudders at him and yonder bloody rites. How dreadful ! when the world awakes to light, And life, and gladness, and the jocund tide Bounds in the veins of every happy creature, Morning is ushered by a murdered victim, . 76 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Whose wasting members reek upon the air, Polluting the pure firmament ; the shades Of evening scent of death ; almost, the shrine O'ershadowed by the holy cherubim; And where the clotted current from the altar Mixes with Kedron, all its waves are gore. IN ay, nay, I grieve thee 'tis not for myself, B it that 1 fear these gloomy things oppress Thy soul, and cloud its native sunshine. Tarn, (in tear 3, clasping her hands.) Witness, ye heavens! Eternal Father, witness! B ist God of Jacob! Maker! Friend! Preserver! 7 1: at, with my heart, my undivided soul, I Ove, adore, and praise thy glorious name C< nfess thee Lord of all, believe thy laws V ise, just, and merciful, as they are true. Had;id, Hadad ! you misconstrue much 1 ic sadness that usurps me : 'tis for thee I grieve for hopes that fade for your lost soul, And my lost happiness. Had. say not so, Eeloved princess. Why distrust my faith ? Tarn. Thou know'st, alas ! my weakness ; but remember, I never, never will be thine, although 1 he feast, the blessing, and the song were past, 1 hough Absalom and David called me bride, 1 ill sure thou own'st, with truth and love sincere, 1 he Lord Jehovah. oman Catholic Chaunt. From " Percy's Masque.' HlLLHOUSE. 0, HOLT 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, 0, holy Virgin, call thy child. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETEY. 77 Joy from my darkling soul is fled, And haggard phantoms haunt me wild; Despair assails, and Hope is dead : O, holy Virgin, call thy child. Song. FROM THE TALISMAN. firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, And the woodlands, awaking, burst into a hymn, And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim! Oh, 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, Srarce 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 mind3. 7* COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 rind a single flower, but all in vain ; Then, rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps, The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropped From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. On the Loss of Professor Fisher. BRAIN ARD. THE breath of air, that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the s'orm; The drops of dew, exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise, and assume the tempest's threatening form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash ; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster, when the might Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 79 So science whispered in thy charmed ear, And radiant learning beckoned thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee ! But there is a shore Where storm* are hushed, where tempests never rage; Where angry skies and blackening seas no more With gusty strength their roaiing warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be tiod Thy home is heaven, and thy Friend is God. Idle Words. ANONYMOUS. T have a high sense of the virtue and dignity of the female character; and woulil not, by any means, l>e thought to attribute to the ladies emphatically, the fault here -spoken of. But I have remarked it in some of my friends, who, in .-ill hut this, were among the loveliest of 1 their sex. In'such, the blemish is more district 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 Or disappointment's pang ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The idlest thing that flattery knew, The most unmeaning jest, From those sweet lips profanely drew Names of the Holiest ! I thought How sweet that voice would be, Breathing this prayer to heaven " My God, I worship only thee ; O, be my sins forgiven !" He knoweth our Frame, He remembereth we are Dust.- DANA. THOU, who didst form us with mysterious powers, Didst give a conscious soul, and call it ours, "fis thou alone who know'st the strife within; Thou'lt kindly judge, nor name each weakness sin. Thou art not man, who only sees in part, Yet deals unsparing with a brother's heart; For thou look'st in upon the struggling throng That war the goad with ill the weak with strong. And those thy hand hath wrought of finer frame, When grief o'erthrows the mind, thou wilt not blame. " It is enough !" thou'lt say, and pity show ; " Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of wo ! Thy heart find rest thy dark mind clear away, And thou sit in the peace of heaven's calm day !" Immortality. DANA.* Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? And doth death cancel the great bond that holds Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out The Eternal Mind the Father of all thought Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms * We scarcely know where, in the English language, we could point out a finer extract than this, of the same character. It has a softened grandeur worthy of tl.o subject ; especially in the noble paragraph commencing " O, listen, man !" ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 81 Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, Which One, with gentle hand the vail of flesh Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed In glory ? throne, before which, even now, Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, Thou awful, unseen Presence are they quenched, Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not; as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? And with our frames do perish all our loves ? Do those that took their root and put forth ouds, 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 ? 0, 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 lingers 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. The mysterious Music of Ocean. WALSH'S NATIOICAI. GAZETTE. " And the people of this place say, that, at certain seasons, beautiful sound* ire heard from the ocean." JMavar'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. 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, O restless main ! Who are the dwellers in thy world heneath, That thus the watery realm cannot contain The joy they breathe ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. S3 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 keep each secret of their hidden caves Dark and unknown. Summer Wind. BRYANT. IT is a sultry day ; the sun has drank The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no 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 aft With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? O come, and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his pioud 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 sleep* in embryo the midnight storm, The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets, Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge ; Or if the bolder fancy so conceive Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops With beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright The distant flashes gleam as to efface The window's image on the floor impressed, By the dim crescent ; or outshines the light Cast from the room upon the trees hard by, If haply, to illume a moonless night, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 85 The lighted taper shine ; though lit in vain To waste away unused, and fiom 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 perishiuj things. We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods ; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June, And the light whisper as their edges meet Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment, in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye And sing till it is hooded from the sky. To Seneca Lake. PERCIVAL. ON thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, *This is a beautiful piece of poptry more exquisitely finished than any of Mr. Willis's poetry which we have seen. Even n prejudiced mind (SSld there seem to be mauy such} cannot but admire it. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side ! At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A 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 height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there ! Thine is the rock of other regions ; where The world of life which blooms so far below Sweeps a wide waste : no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 87 When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home ! Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong ! And, when the tumult of the air is fled, And quenched in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name. The stars look down upon tham 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. These wrecks of thine own making. Lo! thy knell Gathers upon the windy breath of night, Its lasj and faintest echo ! Fare thee well ! The Captain. Jl Fragment* BRAIJTARD. SOLEMN he paced upon that schooner's deck, And muttered of hb hardships : ' 1 have been Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide * Has dashed me on the sawyer ; JL 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 fijjit beneath my bows; And, when they made the deep boil like a pot, Have swung into its vortex ; and 1 knew To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill, Arid brave such dangers with a sailor's heart ; But never yet, upon the stormy wave, Or where (he river' mixes wiih the main, Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay, 'n all my rough experience of harm, Het I a Methodist meeting-house ! * * * * Hat-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, \nd make for Bridgeport ! There, where Stratford Point,. Long Beach, Fairweather Isluud, and the buoy, Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest! And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale, That once a Charleston schooner was beset, Riding at anchor, by a meeting-house ! *The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said : " Arrived, schooner Fam, from Charleston, viti New London. While 8t anchor in that harbor, dur- ing the rain storm on Thursday evening lust, the Fume WHS run foul of by the wreck of the Met hod in meeting-house from Norwich, \i hich w as carried way in the late freshet." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 89 " They that seek me early shall find me." COLTTMBIAW 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: 0, 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* COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRtT. f Son's Farewell to his Mother, and Departure from Home CONNECTICUT 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, AnJ the sweet hour of prayer j With grief my heart is swelling No more to meet thee there. Thy faith and fervor, pleading In unspent tones of love, Perchance my sou! 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 anni, that now enfold me So closely to thy heart, These eyes, that now behold me, From all from all 1 part. Huahed is the Voice of Judah's Mirth. , A Sacred Melody. FHOM THE PORT-FOLIO.* " Tn Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping and groat Diuiirnin" , Km- hi ! weeping fur her children, und would nut bu cumluricd, tcuuse they lire nut." St. Mitt. ii. 18. HUSHED is the voice of Judah's mirth ; And Judah's minstrels, too, are gone ; * We are not si-nsihle that thii piece is inferior, in nny respect whatever, U> Mare's oelehniicd and henutifnl SacreH Mi-ltxlii's We l.i'e'.y saw it Q, and wruugly ascribed to the English poet, it wui written iu COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 91 And harps that told Messiah's birth Are hung on heaven's eternal throne. Fled is the bright and shining throng That swelled otl 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 bo'om eloquent ; But, when the silence and the calm come on, And the high seal of character b set,* We shall not all be similar. The scale Of being is a graduated thing; And deeper than the vani'.ies 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 1813. While under Mr. fVnnie's care, the p;i<j<"s of this journal were ennchod with many Hue articles, both iu poetry and prose. o. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRT. 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 monarch*. 0, press on I 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! So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst Of his immortal nature ; and he rends The rock for secret fountains, and pursues The path of the illimitable wind COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 03 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 mu.-iic ; to be glad In the gay sunshfne, referent 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 muic 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 ms 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 ; Arid I would press the lesson ; that, when life Hath half become a weariness, and hope Thirsts for screner waters, Go abroad COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Upon the paths of nature, and, when all Its voices whisper, and its silent things Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, Kneel at its simple altar, and the God Who hath the living waters shall be there ! Retirement. ANONYMOUS. " The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree, And seem by Thy sweet bounty made For those who follow Tliee. "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." Coieper. I LOVE to st^al awhile away From every cumbering care, And spend the hours ot setting day In humble, grateful prayer. I love in solitude to shed The penitential tear, And all His promises to plead, Where none but God can hear. I love to think on mercies past, And future good implore, And all my sighs and sorrows cast On him whom I adore. I love by faith to take a view Of brighter scenes in heaven : Such prospects oft my strength renew, While here by tempests driven. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 95 Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er, May its departing ray Be calm as this impressive hour, And lead to endless day. To the River Arve. TALISMAN. 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 tirst Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. Born where the thunder, and the blast, And morning's earliest light are born, Thou rushest, swoln, and loud, and fast, By these low homes, as if in scorn : Yet humbler springs yield purer waves, And brighter, glassier streams than thine, Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, With heaven's own beam and image shine. Yet stay ; for here are flowers and trees ; Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, And laugh of girls, and hum of bees: Here linger till thy waves are clear. Thou heedest not ; thou hastest on ; From steep to steep thy torrent falls, Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, It rests beneath Geneva's walls. Rush on ; but were there one with me That loved me, I would light my hearth Here, where with God's own majesty Are touched the features of the earth. By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat, Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, Among the blossoms at their feet. 96 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The Burial. ANONYMOUS. w We therefore commit bis body to the ground." Burial Sermct 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, Tet shall he wake, and leave that gloom, For everlasting day. On the Loss of a pious Friend. BRAINARD. Imitated from the 57th chapter of Isaiah. WHO shall weep when the righteous die ? Who shall mourn when the good depart ? When the soul of the godly away shall fly, Who shall lay the loss to heart? He has gone into peace ; he has laid him down To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day ; And he shall wke on that holy morn, When sorrow <md oigui&g shall dee awcy. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 97 I 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 arid 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 wns first published in the Port-Folio, was wrtten, we be.ieve, by Ecv. J. W. Eastburn. ED. 9 98 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The heaving surge received him as he fell, While sadder moaned the unaccustomed swell ; The Nereids caught him on the trembling 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 bird, Then passed away, and all was still again Upon the wide, unfathomable main ; But to that roaring sea immortal fame Gave to commemorate the deed his name ! Sunset in September.* CARLOS WILCOX. THE sun now rests upon the mountain tops Begins to sink behind is half concealed And now is gone : the last faint twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. * Every person, who has witnessed the splendor of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight tho local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England,-a gpot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the land* scape ; the situation of the hill, on the broad level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution ; the vast amphitheatre of luxu- riant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens ; tha perfect outline of the horizon ; the noble range of blue moun- tains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance ; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot, these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain drop?, anil over the whole scene, the parting rays of Hiinliglit linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, ' lading, still fading,' till the stars arc out in their beauty, and a cloudings night reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Ando- vur combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the tudcnt. In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the mow- banks on the Grand Monaduock, make the invalid, at least, sigb for a more congenial climax. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 99 Sweet to the pensive is departing flay, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb ; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpened to a needle's point, With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half hour's space above the mountain lie; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threatened rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, All fading soon as lower sinks the sun, Till twilight end. But now another scene, To me most beautiful of all, appears : The sky, without the shadow of a cloud, Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye, Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force Its power of vision to admit the whole. Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye, Midway the blushing of the mellow peach Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep ; And here, in this most lovely region, shines, With added lovelint-ss, the evening-star. Above, the fainter purple slowly fades, Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun Descended, in a single row arranged, As if thus planted by the hand of art, Majestic pines shoot up into the sky, And in its fluid gold seem half dissolved. Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, A stately colonnade with verdant roof; Upon a nearer still, a single tree, With shapely form, looks beautiful alone ; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass 100 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Scooped in the hither range, a single mount Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, And of a softer, more ethereal blue, A pyramid of polished sapphire built. But now the twilight mingles into one The various mountains ; levels to a plain This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, Where every object to my sight presents Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls, And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks Under thick foliage, reflective shows Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line Of the horizon parting heaven and earth ! From " The Buccaneer." DANA. A SOUND is in the Pyrenees ! 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 with fondly murmured sound His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. He fell for Spain her Spain no more ; For he was gone who made it dear; And she would seek some distant shore, At rest from strife and fear, And wait, amidst her sorrows, till the day His voice of love should call her thence away. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 hon;e. " 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 1 go." Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea ! The wash of waters lulls thee now; His arm no more will pillow thee, Thy hand upon his brow. He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. The ground is his the sea must be thy grave. Sonnet. BRYANT. A POWER is on the earth and in the air From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth : her thousand plants Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze : Th:; herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den; The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town : As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. 9* 102 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Power qf the Soul in investing external Circumstances with the Hue of its own Feelings. DANA. LIFE in itself, it life to all things gives 5 For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives- Becomes an acting being, ill or good ; And, grateful to its giver, tenders food For the soul's health, or, suffering change unblest, Pours poison down to rankle in the breast: As is the man, e'en so it bears its part, And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart. Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see, In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree. Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air, Now rests, now stirs, as if a breeze were there Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all f 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, O man, is like that flood to thee : Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand, If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep The drifting waste, like waves along the deep, Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams; Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky, And one still, sightless level make the earth, Like thy dull, lonely, joyless soul, a dearth. The rill is tuneless to his ear, who feels No harmony within ; the south wind steals As silent as unseen amongst the leaves. Who has no inward beauty, none perceives. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 103 Though all around is beautiful* Nay, more- In nature's calmest hour, he hears the roar Of winds and flinging waves puts out the light, When high and angry passions meet in fight ; And, his own spirit into tumult hurled, He makes a turmoil of a quiet world : The fiends of his own bosom people air With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair. Hates he his fellow-inen ? Why, then, he deems "Tis hate for hate : as he, so each one seems. Soul ! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness ; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast- Which gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart. Spring in Town. BRYANT* THE country ever has a lagging spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses. Showers and sunshine bring Slowly the deepening verdure o'er the earth ; To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing birds come back ; Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours, Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, Shine on our roofs, and chase the wintry gloom And, lo, our borders glow with sudden bloom. For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, That, overhung with blossoms, through its glen Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon ; And they that search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 104 COMMON-PLACE DO OK OP POETRf. For here are eyes that shame the violet, Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies ; And foreheads white as when, in clusters set, The anemonies by forest fountains rise ; And the spring- beauty boasts no tenderer streak Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. And thick about those lovely temples He Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled Thrice happy man,whose trade it is to buy, And bake, and braid those love-nets of the world ! Who curls of every glossy color keepest, And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest ! And well thou mayst ; for Italy's brown maids Send the dark locks with which their brows are drest; And Tuscan lasses from their jetty braids Croj) half to buy a ribbon for the rest ; But the fresh Norman girls their ringlets spare, And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. Then henceforth let no maid or matron grieve To see her locks of an unlovely hue, Frowzy or thin; for Vignardonne shall give Such piles of curls as nature never knew : Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight Had blushed outdone, and owned herself a fright. Soft voices and light laughter wake the street Like notes of wood-birds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by ; The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, Scarce bore tiiose tossing plumes with fleeter pace. No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn, A step that speaks the spirit of the place, Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven aw ty To Singsing and the shores of T appan bay. Ye that dash by in chariots, who will care For steeds and footmen now ? Ye cannot show COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 105 Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, And last edition of the shape ! Ah no ; These sights are for the earth and open sky, Aad your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. The Sabbath. CARLOS WU.CQX. WHO scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. Emblem and earnest ot eternal rest, A festival with fruits celestial crowned, A jubilee releasing him from earth, The day delights and animates the saint. It gives new vigor to the languid pulse Of life divine, restores the wandering feet, Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, Establishing them all upon a rock. Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come. To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn Seems like the first, when every thing was new. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold. In every thing a smiling God is seen. On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines, in objects overlooked On other days he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell. While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now To bring him near ; for Faith performs the work ; In solemn thought surrounds herself witli God, With such transparent vividness, she feels I 106 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETKT, Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd To sudden vision. Such is oft her power In God's own house, which, in the absorbing act Of adoration, or inspiring praise, She with his glory fills, as once a cloud Of radiance filled the temple's inner couit. 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 r Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked; His armory, to which he soon retreats When danger warns, his weapons to select, And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead, When taken hy surprise and half o'ercome, That, now, to venture near the hallowed place Were but profane ; a plea that marks a soul Glad to impose on conscience with a show Of humble veneration, to secure Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed, It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears. The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near The upper world of purity and light. He loses sight of his intended prey, In that effulgence beaming from the throne Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails To succor and preserve the tempted soul, Whose time and talents rest or run to waste. Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse A salutary savor through the day, With charities and duties not well filled. These form the links of an electric chain That join the orisons of morn and eve, And propagate through all its several parts, While kept continuous, the ethereal fire; But if a break be found, the fire is spent. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 107 Consolations of Religion to the Poor. PERCIVAL THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken; She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her beicg's night ? 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 smaH, Though she has never mounted high, to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall Her unperverted palate, but will bring A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers, so softly pour The breathings of her bosom, when 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 soe 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 Mrs of Palestine. PIERPONT. WHERE lies our path ? Though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all. i 108 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Where lies our path ? A poet, and inquire What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre ? See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow ; See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; There Ossa rises ; there Olympus towers ; Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers, Forever verdant ; and there Peneus glides Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. Your theme is Music ; Yonder rolls the wave, Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, Enchanted by his lyre ; Cithaeron's shade Is yonder seen, where first Amphiou 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 fo 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 ; ive 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 deu 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, Inwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound ; And fondly, warmly, humbly hope the Power, That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower, Drew living water from this rocky shrine, Purpled the clustering honors of the vine, And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. To weave a garland, will not let it wither } 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. 100 On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh. BRAINARD. " The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cubic, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss ; 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 ia rife With grief and sorrow : all that we would prop, Or would be propped with, falls; when shall the ruin stop, The sea has one, and Palestine has one, And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone, And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid, Turn to some other monument nor know Whose grave she passes, or who^e 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 I 110 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. From "The Minstrel Girl." JAMES G. WHITTIEB. AGAIN 'twas evening. Agnes knelt, Pale, passionless, a sainted one : On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt The last beams of the setting sun. Alone the damp and cloistered wall Was round her like a sepulchre ; And at the vesper's mournful call Was bending every worshipper. She knelt her knee upon the stone Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye, As it were sin to gaze upon The changes ofthe 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 passioi-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 wherefoie 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, Un'il your very soul was theirs; And from their maddening ecstasies Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Ill But she is sometimes happy now And yet her happiness is not Such as the buoyant heart may know And it is blended with her lot To chasten every smile with tears, And look on life with tempered gladness, That, undeba-ied by human fears, Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness, Like sun-hiuQ on the falling rain, Or as the moonlight on the cloud ; Nor would she mingle once again With life's unsympathi-ing crowd; But, yielding up to earnest p.ayer Life's dark and mournful residue, She w.iitefh for her summons where The pure iu heart their faith renew. The Torn Hat.N. P. WILLIS. THEEE'S something in a noble boy, A brave. free-heaite<l, careless one, Wilh hi; unchecked, unhidden joy, HU dread of books and love of fun, An 1 in his clear and ready Finile, Unshaded by a thought of guile, And unrepressed by ?adn.;s3 Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very tiack, And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in hi? play, When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me moat. 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 nolice such things now But when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music heard, 112 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. 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 1 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 Jwt is blessed. MRS. SIGOURWET, THOTT too, blest Raikes philanthropist divine Who, all unconscious what thy hands had done, Didst plant that germ, whose glorious fruit shall shine When from his throne doth fall yon darkened sun, The Sabbath bell, the Teacher's hallowed lore, The countless throng from childhood's snares set free, Who in sweet strains the Sire of Heaven adore, Shall point in solemn gratitude to thee- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 ADVERTISER. " She flung her white arms around him Thou art That thU poor heart can cling to." I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide, And borne the rich one's sneer, Have braved the haughty glance of pride, Nor shed a single tear. I could have smiled on every blow From Life's full quiver thrown, While I might gaze on thee, and know I should not be " alone." I could I think I could have brooked, E'en for a time, that thou Upon my fading face hadst looked With less of love than now ; For then I should at least have felt The sweet hope still my own, To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt On earth, not been " alone." . But thus to see, from day to day, Thy brightening eye and cheek, And watch thy life-sands waste away, Unnumbered, slowly, meek ; To meet thy smiles of ten lerness, And catch the feeble tone Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, And feel, I'll be " alone ;" To mark thy strength each hour decay, And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 10* 114 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETKT, 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. BUT AWT, WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, From the void abyss, by myriads came, In the joy of youth, as they darted away, Through the widening wastes of space to play, Their silver voices in 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, With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, And her waters that lie like fluid light. " For the Source of glory uncovers his face, And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space; AnJ we drink, as we go, the luminous tides In our ruddy air and our blooming sides. Lo, yonder the living splendors play: Away, on our joyous path away ! " Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star, How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass I How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass! And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. " And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 113 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 short Distance from the City.- ALONZO LEWIS. AND 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. Hijh 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 foarful wight, Who wanders lonely in the silent night. 116 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Around our heads the bat, on leathern wings, In airy circles wheels his sudden flight; The whippoorwill, in distant forest, sings Her load, unvaried song; and o'er the night The boding owl, upon the evening gale, Sends Ibrth 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 streaxs 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 honors crave; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave ! Friend of my youth ! with thee began the love OfsacreJ song; the won!, in golden dreams, ! MiJ classic realms of splendor.s past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams ; Where the blue wave, wiih sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory's twilight beams; W here the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's eailier age. There would we linger of f , entranced, to hear, O'er battla fieUs, the epic thunders roll ; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing stole ; There would we mark, uncurbed by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 117 Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night, la loved Athenian groves, lor truth's eternal light. Homeward we turned to that fair land, hut late Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where Mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate, And kept the key, till three millenniums past; When, as creation's noblest work was last, Latest, to man it was vouchsafed to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free. And here forerunners strange and meet were found Of that blest freedom, only dreamed before ; Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. " Earth was their mother ;" or they knew no more, Or would not that their secret should be told ; For they were grave and silent ; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old Kind Nature's commoners, from her they drew Their needful wants, and learned not how to hoard ; And him whom strength and wisdom crowned they knew, But with no servile reverence, as their lord. And on their mountain summits they adored One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, And thence their incense and orisons poured To his pervading presence, that abroad They felt through all his works, their Father, King, and God. And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good ; But when the tempest roared, with voices rude, Or fierce, red lightning 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And, as the fleet deer's, agile was (heir frame: Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name ; These simple truths went down from sire to son, To reverence age, the sluggish hunter's shame, And craven warrior's infamy, to shun, And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done. From forest shades they peered, with awful dread, When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came, ploughing gallan'ly 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 would deplore, And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more. But no ! the freshness of that past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be ; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved, and gathered chaplets wild with thee; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 119 Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay, Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray ; And downward, far, reflected in the clear Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees ; So buoyant, they do seem to float in air, And silently obey the noiseless breeze ; Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, They part for distant ports. The gales benign, Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all- wise decrees, To its own harbor sure, where each divine And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. Muses of Helicon ! melodious race Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyne ! Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, And drives each scowling form of grief away ! Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay Once-trod, and round the altar of great Jove ; Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above ! Bright choir ! with lips untempted, and with zone Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane ; Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain ; Rightly invoked, if right the elected swain, On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, Whose honored hand took not your gift in vain, Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore, Farewell ! a long farewell ! I worship you no more. Dawn. N. P. WILLIS. " That line I learned not in the old sad song." Charles Lamb. THROW up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world ; And the south wind seems liquid it o'crsteals 120 COMMON-PLACE BOOK dp POETRY. My bosom and my brow so bathingly. It has come over gardens, and the flowers ' That kissed it are betrayed ; for as it parts, With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, I know it has been trifling with the rose, And stooping to the violet. There is joy For all God's 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 ; Could the long fever of the heart be cooled By a sweet breath from nature ; or the gloom Of a bereaved affection pass away With looking on the lively tint of flowers How lightly were the spirit reconciled To make this beautiful, bright world its home! The Restoration of Israel. JAMES WALL.IS EASTBURIC. MOUNTAINS of Israel, rear on high Your summits, crowned with verdure new, And spread your branches to the sky, Refulgent with celestial dew. O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow, And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 121 And far reflect the lovely glow- Where ocean's waves incessant toil See where the scattered tribes return; Their slavery is burst at length, And purer flames to Jesus burn, And Zion girds on her new strength t 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 alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious truths." The Rebels. SHE sleeps the quiet sleep of death, The maid who lies below, And these are angel-missioned flowers, That o'er the green turf grow. And they are sent to warn the fair, How transient is their bloom ; See, how they bend their tender forms, And weep upon her tomb. 11 122 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The blush upon her living cheek Had shamed the morning skies ; And diamond light is not more bright Than were her youthful eyes. To see her on a summer's day, Gave love a lighter wing; And happy thoughts would crowd the heart, And gush from many a spring. I know the language of the flowers, And love to hear them grieve, When crimsoning to the eye of morn, Or drooping to the eve. I listened when the 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 1 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 iny fears. And when my hour of rest shall be, 1 will not weep my doom ; So angel- missioned flowers may come And gather round my tomb I COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 123 The Missionary. W. B. TAFPAW. 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, ^he wanderer of his native Oregon, Tell of that Jesus, whc, in dvine, won The peace-branch of the skies salvation for His foe ! Unfurl the banneret On other shores, Messiah's cross bid shine O'er every lovely hill of Palestine ; Fair stars of glory that shall never set. Seek ye the far-off isle; The sullied jewel of the deep, O'er whose remembered beauty angels weep, Restore its lustre, and to God give spoil. Go, break the chain of caste ; Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more The Indian river roll its waves of gore ; Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast. To heal the bruised, speed ; Oh, pour on Africa the balm Of (iilead, and, her agony to calm, Whisper of fetters broken, and the spirit freed. And thou, Church, betake Thyself to watching, labour help these men: God shall thee visit of a surety, when Thou'rt faithful : Church that Jesus bought, awake, awake ! Missions. MRS. SIGOURNEY, LIGHT for the dreary vales Of ice-bound Labrador ! Where the frost-Jung breathes on the slippery sails, "M. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. And the mariner wakes no more ; Lift high the lamp that never fails, To that dark and sterile shore. Light for the forest child ! An outcast though he be, From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled, And the country of the free ; Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild, For what home on earth has he ? Light for the hills of Greece ! Light for that trampled clime Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease Ere it wrecked the boast of time ; If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace, Can ye grudge your boon sublime 1 Light on the Hindoo shed ! On the maddening idol-train, The flame of the suttee is dire and red, And the fakir faints with pain, And the dying moan on their cheerless bed, By the Ganges laved in vain. Light for the Persian sky ! The Sophi's wisdom fades, And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy Armor when Death invades ; Hark ! Hark ! 'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh From Ararat's mournful shades. Light for the Burman vales ! For the islands of the sea ! For the coast where the slave-ship fills its 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 125 Light for the darkened earth ! Ye blessed, iu beams who shed, Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth, Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth, shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed, And clear the tomb From its lingering g'oom, For the aged to rest his weary head. The Fear of Madness.* LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. THERE is a something which I dread ; It is a dark, a fearful thing ; It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. That thought comes o'er me in the hour Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness ; 'Tis not the dread of death, 'tis more, It is the dread of madness. Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, Forgetful of their feverish course; May this hot brain, which, burning, glows With all a fiery whirlpool's force, Be cold, and motionless and still, A tenant of its lowly bed ; But let not dark delirium steal The Matin Hour of Prayer. ANONYMOUS. THIS cool and fragrant hour of prime, Unvexed by life's intrusive care, My matin hour of praise shall be, Sweet, solitary praise, and prayer. * These lines, expressing her fears of insanity, were written by this in- tereslin; girl while confined to her bed in the last stage of consumption. They were uulinished, and the lust she ever composed. Eo. 126 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY, 'Twill gird my spirit for the fight, The glare, the strife, of this world's way} Weak, tempted, weary, lone, and sad, 'Tis never, never vain to pray. This cool and fragrant hour of prime ; The silent stars are fading quite ; The moist air gently stirs the leaves, Dew-laden, to the breaking light. The stillness, the repose, the peace, They win the quiet soul away, To visit that Elysian world, Where breaketh an eternal day. Ere falls the stealing step of dawn, The night's soft dew on her brown wings, Upriseth from her nest the lark, Aud, soaring to the sunlight, sings. Th.u may my soul sing on, and soar Where sight tracks not her flight sublime. Morn, noon, sweet eve, and ever in This cool and fragrant hour of prime. For, though the world enclose me round, Strong Faith can carry me abroad, Where shines my home, Jerusalem, The glorious dwelling-place of God ! Then let my soul sing on, and soar Above the world, beyond all time, And dwell in that pure light, and breathe The air from that celestial clime. Sing on and soar, sing on and soar, Till, through the crystal gates of heaven, No longer closed in upper skies, Thou enter in to sing, Forgiven ! COMMON-PLACE COOK OP POETRY. 127 Song* FROM YAMOTPEW. SLEEP, child of my love! Be thy slutnber as light As the red birds that nestle secute on the spray; Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray. 0, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast ; In the wild wood Sle,p cradles in roses thy head ; But her who protect thee, a wanderer unblessed, ile forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread. I fear for thy father ! why stays he so long On the sl> >res where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song, So s j id o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone. He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe, Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may descry, The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry ! The Power that is round us whose presence is near, In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul Protect that lone bark in its lonely career, And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll ! Solitude.- MRS. SIGOTTRNEY. DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught, For which it long had languished 'mid the strife And fever of the world. I thought to be * We cannot determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a companion of its charac- ter with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, which the rudder will find in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed ; the former beiug but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen. ED. 128 COMMON-PtACE BOOK OP POETRY. There without wi'ness. But the violet's eye Looked up upon me, the fresh wild-rose smiled, And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek And there were voices too. The garrulous brook, Untiring, to the patient pebble* told Its hUtory ; up came the singing breeze, Am! the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake Responsive, every one. Even biK>y life Woke in that dell. The tireless spider threw From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare. The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel. To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird Sang to her nurslings. Yet I strangely thought To be alone, and silent in thy realm, Spirit of life and love! It might not. be ! There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast, He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief. Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams, Are social and benevolent; and he 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. Bishop Ravenscroft. GEORGE WASHING-TOW DOANK. " For he was a good man." THE good old man is gone ! He lies in his saintly rest, And his labors all arc done, An-1 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, Thai bound him, through care and toil, The servant of the Lord : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 129 And I saw how the depths of his manly soul By that sacred vow were stirred. And nobly his pledge he kept For the truth he stood up alone, And his spirit never slept, And his march was ever on ! Oh ! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, The brave old man that's gone. There were heralds of the cross, By his bed of death that stood, And heard how he counted all but loss, For the gain of his Savior's blood ; And patiently waited his Master's voice, Let it call him when it would. The good old man is gone ! An apostle chair is void ; There is dust on his mitre thrown, And they've broken his pastoral rod ; And the fold of his love he has left alone, To account for its care to God. The wise old man is gone ! His honored head lies low, And his thoughts of power are done, And his voice's manly flow, And the pen that.for truth, like a sword was drawn, Is still and soulless now. The brave old man is gone ! With his armor on, he fell ;* Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn, When his spirit fled, to tell ; For mortal sufferings, keen and long, Had no power his heart to quell. The good old man is gone ! He is gone to his saintly rest, Where no sorrow can be known, And no trouble can molest : For his crown of life is won, And the dead in Christ are blessed ! *The bishop was at that time (ten days before hia death) employing tns little strength he had in revising his MSS. for publication. By them, though dead, he will yet speak. 130 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. The Life of God in the Soul of Man. DAW A.* COME, brother, turn with me from pining thought, And all those inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live. Canst, guess what deep content, in turn, they give ? Kind wishes and good deeds will render back More than thou e'er canst sum. Thou'lt nothing lack, But say, " I'm full !" Where does the stream begin? The source of outward joy lies deep within. E'en let it flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow men. Should'st thou be sad, And earth seem bare, and hours, once hcppy, 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 arc disposed to rank Mr. Dana at the head of nil the American poets, nut excepting Bryant ; and we think this is the judgment which posterity will pass upon his writings. Not because ho is superior to all others in the elegance of his language, anil 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 dress of his thoughts. Not be- cause, in the same kind and class of composition to which Bryant has prin- cipally confined his genius, he would be superior, or even equal to this de- lightful writer: for the genius and style of Bryant are peculiarly suited to the accurate and exquisite description of what is beautiful in nature ; and, what is more, he unites with this power the spirit of gentle human feeling, and sometimes a rich, grand, and solemn philosophy: it will be long era any one breathes forth the soul of poetry in a finer (train than that to iho evening wind ; and Coleridge himself could hardly have written a nolilcr " Thanatopsis." But Mr. Dana has attempted and proved successful in a higher and more difficult range of poetry ; he exhibits loftier powers, and his compositions agitate the soul with a deeper emotion. His language, without being go beautiful and finished, is yet more vivid, conci*,, 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, Jlnd, on the glassy, heaving sea, The black duck, with her glossy breast, Sits swinging silently." And again ; "The ship works hard ; the seas run high ; Their whiLe tops, flashing through the night, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 131 That now, upon the water, dances, now, Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. Is it not lovely ? Tell me, where doth dwell The fay that wrought so beautiful a spell ? In 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. Then let the feeling in thy breast be given To honest ends ; this, sanctified by Heaven, And springing into life, new life imparts, Till thy frame beats as with a thousand hearts. Our sins our nobler faculties debase, And make the earth a spiritual waste Unto the soul's dimmed eye : 'tis man, not earth 'Tis thou, poor, self-starved soul, hast caused the dearth. Give to the eager, straining eye, A wild and shifting light." Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one ; speaking of the prospect of immortality : " 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories ; Night, Wrap|>ed in her sable robe, with silent step, Comes ti> our bed, and breathes it in our ears: Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, A) one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen living hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee." In thpse resjiects, in the power of giving in one word, as it were, a whole picture, in his admirable skill in tne perspective, and in the faculty of chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation, he re- minds us both of Collins and of Milton. We have not space 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 the soul KI a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him, because hi*-* poetry is full of benevolent, affectionate, domestic feeling; but, more than this, because it is full of religious feeling. The fountain which fushes here has mingled with the "well of water springing u(/ to e"er- isting life." The aspirations breathed forth in this poetry are humble, earnest desires after that holiness, " without which no man shall see God '* It speak* of a better land of rest, " but bids us turn to God, and seek our test in Him." ED. 132 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The earth is full of life : the living Hand Touched it with life ; and all its forms expand Witii principles of being made to suit Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full ? Earth which thou tread'st ! and thy poor mind be dull? Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep! Thou " living dead man," let thy spirits leap Forth to the day ; and let the fresh air blow Through thy soul's shut up mansion. Would'st thou know Something of what is life, shake off this death ; Have thy soul feel the universal breath With which all nature's quick ! and learn to be Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see. Break from thy body's grasp thy spirit's trance ; Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse : Love, joy, e'en sorrow, yield thyself to all! They'll make thy freedom, man,' and rot 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 133 Bright on the holy mountain, round the throne, Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone. Look down ! the depths are bright ! and hear them cry, " Light ! light !" Look up ! 'tis rushing down from high ! Regions on regiom far away they shine : 'Tis light ineffable, 'tis light divine ! " Immortal light, and life for evermore !" Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore Of rolling worlds " Man, wake thee from the sod Wake thee from death awake ! and live with God !" To Pneuma. JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. TEMPESTS their furteus course may sweep Swiftly o'er the trouwed deep, Darkness may lend her gloomy aid, And wrap the groaning world in shade ; But man can show a darker hour, And bend beneath a stronger power ; There is a tempest of the SOUL, A gloom where wilder billows roll ! The howling wilderness may spread Its pathless deserts, parched and dread, Where not a blade of herbage blooms, Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes ; Where silence, death, and horror reign, Unchecked, across the wide domain; There is a desert of the MIND More hopeless, dreary, undefined ! There Sorrow, moody Discontent, And gnawing Care, are wildly blent; There Horror hangs her darkest clouds, And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds; A sickly ray is cast around, Where nought but dreariness is found ; A feeling that may not be told, Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold. The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom's strife ; 12 134 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. The tempest, in its blackest form, Is beauty to the bosom's storm; The ocean, lashed to fury loud, Its high wave mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity To passion's dark and boundless sea. There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest, When storms are warring in the breast ; There is no moment of repose In bosoms lashed by hidden woes ; The scorpion sting the fury rears, And every trembling fibre tears ; The vulture preys with bloody beak Upon the heart that can but break ! To a Star. LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSOM. Written in her fifteenth year. THOU brightly glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow 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 may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost. There, beings pure as heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys, together shar3 ; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights; There, seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul. Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure heaven ! How swiftly will I soar to thee, When this imprisoned soul is free ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 135 Thanatopais.* BRYANT. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth unto the open sky, and list To nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a siill voice Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist * This poem, so much admired, both in England and America, was first published in 1817, in the North American Review. The following verses were then prefixed to it ; they are in themselves beautiful, but moro so aa an introduction to the solemn grandeur of the piece which they preceded. " Not that from life, and all its woes, The hand of death shall set me free ; Not that this head shall then repose, In the low vale, most peacefully. Ah, when I touch time's farthest brink, A kinder solace must attend ; It chills my very soul to think Ou 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 ; And 'tis the eternal doom of Heaven, That man must view the grave with fear." ED. 136 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shall thofl 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 Shal* thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shall lie down With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, The powerful of the earth the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty ; and the complaining brooks, That make the meadow green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings ; yet the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on. and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As the long train COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 137 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bowed with age, the Infant, in the smiles And heauty 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 pleasa'nt dreams. Sacred Melody. NEW YORK AMERICAN. " Sing to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously ; the horse and his rid- er hath he thrown into the sea." Ezudtis xv. Sti. 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 ofgcM ? 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 wa~te 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 tire ! 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 lightning} are quenched in the depihs of the deep. thou, who redeemest the weak one at length, Aui scourgest the strong in the pride of their strength 12* 138 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Who holdest the earth and the sea in thine hand, And rulest Eternity's shadowy land To thec let our thoughts and our offerings tend, Of virtue the Hope, and of sorrow the Friend ; Let the incense of prayer still ascend to thy throne, Omnipotent glorious eternal alone ! The Graves of the Patriots. PERCIVAL. HERE rest the great and good here they repose After their generous toil. A sacred band, They take their sleep together, while the year Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves. And gathers them again, as Winter frowns. Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre ; green sods Are all their monument ; and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles, Or the ^ternal pyramids. They need No statue nor inscription to reveal Their greatness. It is round them ; and the joy With which their children tread the hallowed ground That holds their venerated bones, the peace That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth That clothes the land they rescued, these, though mute, As feeling ever is when deepest, these Are monuments more lasting than the fanes Reared to the kings and demigods of old. Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade Over their lowly graves ; beneath their boughs There is a solemn darkness, even at noon, Suited to such as visit at the shrine Of serious Liberty. No factious voice Called them unto the field of generous fame, But the pure consecrated love of home. No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes In all its greatness. It has told itself To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, Where first our patriots sent the invader back Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. Their feelings were aJl nature, and they need COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 139 No art to make them known. They live in us, While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, * Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts, And the one universal Lord. They need Nc column, panting to the heaven they sought, To tell us of their home. The heart itself. Left to its own free purpose, hastens there, And there alone reposes. Let these elms Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves, And build, with their green roof, the only fane Where we may gather on the hallowed day, That rose to them in blood, and set in glory. Here let us meet, and, while our motionless lips Give not a sound, and all around is mute In the deep sabbath of a heart too full For words or tears, here let us strew the sod With the first flowers of spring, and make to them An offering of the plenty Nature gives, And they have rendered ours perpetually. Funeral Hymn, CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. HE has gone to his God ; he has gone to his home, No more amid peril and error to roam ; His eyes are no longer dim ; His feet will no more falter ; No grief can follow him ; No pang his cheek can alter. There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below ; For our fait'h 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 tiiee, by heaven's light, Where the grave cannot dissever The fouls whom God will unite. 140 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Yes, visions of his future rest To man, the pilgrim, here are shown; Deep love, pure friendship, thrill his breast, An'd 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 thro :gh different climates roam; Sad days, a life may intervene ; But we shall meet again, at home. COMMON-PLACE BOCK OF POETRY. 141 To Laura, two Years of Age. N. P. WILLIS. BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now. Thy heart is heating 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 siiout. I would that thou mig-ht'st ever be As beai'tilul as now, That Time might ever leave as free Tny 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 Jove. 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 undefined ! 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Ye may fling back the gift again, But the crushed flower will leave a stain. What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? Keep thee as thou art now ? Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, At Coil's pure throne to bow ? The world is- but a broken reed, And life grows early dim : Who shall be near thee in thy need, To lead thee up to Him ? He, who himself was " undefiled :" With him we trust thee, beautiful child ! The dead Leaves strew the Forest-walk. BRAINARD. THE dead leaves ?trew the forest-walk, And withered are the pule wild-flowers ; The frost hangs blackening on the stalk, The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. Gone are the spring's green, sprouting bowers, Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, And autumn, with her yellow hours, On hill and plain no longer shines. I learned a clear and wild-toned note, That rose and swelled from yonder tree A gay bird, with too sweet a throat, There perched, and raised her song for me. The winter tomes, and where is she ? Away where summer wings will rove, Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love. Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there ; The northern breeze, that rustles by, Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; No forest-tree stands stript and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain-top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 of Prayer. HENRY WARE, JR. To prayer, to prayer ; for the morning breaks, And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all below and above, The light of gladness, and life, and love. O, then, on the breath of this early air, Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer; for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night To prayer ; for the day that God has blessed Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom ; It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, ". For her new-born infant beside her lies. O, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows. Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand. What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! 144 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, And pray for his soul through him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow 0, what is earth and its pleasures now ! And what shall assuage his dark despair, But the penitent cry of humble prayer? Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; There is peace in his eye that upwards bends; There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer. The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. It commends the spirit to God who gave ; It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; It points to the glory where he shall reign, Who whispered, " Thy brother shall rise again." The voice of prayer in the world of bliss! But gladder, purer, than rose from this. The ransomed shout to their glorious King, Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength To join that holy band at length. To him who unceasing love displays, Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 145 Effect of the Ocean and its Scenery on the Mind of the Buccaneer when agitated with Remorse for his Crime. RICHARD H. DANA. WHO'S yonder on that long, black ledge, Which makes so far into the sea ? See ! there he sits, and pulls the sedge Poor, idle Matthew Lee ! So weak and pale ? A year and little more, And thou didst lord it bravely round this shore ! And on the shingles now he sits, And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands ; Now walks the beach ; then stops by fits, And scores the smooth, wet sands ; Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds The isle ; then home from muny 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 i 146 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETKT. Into the air; then rush to mimic strife : Glad creatures of the sea ! How all seems life I But not to Lee. He sits alone ; No fellowship nor joy for him. Borne down by wo, he makes no moan, Though tears will sometimes dim That asking eye. 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 oflfihe shore. Scarce seen the running breakers; list Their dull and smothered roar ! Lee hearkens to their voice. " 1 hear, I hear You call. Not yet! J know my time is near!" And now the mist seems taking shape, Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, Enormous thing ! There's no escape ; 'Tis cloue upon the coast. Lee kneels, but cannot pray. Why mock him so? The ship has cleared the fog, Lee, see her go ! A sweet, low voice, in starry nights, Chants to his ear a plaining song. Its tones come winding up those heights, Telling of wo and wrong ; And he must listen, till the stars grow dim, The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. O, it is sad that aught so mild Should bind the soul with bands of fear ; That strains to soothe a little child The man should dread to hear ! But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace unstrung The harmonious chords to which the angels sung. In thick, dark nights, he'd take his seat High up the cliffi, and feel them shake, As swung the sea with heavy beat Below and hear it break With savage roar, then pause and gather strength. And, then, come tumbling in its swollen length. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 147 But thou no more shalt haunt the beach, Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown, Nor go the round ot' all that reach, Nor feebly sit thee down, Watching ihe swaying weeds: another day, And thou'lt have gone Car 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 ihee," 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 fi iendly 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, Ceil? up the heaven*. 'Tis hush as death- All but the ocean's dull, low moan. How hard Lee draws his breath ! He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, Lee ! up ; man thee for thine hour ! 'Tis close at hand ; for there, once more, The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame And shafted fire she showed before; Twice thus she hither came ; 148 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws A wasting light ; then, settling, down she goes. And where she sank, up slowly came The Spectre-Horse from out the sea. And there he stands! His pale sides flame. He'll meet thee shortly, Lee. He treads the waters as a solid floor : He's moving on. Lee waits him at the 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 stil) they stand ! that man and horse. " Thine hour is almost past." " 0, spare me," cries the wretch, " thou fearful one !" " My time is full I must not go alone." ' I'm weak and faint. O, let me stay !" " Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee !" The horse and man are on their way; He bears him to the sea. Hark ! how the spectre breathes through this still nightl 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 sia! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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. BRYAJTT. 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, Offer one hymn thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thjr sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their top?, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 13 150 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fiiir 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 codler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship ; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself wi'hout a witness, in these shades, Of tiiy 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY, 151 How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, Youth presses ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. 0, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet^ After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death yea, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. God ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities ; who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face, Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And, to the beautiful order of thy works, Learn to conform the order of our lives. 152 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Scene from Hadad. HILLHOUSE. An apartment in ABSALOM'S house. NATHAN and TAMAR. JVathan. THOU'RT left to-day, (would thou wert ever left 01 some that haunt thee !) therefore am I come To give thee counsel. Child of sainted Miriam, Feai 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. Taiiinr. Have I not thus, ever? JVath. But I would probe the tenderest of thy heart, Touch its disease, and give it strength again, And yet inflict no pain. Ta>n. What means my lord ? JVuth. 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 Opsnly to me. I would ask thee, princess, If not di -pleasing, somewhat of the stranger, The Syrian, who aspires to David's line. Tarn, (averting her eyes.) If I can answer JVath. Maiden, need I ask, I fear I need not, is he dear to thee ? 'TU well. But tell me, hast thou ever noted, Amidst his many shining qualities, Aught strange or singular ? unlike to others ? That caused thy wonder? even to thyself, Moved thee to say, How ! Wherefore's this ? Tarn. Never. JVath. Nothing that marked him from the rest of men.' Hereafter you shall know why thus I question. Tarn. O yes, unlike he seems in many things ; In knowledge, eloquence, high thoughts. JVath. Proud thoughts Thou mean'st. Tdm. I'm but a young and simple rnaidj But, father, he, of all my ears have judged, Is master of the loftiest, richest mind. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 153 JVath. How have I wronged him ! deeming him more apt For intricate designs, and daring deeds, Than contemplation's solitary flights. Tarn. Seer, his far-soaring thoughts ascend the stars, Pierce the unseen abyss, pervade, like light, The universe, and wing the infinite. JVath. (fixing his eyes upon her.) What stores of love, and praise, and gratitude, He thence must bring to Him, whose mighty hand Fashioned their glories, hung yon golden orbs Amidst his wondrous firmament ; who bids The day-spring know his place, and sheds from all Sweet influences ; who bars the haughty sea, Binds fast his dreadful hail, but drops the dew Nightly upon his people ! How his soul, Returning from its quest through earth and heaven, Must glow with holy fervor ! Doth it, maiden ? Tarn. Ah, father, father ! were it so indeed, I were too happy. JVath. How ! expound thy words. Tarn. Though he has trod the confines of the world, Knows all its wonders, rnd 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 ? Tarn. 0, ask not. JVath. (fervently.) My child, thou wouldst not wed an infidel ? Tarn, (in tears.) O no ! O 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 holy ordinances ? Tarn. He promises observance. 154 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. JVath. Two full years Hath he abode in Jewry. Tarn. Prophet, think How he was nurtured in the faith of idols. That impious worship long since he abjured By his own native strength ; and now he looks Abroad through nature's works, and yet must rise J\/'ath. Speaks he of Moses ? Tarn. Familiar as thyself. Nath. I think thou said'st he had surveyed the world ? Tarn. From Ethiopia to the farthest East, Cities, and tribes, and nations. He can epeak Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon, And mightier Nineveh, vast Palibothra, *>erendih anchored by the gates of morning, llenowned Benares, where the sages teach The mystery of the soul, arid 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. JYath. Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. Tarn. All this His thirst of knowledge has achieved ; the wish To gather from the wise eternal truth. JVath. Not found where he has sought it, and has led Thy wandering fancy. Tarn. 0, might I relate But 1 bethink me, father, of a thing Like that you asked. Sometimes, when I'm alone, Just ere his coining, 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 ? Tarn. I have not heard it else. JVath. A sound like what? Tarn. Like wild, sad music, father; More moving than the lute or viol touched COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 155 By skilful fingers. Wailing in the air, It seems around me, and withdraws as when One looks and lingers for a last adieu. J\ r ath. Just ere he enters? Tarn. At his step it dies. JVath. Mark me. Thou know'st 'tis held by righteous men, That Heaven intrusts us all to watching spirits, Who ward us from the tempter. This I deem Some intimation of an unseen danger. Tarn. But whence ? JVath. Time may reveal : meanwhile, I warn thee, Trust not thyself alone with Hadad. Tarn. Father, JVath. I lay not to his charge ; I know, in sooth, Little of him, (though I have supplicated,) And will not wound thee with a dark suspicion But shun the peril thou art warned of; shun What looks like danger, though we haply err : Be not alone with him, I charge thee. Tarn. Seer, I will avoid it. Vath. 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, Lust with occasions, treason with excuses, Lifting man's heart, like the rebellious waves, Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble ; So may the Highest overshadow thee ! [Exit J\"ath.] Tarn. His awful accents freeze my blood. Alas ! How desolate, how dark my prospect lowers ' O Hadad, is it thus those sunny days, Those sweet deceptive hopes, must terminate, When, mixing in thy gentle looks, I saw Love blend with reverence, as my lips described The power, the patience, purity, and faith Of our Almighty Father ? Then, I thought Thy spirit, softened by its earthly passion, 156 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Mcctly 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." PIERPOWT. OPT Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Vallotnbrosa throws, Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, Alone, at night, the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen: he sees her image, on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest Around his brow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering, dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore ; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rests her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen! How dark the mountain's shade ! How still the scene ! Hushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the. boughs, nor stir The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river. Hark ! 'tis a convent's bell : its midnight chime : For music measures even the march of time : O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise : the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar; a low and solemn swell, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. What melting song wakes the cold ear of night? A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 157 Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, To charm the parting spirit of the dead. Triumphant is the spell ! With raptured ear, That uncaged spirit, hovering, lingers near: Why should she mount ? why pant for brighter bliss, A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this ? The Falls of Niagara. 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 ? 0, what an; 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And, as the lonely spot I pass Where weary ones repose, I think, like them, how soon, alas ! My pilgrimage will close. Like them, I think, when I am gone, And soundly sleep as they, Alike unnoticed and unknown Shall pass my name away. _,. Yet, ah ! and let me lightly tread ! She sleeps beneath this stone, That would have soothed my dying bed, And wept for me when gone ! Her image 'tis to memory dear That clings around my heart, And makes me fondly linger here, Unwilling to depart. Evergreens. PINKNEY. WHEN summer's sunny hues adorn Sky, forest, hill and meadow, The foliage of the evergreens, In contrast, seems a shadow. But when the tints of autumn have Their sober reign asserted, The landscape that cold shadow shows Into a light converted. Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth Will smile upon our sorrow, And many dark fears of to-day May be bright hopes to-morrow. The Flower Spirit. ANONYMOUS. I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower ; Mine is the exquisite music that flies, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 159 When silence and moonlight reign over each bower, That blooms in the glory of tropical skies. I woo the bird with his melody glowing To leap in the sunshine, and warble its strain, And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing, The songster is paid for his music again. There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding ; Care is a stranger, and troubles us not; And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding, I woo, an J 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 sung, Then hurry away to their desolate places, And look for us hourly, and think of us long. Who of the dull earth that's moving around us, Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose, At the opening of spring, our destiny found us A prisoner until the first bud should unclose ; Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us, Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air, And leap offin joy to the music that won us, And made us the tenants of climates so fair ! " Man giveth up the Ghost, and where is he?"- CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. I STAND among the dark-gray stones; No living thing is near ; Beneath me are the mouldering bones Of those who once were here. And here, perhaps, they mused like me, And heard the grave declare, On every side, its victory, And saw how frail they were. Like me, they felt that sense is nought, That passion is a dream, Tha f pleasure's bark, though richly fraught, Must sink beneath the stream. * 160 COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OP POETRY. Yet sense and passion held them slaves, And lashed them to the oar, Till they were wrecked upon their graves, And then they rose no more ! Perhaps like them, I, too, shall go, Nor heed my coining 1 doom, And every trace of me below Be swept into the tomb. And yet I would not live in vain, By earthly pleasures cloyed, Or render back to God again My talent unemployed. O God of mercy, make me know The gift which thou hast given, Nor let me idly spend it so, But make it fit for heaven ! Woods in Winter. LONGFELLOW. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That over-brows the lonely vale. O'er the hare 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 161 Where, from their frozen urns mute springs Pour out the liver's giadual 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; An.l 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 you 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 telt 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 5oft uight breezes wake, 14* IC2 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Roving among the sleeping flowers, When dews their airy home forsake, To rest till morn in earthly bowers, If, then, some dearer friend than all Steal to my grave to weep awhile, And happier hours awhile recall, And hid fond memory beguile The tediousness of cherished grief Faintly descried a fading ray My pacing 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, fur above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POfiTR*. 163 Above the crowd, On upward wings could I hut 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. SIGOTTRN-EY. DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip ; he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow,. Death gazed, and left it there ; he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven. Burns. F. G. HALLECK. THE memory of Burns a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory be the rest Forgot she's canonized his mind ; And it is joy to speak the best We may of human kind. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. I've stood beside the cottage bed Where the bard-p3asant first drew breath, A straw-tha'.ched roof above his h-jad, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument that tell* 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 'fta 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 sweot tears dim the eyes unshed, What wiid 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, AH passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 165 Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. * Praise to the bard ! His words are driven, Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, The birds of lame 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 kis cold earth-couch around, With the mute homage that we pay To consecrated ground. And consecrated gnund 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 mightiest of the hour ; And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, Are the.Te 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, }r trod the piled leaves of the West, My own green forest-land. J66 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. AH ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, And gather feelings not of earth Hid fields and streams among. They linger by the Doon's low trees, And pa-i'oral 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 do 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 te^.rs that shine On that pale cheek of tnine. Thou didst kneel down to him who came from heaven. Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise Holy, and pure, and wise. It is not much, that to the fragrant blossom The ragged brier should change, the bitter fir Distil Arabian myrrh ; Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home the abundant grain. But come and see the bleak and barren mountains Thick to their tops wilh roses; come and see Leaves on the dry, dead tree : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 1G7 The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies. Be humble. JONES. TRIUMPH not, frail man ; thou art Too weak a thing to boast ; Thou hast a sad and foolish heart; Misdeeds are all thou dost. Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence ; Thou sinn'st e'en where thou want'st pretence Triumph not, though nothing warns Of vigor waning fast ; Remember roses fade, but thorns Survive the wintry blast. A pleasant morn, a sultry noon, Foretell the tempest rising soon. Triumph not, though fortune sends The riches of the mine ; If then thou countest many friends, It is good luck of thine. But triumph not : that gold may go ; And friends will fly in hour of wo. And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek, And woo a tender eye : But triumph not : a single week, And cold those lips may lie, Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove, And leave thce, 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. 1C8 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Sabbath Evening Twilight. ANONYMOUS. DELIGHTFUL hour of sweet repose, Of hallowed thoughts, of love, of prayer ! I love thy deep and tranquil close, For all the Sabbath day is there. Each pure desire, each high request That burned before the temple shrine, The hopes, the fears, that moved the breast, All live again in light like thine. I love thee for the fervid glow Thou shed'st around the closing day, Those golden fires, those wreaths of snow, That light and pave his glorious way! Through them, I've sometimes thought, the eye May pierce the unmeasured deeps of space, And track the course where spirits fly, On viewless wings, to realms of bliss. I love thee for the unbroken calm, That slumbers on this fading scene, And throws its kind and soothing charm O'er " all the little world within." It trances every roving thought, Yet sets the soaring fancy free, Shuts from the soul the present out, That all is musing memory. I love those joyous memories, That rush, with thee, upon the soul, Those deep, unuttered symphonies, That o'er the spell-bound spi.-it 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 169 Ere yet despair's eternal shroud Wrapped every vision hope had given. When these deep purpling shades came down, In softened tints, upon the hills, We swore, that, whether fate should crown Our future course with joys or ills, Whether safe moored in love's retreat,' Or severed wide by mount and sea, This hour, in spirit, we would meet, And urge to Heaven our mutual plea. 0, tell me if this hallowed hour Still finds thee constant at our shrine, Still witnesses thy fervent prr.yer Ascending warm and true with mine ! Faithful through every change of wo, My heart still flies to meet thee there : 'Twould soothe this weary heart to know That thine responded every prayer. The Burial of Arnold.* N. P. WILLIS. YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer With slow and measured tread : Your ranks are full, your mates all there But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all ; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye around his pall ? Ye reckon it in days, since he Strode up that foot- worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously, And his lip wreathed with a smile. 0, had it been but told you, then, To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, Would ye have singled him ? * A member of the senior class in Yale College. 15 170 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung Defiance to the ring ? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung Yet not for glorying ? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not ? There lies he go and look ! On now his requiem is done, The last deep prayer is said On to his burial, comrades on, With the noblest of the dead ! 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 an his Voyage to France, to meet hit Father. 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 1 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 may suffer wreck, The foolish 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, 172 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. New England. J. G. PERCIVAL. HAIL to the land whereon we tread. Our fondest boast ; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed, A fearless host : No slave is here ; our unchained feet Walk freely as the waves that beat Our coast. Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this shore ; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave ; With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar. Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height, And, fearless, stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! 0, 'twas a proud, exulting 'day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 175 There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore ; Thou art the shelter of the free ; The home, the port of Liberty, Thou hast been, and shall 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 ol her glossy hair ; And sweetly rang her silver voice amid that shady nook, As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook, 'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of Old Castile was sung, 15* 174 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his bride, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed. A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north ; Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden ; the sharpest sight would fail To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills and forest tops seem reeling in the heat That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone; But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,- A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave. But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride ; See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side; His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein; There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the mane ; He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill : God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill. And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear A shriek sent up amid the shade a shriek but not of fear; For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak The overflow of gladness when words are al 1 too weak: " I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 175 Power of Maternal Piety. MRS. SIGOXJRJTET. " When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while 8 ho prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my heud. When a young mnn, I travelled in foreign lands, and wag exposed to many temptations ; but when I would have yielded, tAat same hand wag upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed, 'O, do not this wickedness, my son, Dor sin against thy God.' " WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs, Ye children, young and gay ? Your locks, beneath the blast of cares, Will bleach as white as they. I had a mother once, like you, Who o'er my pillow hung, Kissed from my cheek the briny dew, And taught my faltering tongue. She, when the nightly couch was spread, Would bow my infant knee, And place her hand upon my head, And, kneeling, pray for me. But, then, there came a fearful day ; I sought my mother's bed, Till harsh hands tore me thence away, And told me she was dead. I plucked a fair white rose, and stole To lay it by her side, And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, For no fond voice replied. That eve, I knelt me down in wo, And said a lonely prayer ; Yet still my temples seemed to glow As if that hand were there. Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, Gay sports and pastimes dear; I rose a wild and wayward boy, Who scorned the curb of fear. 176 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Fierce passions shook me like a reed ; Yet, ere at night I slept, That soft hand made my bosom bleed, And down I fell, and wept. Youth came the props of virtue reeled ; But oft, at day's decline, A marble touch my brow congealed Blessed mother, was it thine ? In foreign lands I travelled wide, My pulse was bounding high, Vice spread her meshes at my side, And pleasure lured my eye ; Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, Maintained its mystic sway, As when, amid my curls of gold, With gentle force it lay. And with it breathed a voice of care, As from the lowly sod, " My son my only one beware ! Nor sin against thy God." Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole My kindly warmth away, And dimmed the tablet of the soul ; Yet when, with lordly sway, This brow the plumed helm displayed, That guides the warrior throng, Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed These manly locks among, That hallowed t*uch was ne'er forgot! And now, though time hath set His frosty seal upon my lot, These temples feel it yet. And if I e'er in heaven appear, A mother's holy prayer, A mother's hand, and gentle tear, That pointed to a Savior dear, Have led the wanderer there. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 177 Niagara. U. STATES REVIEW AND LITER AHY G AZETT *. From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredin. TREMENDOUS TORRENT ! for an instant hush The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes May see the fearful beauty of thy face. I am not all unworthy of thy sight; For, from my very hoyhood, have I loved, *hunning the meaner track of common minds,- To look on Nature in her loftier moods. At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, \t 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Their fellows deep into impiety ; And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here My heart doth open all itself to thee. In this immensity of loneliness, I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear The eternal thunder of the cataract brings Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. Dread torrent! that, with wonder and with fear, Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, Whence hast thou thy beginning ? Who supplies, Age after age, thy unexhausted springs? What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight Descends into the deep, the swollen waves Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth ? The Lord hath opened 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. Msalom. 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 steins, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 tar 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 A.re 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him: and the jewelled hil:, 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 bladd 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 &umo And cold lips, Absalom ! " The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gusa 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, shall 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! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 181 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give then 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 howed 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 Nature. W. 0. B. PEABODY. GOD of the earth's extended plains ! The dark green fields contented lie : The mountains rise like holy towers, Where 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 dark 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And tight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The tierce 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 crumbling 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. COMMON-PJLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 183 The Garden of Gethsemane. J. PIERPONT O'ER Kedron's stream, and Salem's height, And Olivet's biown steep, Moves the majestic queen of night, Ami throws fiom 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 Getnsemane, 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 Gad. PERCIVAL, THOXT 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 'ook to thee alone. 184 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. 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, O, may soon that time arrive, When we before thy face shall live Through all eternity. Heaven. CHRISTIAN EXAMIWEB. THE earth, all light and loveliness, in summer's golden hoors, 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 glories be of our celestial home, Where waves the glorious tree of life, where streams ol'bliss gush free, And all is glowing in the light of immortality ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, God, fills that all glorious place, Where we shall know as we are known, and see thee face to face! Geehale. Jin Indian Lament. ANONYMOUS. 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 den? on the gleaming of light, And they sp.ing 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair j I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blowsy And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; 1 will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, Fot my kindred are gorte 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 ; 1 will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night; I will spaak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bowin that grieves ; And will take a new Manito ~such as shall seem To be kind and projritious in every dream. 0, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes; 1 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 beyonrf the big seas: My wife and my children, O, spare me the tale ! For who is there left that is kin to GEEHAL.E ! Scene from " Percy's Masque." HILLHOUSE. SCENE. A liigh-wond walk in a park. The towers of Wnrkworth calfe f in Northumberland, seen over the trees. Enter ARTHUR, in a huntsman'* dress. Arthur. HF.IIE let me pause, and breathe awhile, and wipe These servile drops from off my burning brow. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 Noith. 0, days of ancient grandeur, are ye gone ? For ever gone ? Do these same scenes behold His offspring here, the hireling of a foe ! 0, that 1 knew my fate ! that 1 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 ? AT. 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. Jlr. (starting back.) 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 f 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The gay, delusive show, so long maintained To lull observers; then set forth, resolved Never to enter more my native towers Till 1 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. Per. O, 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. Onj bed received us. Soon your moaning voice Disturbed me. Dreaming, heavily you groaned, " 0, Percy ! Percy ! Hotspur ! 0, my father ! Upbraid me not! hide, hide those ghastly wounds! Usurper! traitor! thou shall feel me !" Per. Heavens ! Doug. 'Tis true : and more than 1 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 1 had disclosed to thee My troubled bosom ; but my enterpiise So rife with peril seemed to hearts less touched, So hopeless ! Knowing thy impetuous soul, How could I justify the deed to Heaveu ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 189 How to thine aged sire ? Armed proof I stand, To fate : come what will come the wide earth bears 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 mercy 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, 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 kuow'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 COMMOV-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 olu 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 hre. 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 lire, 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 19J Per. 0, 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 their - [Exit Dougias. 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 wire, 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. Ay ! 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. To S* * * *, weeping. ANONYMOUS. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 193 Nay, weep not then : let but the ray Of heavenly peace be thine, Glorious 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. LONGFELLOW. 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 inheritance 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 warm light the pillared clouds 1 . 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 life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves ; the purple finc'i, That on wild cherry and red cedar leeds, A winter bird, comes with its plantive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel ; whilst aloud, From cottage roof'?, the warbling blue-bird sings ; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 194 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 0, what a glory doth this world put on For him, that, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, 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 long resting-place without a tear. The 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 iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, 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 And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fef 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, Tae tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moos-covered bucket, which hangs in his well. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 195 The 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. " 0, no," said the Earth, " thou sbalt 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 ; Thou'lt 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, (he 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 !>lue 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, wouklst 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, I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, 196 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. When thou shalt 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 Life."- ANOITYJVIOUS. 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 undoubtiag trod; Till faith discovers, like the dove, An ark, a resting place in God. Thou art the Truth whoe steady day Shines on through earthly blight and bloom, The pure, 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, who^e precious radiance flings Its lustre upon all below. Thou art the Life the blessed well, With living waters gushing o'er, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Which those who drink shall ever dwell Where, sin and thirst are known no more ; Thou art the myslic 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. ROCKWELL. '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. Yet, 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY, 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 idea) hues, that, thought-like, pass Through the minds of fanciful men; They beatned 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 hark 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. Yet, 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 fur-thrown undulations Swelled out in the sun's last, lingering smile, And fell like battling nations. Hymn. J. PIERPOPTT. BORNE by the tempest, on we sail O'er ocean's billowy way ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. One glorious orb by day we hail, By ni^ht one faithful ray. Thus God his undivided light Pour* on life's troubled wave ; Thus hops, 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, God, thy home. And wilt thou, Omnipresent, deign Within these walh to dwell ? Then shalt thou hear our holiest strain, Our organ's proudest swell. Devotion's eye shall drink the light Thai 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-drop* 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. O, then remember her who grieves With parent-fondness for her child; Who^e 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 biiti nor flower its shades among. And when thy childrfn climb 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 the 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 vain to tell, The yearning of a parent's heart My only child, farewell! farewell! On seeing an Eagle pass near me in Autumn Twilight. G. MEL.L.EN. 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 extremes! 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 ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 will lower Clouds dark as bathe the eagle's pines But O, the mellow light that pours From God's pure throne the light that saves 1 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 peaily drops had been a rainbow token, Bidding the red men soothe their gloomy fears. 202 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, FRELINGHUYSEN, gratitude is due thee, And loftier praise than language can supply : Guilt may denounce, and Calumny pursue thee, And pensioned Impudence thy worth decry ; Brilliant 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Genius Waking. PERCIVAL. SLUMBER'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 ? 0, 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 foarny 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 Ihou didst rush, Not wi h pinion faint and drooping But the tempest's gush. Up again undaunted scaling, Thou didst pierce the cloud, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 spii it'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 how 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 when 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 TOWNSERD. " I go forward, but he is not there ; and backward, but I cannot perceive him." WHERE art thou ? THOTJ ! 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 ofsuns, 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 the 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Though hailed as gods of old, and only less Are not the Power 1 seek ; are thine, not Thee ! 1 ask Thee from the past ; if in the years, Since first intelligence could search its source, Or in some formel* 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, disclo-inu; 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 ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY* 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. ! 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 oniy 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* 210 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETUY. No note of joy on this solitude flings, Nor shakes 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 nakedm - His desolations mock the skic>. Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell ! An Alpine monument may dwell Upon thy bosom, my home ! The mountain thy pall and thy prion may keep thpe , I shall see thee no more; but till death I will weep tLee; Of thy blue dwelling dream wherever I roam, And wUh myself wrapped in its peaceful foam. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 211 Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying- ground at JVeto 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 ; Thi? 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 ambifious, 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. 0, let me hide the names of those that were Deep in my stricken heart, and shi ine them only there ! The Pilgrim Fathers. PIERPOICT. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY* When the sea around was black with storms, And while 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 213 And, bounding with the wave and wind, We 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 ! 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 arid the land, Shall those cliffs and mountains be Proud retreats for liberty. Now to the King of kings we'll raise The psan 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY, 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 Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had re- ceived Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars. HILLHOUSE. AND 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 hathe 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, w ; th 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 1 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, SVell 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 Elest.W. 0. B. PEABODY. O, WHEN the hours of life are past, And death's dark shade arrives at last, 21 G COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. It is not sleep, it is not rest; 'Tis glory opening to the blest. Their way to heaven was pure from sin, Ami 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 mare 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 SPT. QTTEEN 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 in thy orb the wretched may have rest. The sufferers of the earth, perhaps, may go, Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, I COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 l*ke round that region of bliss ; Where, 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The Light of Home. MHS. HALE. MY boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair, And thy spirit will sigh to roam ; And thou must go ; but never, when there, Forget the 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 night, 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 shall see the beacon bright; For never, till shining on thy shroud, Can be quenched its holy light. The sun of fame, 'twill gild the nime ; 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. HALLZCK WHEN Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 219 She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ; She mingled with the gorgeous (iyes The niilny 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 thy 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 ol 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 biightly turn To where thy meteor-glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance And, when the cannon-mouthing? 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frightened 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 sublime, should have given his mind so sparingly, and, as it weie, by itealth, to the effort of poetical composition. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 fiom the outer spheres that bound The illimitable universe, thy voice Joined the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise, Who thus had cast another sparkling 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 Sung 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 ! o vast the void through which their beams descend ! 19* 222 COMMON-PIACE BOOK Of POETRf, Yea, glorious lamps of God ! 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 (heir 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 though* 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 pour 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 systernu, 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 thee ! No, not the humblest soul that dwells Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course Axiid the giant glories of the sky, Like the mean mote that dances in the beam COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 own Your sway what beings fill those bright abode? ? 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 fuot 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. The 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 I 224 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 instructed mind An unexhausted universe, and lime 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 red." N. P. WILLIS. 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 225 To * * * *, on the Death of a Friend. ANDREWS NORTOK. 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 ' 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 I will die as I did live, Nor take the boon I cannot give. Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose ; 226 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 lav 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 ran-som 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 ha 1 been. See how their haughty barriers fail Beneath the terror of the Goth, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY 27 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 1 poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Caesars shrieked for help, In vain, within their seven-hilled towers; I quenched in bloorl 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 A tula. 228 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Apostrophe to the Sun. J. G. PERCIVAL. CENTRE of light 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 huried 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 widen? outward to the pebbled shore ; The vales are thina ; and, when they wake from eight, The dews that bend the grass tip?, twinkling o'er Tlieir 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 th-3 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 h.Uh 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, Inro the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair. The clouds are thine ; and all their magic hues Are p3ncilled 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 hend'st thy arch, The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine, Where the sp^nt 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And how the heavenly messenger impels Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells. The ocean is thy vassal : thoii 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. 0, 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 Cfjmes 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 yel its little bosom did not move ! I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed ; then softly clasped its hand ; But mine it would not cla ; p. What should I do? " Wake, brother, wake!" I then, impa'ient, cried; " Open thine eyes, and look on me again !" He would not hear my voice. All pale beside My weeping mother sat, " and gazed and looked Unutterable things." " Will be not wake ?" I eager asked. She answered but with tears. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. ANONYMOUS. 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 blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifts of snow Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone " 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- malile you >g artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture It was exhibited at the National Academy in that city. 232 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETTvY. 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." NEW 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 pioud, 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 nigh , But to see the angel form she wore Made deeper the delight. And his heart, at daylight's close, For ihe bright world where he trod, And when the yellow morning ro3C, Gave speechless thanks to God. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 233 The Huma* LOUISA P. SMITH. FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird, Too near our shaded earth, Or the warbling, now so sweetlv heard, May lose its note of mirth. Fly on, nor seek a place of rest In the home of" care-worn things :" 'T would 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 oae, 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. The Paint King. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 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 the air, and never touch the ground." 20* S34 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 cen he do?" And she knelt to the goddess of secrets, and prayed, When the youth passed again, and again he di played The frame and a picture to view. " Oh, beautiful picture !" the fair Ellen cried, " I mu5t see thee again, or I die." Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied, When the youth, looking back, met her eye. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETttY. 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 delight and surprise, From (he 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 ; Yt-t he languished as though for its beauty he pined, Aud gazed as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own. 'Twos 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." Sha 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. " haaven! cried she, who art thou ?" From the roof to the ground did 'HH 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 blast; And he sped through the air like a meteor swift, While the clojdj, wand'rin? 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. And the ground where he treads, as if moved with affright, Like the surge of the Caspian beuds. " 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. " 0, 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 f. ce, like a palette of villanous dies, Black and white, red and yellow, and blue. On the skull of a Titan, that Heaven defied, 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 festoon? 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 often 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 an* 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, Ofair Geraldine, Thy promise wi.h justice I claim, And thou, queen of fairies, shall ever be mine, 238 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRT. 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 ; \nd the pure pearly white, and the carnation warm, Contending in harmony, flowed. A.nd now did the portrait a twin-sister seem To the figure of Geraklice 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 spack 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 speav now a thunder-bolt flashed in the air, And sulphur the vault filled around ; Sbe 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 ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 239 The murdered Traveller. BRYANT. 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, feirlcss, 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, U i) moistened 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 them went dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where fhou 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 Wi'h such strange brilliancy, Tell us thou art departing This world is not for thee. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. 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 Raven. 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 leavea 21 242 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Had not put forth 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 life to ihe sealed ground, Did make me glad with thoughts of coining 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 maks 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, cani'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 ! Thou spok'st of faith, (than instinct no less sure,) COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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, Ou 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 gules 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 clawi 244 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death Are on thee. Laid thus low by 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, Thine 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 fecla 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. BRYANT. THE day Vad been a day of wind and storm ; The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 246 And, stooping from the zenilh, 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 warbling 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 fanner 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 upbringing 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 dustta one, No more shall beg their lives on beudcd knee, 21 ' 5246 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. ! Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. bo long at clash of arms amid her bowers, And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair cnrth, 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 MAN. 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 arbots hide The glassy" floor. ! you might deem the spot The spacious 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 them ; or, haply, the vast hall Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, And fades not in the ^lory of the sun ; Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts And crossing arches, and fantastic aisles COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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. Again 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 ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 won. The religious Cottage. D. Htrw TINOTOW. SEEST thou yon lonely cottage in the grove, With little garden neatly planned before, Its roof deep shaded by the elms 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 shall 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, And 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 wosd, 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 ring COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 ;~ There, in sweet strains of kindred music blendin| 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 1 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 tUir, And thou the fairest of them all, ^ O, think not, think not of me there. But when 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 weeps 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 rippling, to the margin break ; But when the deaf ning billows foam In madness o'er the pathless sea, * if. m COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 25J 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 sacred, 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 se~ 7h's wings their hues expand, And harpings charm the air. 5i52 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 0, glorious is the rising sun, Pavilioned in his blushing glow, When fairy winds have just hegun 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. I My native Land My native Place. ANOWYMOUS. MY thoughts are in my native land, My heart is in ray 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 253 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 sweet by answering echo made. In God's own 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. ANONYMOUS. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Then, 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, like 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 Cannel 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 6V;af 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 255 But from it the lowly 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 (he 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 NORTOX. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. And think some pleasures, feebly bright, May lighten thus life's varied glooin. 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 ID 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 267 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 calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. Jlpril. LONGFELLOW. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, "fis 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 throw 22* 258 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And when the day is gone, In the hlue lake, the sky, o'erreachlng far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, ani trembling shadows throir, 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. 3. G. PERCIVAL. I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill tho 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 woris COMMONPLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 hound, 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 the 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 ? Did Death forever quench your hopes and fears ' 260 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss, Which simple Nature to your bosoms gave, Find other worlds, with fairer skies than this, Beyond the gloomy portals cf 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 he, 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 which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, And mingle with the clay from which they rose. Burial of the Afinnisink. 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 b^se came down The g!ory lhat (he wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart : One piercing neigh Arose anil on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.* To the Eagle. PERCIVAL. From the Atlantic Souvenir for 1827. BIRD of the broad 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 ot 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 tempast wind. * Alluding to an Indian superstition. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 01 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 caught the 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. 2G4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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* BHAINARD. '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 hill, * This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddara. r, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 265 Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, And whistling ploughboys oft their 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 io 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 Ihey 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.* SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, * Thq Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication ; but this, wo 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- )lay, imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, pecultar- y soothing, select and melodious language, harmony in the flow of the taoza, gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy. ED. 23 266 COMMON-l'LACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 liis 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 shall 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 once 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 267 The Grave of the Indian Chief. PERCIVAL. THEY laid the corse of the wild and brave On the sweet, iresh 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 lie, Beneath a golden sun-set sky, Where youth and beauty never die, And song arid 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 /.one ; 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 honuy 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 wing*, 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." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 269 Bury Me with my Fathers. ANDREWS Non-row. NE'ER upon my grave be shed The bitter teais of sinking age, That mourns its cherished comforts dead, With gi ief no human hopes assuage. When, through the still an* gazing street, My funeral winds its sail array, Ne'er may a father's faltering feet Lead, with slow steps, the churchyard way. 'Tn 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. 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. TAFPAIT. HARK ! 'tis the prophet of the skies Proclaims redemption near; 23* 270 COMMONS-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY* 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 271 Shipe on ! shine on ! with you I tread The inarch of ages, orbs of light ; A last eclipse may o'er you spread ; To me, to me, there comes no night. 0, 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 houf ; 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 mid^t 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 up on the seedy floor, And 1 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 ofTecumseh. 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 273 From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, Announcing that chivalrous sally ; The savage was heard, with untrembling hreath, To pour his response from the valley. One moment, and nought but the hugle was heard, And nought but the war-whoop given; The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As it' by the lightning 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. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, Nor darkness, nor trouble, nor sorrow confound thee. God is thy God ; thou shall walk in His brightness ; Gird thee with joy, let thy robes be of whiteness : God is thy God ! 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 " king of the vnnd.-t," was no less distinguished f.,r his acts of Immunity than liiT.nsm. He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war o COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 275 Mozart's 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, anil 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 Same 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 " God, I feel 'Tis best thy will be done !" He gazed on his loved one, who cherished him well, 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 be glad in the Lord." Psalm civ. 34. ANONYMOUS. 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, 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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, 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 wakia 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. 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 undented, 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 0, heavens that word ! A name without a thing ! We are e'en as a lonely bird, Whose home is on the wing. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 279 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 sea, 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, rny love, have knows. And there's a sweeter joy, Wherever we may be : Danger nor death can e'er destroy Our trust, O 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, iuy 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 tme to laugh, When Joy may raise, n* .. -jw? like the deep, And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff ;- But, 0, 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, 0, 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 ? COMMON-PLACE fiOofc OF POETRY. 281 Destruction has its home, And Mirth is destined to some favorite spot ; Disease and all his brothers do not roam ; But where, Wretchedness, where art thou not ? Thou hast thy dark abode In the lone desert in the prison's cell ; And 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, Griefl 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 Jlutumn 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* I 282 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. BRYAWT. 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 ot 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 mih.er fervors beat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 pur3 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 Spirit's 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 parents, who had lust two other .children before him. 284 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POfiTRY. 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 of Africa. BRAIWARD. ALL sights are fair tc 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 free 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 like 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 immortal! y ; When fear, and care, and grief, away are driven, And AVircy's hand has turned the golden key, And Mercy's voice has said, " Rejoice thy soul is free ! r Fable of the Wood Rose and the Laurel.- MONTHLY ANTHOLOGY. IN these deep shades a floweret blows, Whose leaves a thousand sweets disclose ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 5285 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 fonn will bloom no more; My flower will perish too. But know, proud rose, When winters 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; For, while she spoke, a transient breeze 286 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Came rustling through the neighboring trees, And bore her boasted charms away. And such, said I, is Beauty's power ! Like thee she falls, poor trifling flower; And, if she lives her little day, Life's winter comes with rapid pace, And robs her form of every grace, And steals her bloom away. But in thy form, thou Laurel green, Fair Virtue's semblance soon is seen. In life she cheers each different stage, Spring's transient reign, and Summer's glow, And Autumn mild, advancing slow, And lights the eye of age. A Castle in the Air* PROFESSOR FRISBII. I'LL tell you, friend, what sort of wife, Whene'er I scan this scene of life, Inspires my waking schemes, And when 1 sleep, with form so light, Dances before my ravished sight, In sweet aerial dreams. The rose its blushes need not lend, Nor 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 ail on me ; * This is a beautiful domestic picture. Without being an imitation, it reminds us of Cottou'n Fireside. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETBY. 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 her mantling cheek must glow, Her voice, her beaming eye must show An all-inspiring soul. Ah ! 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. To praise the Almighty name ; And when I saw her kindling eye Beam upwards to her native sky, 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 GAZETTI 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, That 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 289 And see, beyond their dungeon gate, The scaffold and the tomb, On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven, Their gaze how fervently they cast! So death to life a charm hath given, And made it loveliest 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. 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 closed, 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 soiuy lay. 25 290 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And wilt thou not one moment raise Thy weary head, awhile to see The later sports of 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 in some rising bud regain The freshness that my childhood knew. But has thy soul, maid, so long Around this mournful relict dwelt? Or burst away with pinion strong, And at the foot of Mercy knelt ? Or has it, 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 I 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 iirst 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 stranger 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 FORCE DE LEON. Alma region luciente, Praclo de bien andanza, que ni ul 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 lore, 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 To mingle with thy flock, and never stray. The Sunday School. MRS. SIGOURWET. 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 293 And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, 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 sinile 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. They went out into the Mount of Olives." J. PIEH.POMT. THERE'S something sweet in scenes of gloom To hearts of joy bereft, When hope has withered in its bloom, When friends are going 10 the tomb, Or in the tomb are left. 'Tis night a lovely night ; and, lo ! 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY, 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 sins forgiven ; Tl>en, when our friends the grave devours, When all the world around us lowers, We'll look from earth to heaven. The Lily. J. G. PZRCIVAI,. I HAD found out a sweet green spot, Where a lily was blooming tair ; 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 away. 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. HILLHOUS* BY this, the sun his westering car drove low : Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 295 Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold : Along the horizon catled 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Wyoming. F. G. HALLECK. " Dites si la Nature n'a pa* fait ce beau pays pour one Julie, pour noe Claire, et pour un St. Frcux, nmis no les y cherchez pai." THOU com'st, in beauty, on 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 they. 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, tho' tough. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 lov iliness and bloom, Hath many a model heie ; 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 fcot 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 fieJds 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 light 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. 1 The Pilgrim they laid in a largo upper chamber, whose window open- ed towards the sun-rising; the name of :he chiimher wus Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sane." The Pilgrim's Progrest- 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 ? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 cure, 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 glitters 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, Vnd 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, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies. And 'tis because man useth so amiss Her dearest blessings, 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 ; but yet the heavens are thine , While I to earth am bound : When will the heavens be mine ? If man would but his finer nature learn, And not in life fantastic lose the sense Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern Teach him be thoughtful ; then, with soul intense, I should not yearn for God to take me hence, But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed, Remembering, numbly, why it is, and whence 300 COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OP POETRT. 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 1, forlorn, And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye, Shall see the-m 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, 0, 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 Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur To 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 ! The dusky lights have gone ; go thou thy way ! And pining Discontent, like 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 delicious 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 ! 0, long delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age, released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 301 In such a bright late quiet, would that I Might wear out life, like tliee, 'mid bowors 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. PIERPOJVT. 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 sA:?'// 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 J5ord. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. AND now, in accents deep and low, Like voice of fondly-cherished wo, The Sylph of Autu/nn 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 mid.'.ight hour, In bleak November's reign : 'Twos 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 305 O, then, with what aspiring; gaze Didst thou thy tranced vision raise To yonder orbs on high, And think how wondrous, how sublime 'Twere upwards to their spheres to climb, And live beyond the roach ot 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, that 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 whimpered 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* 300 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY* Hymn of the Moravian JVuns at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner. H. W. LONGFELLOW. The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Siivunnuh, 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 hanner ; 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, Spare him he our love hath shared- Spare him as thou wouldst be spared. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 shioud. 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 stil! 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. 308 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 How. 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 ? The maiden's hand is warm ! And the fresh blood comes with roseate hue, While Death's dark terrors fly ; Her form is raised, and her step is true, And life beams bright in her eye. Departure of the Pioneer. BRAIN ARD. FAR away from the hill-side, the lake and the hamlet, The rock and the brook, and yon meadow so gay ; From the foot-path, that winds by the side of the streamlet; From his hut and the grave of his friend far away ; He is gone where the footsteps of man never ventured, Where the glooms of the wild tangled forest are centred, Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered, No blood-hound has roused up the deer with his bay. He has left the green valley for paths where the bison Roams through the prairies, or leaps o'er the flood ; Where the snake in the swamp sucks the deadliest poison, And the cat of the mountains keeps watch for its food. But the leaf 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, Firm be his step through each wearisome mile, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 think 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. The Alpine Flowers. MRS. SIGOTJRNEY.* 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 unblanched 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, *Tliis piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney's poetry. It is in gome recocts so suMimo, that it forcibly reminds us of Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny. Eu. 310 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the Irost-winged gale, And freer dreams of heaven. A Child's 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 aad 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 stn nge 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 ev* 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, Duly and cheerfully, to their toil, and up Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 stirr 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 loftiness, 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. 312 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP FOETUY. Day after day he lay as if in sleep. His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, covered him. ,And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepened beneath the hard, unmoistened scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, And llqlon was a leper ! Day was breaking When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow archer of the roof Like an articulate wail ; and there, alono, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And, with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still Waiting to hear his doom : Depart ! depart, child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God; For He has smote thee with his chastening rod, And to the desert wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet 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 From all who in the wilderness pass by. Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 313 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, 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 Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye 27 14 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. As he beheld the stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; No followers 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 perfected 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 of the Beginning of the Last Book of tnt 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 age thy service I forego. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 315 I 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 brow arid silver hairs; Yet sure to lose thee gives me mickle pain; Thy hand alone the balm of life prepares, The only zest for joy, the only cure for cares. O, yes ; perforce the parting tear will flow ; So old a fiiend, 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 like, 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 ! hut 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. Jlutumn, ANONYMOUS. SWEET Sabbath of the year, While evening lights decay, 316 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Thy parting steps methinka 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 fleep 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. The Treasure that waxeth not old D. HTJNTINGDOH. 0, 1 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 po< ts sing Where Nature blushes in perennial f pring, Where sli earns of earthly joy exhaustless rise, Where Youth and Beauty tread the choral ring COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 317 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. 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 word has balm for sin's envenomed smart, His love, diffused, thy shuddering breast shall warm; His power provide a shelter from the gathering storm." welcome hiding place ! O refuge meet For fainting pilgrim?, on this desert way ! 318 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. kind Conductor of these 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. 1 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 (o 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 ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 oflight 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 320 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Who blessed me, and free worship pay, Like Isaac's son upon his way ; Are holy thoughts but happy dreams Chased by de-pair, 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 spiiit hope and 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 321 That wets the parching earth, has come A cheerful thought, and made its homo With me awhile ; I'd ha'-e 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. Mas. CHILD. AY, ring thy shout to the merry hours : Well may yt part in glee ; From their sunny wings they scatter flowers, And, laughing, look on thee. Thy thrilling 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Hymn to the North 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 walla. 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 323 And, therefore, bards of old, Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright, eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. All but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; 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 near 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 d-anger 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 Tempe'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 ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 bower; 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 tl.j green land I sing, thea wake ; you'll find them there. The Rising Moon. W. 0. B. PEABODY. THF moon is up ! How calm and slow She wheels above the hill ! The w eary 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 firo that never dies 28 320 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. America to Great Britain* WASHINGTON ALLSTOIC. 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 wag written in the year 1810. It was first printed, we be- lieve, in Coleridge's Sybilline Leaves. Coleridge inserted it among bis own poems, with the following note : " This poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and dear 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- tit man living, any additional one would be superfluous. ED. > COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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, while 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 hlood shall reach, More audible than speech, " We are One !"* The Night-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, 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. *This alludes merely to the moral union 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. f The night-flowering Cereus, or Cactus ffrandiflorus, is one of ourmost 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. ^E 328 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 ... COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 329 Countless hosts of burning stars Sing his praise with lignt renewed The rising sun each day declares, In rays of glory, God is good. The 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. ANOITYMOU WHEN, 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 hail 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 tee, 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 me ?" 28* 330 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. The Dying Child. CARLOS WILCOI. 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 he final struggle, with the look Of a grieved chi!d, and 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 tie father's arm COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 331 Heavily hanging, like the slender flower On its nnn 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 ahouf. In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing, And tell'st how li:tle our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them freely to thy need ; I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Has not the honor of so proud a birth ; Thou coin'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 1 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 thirk. Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?" Go, 'twas ajust reward that met thy crime- But shun the sacrilege another time. That bloom was made to look at, not to touch, To wofshipj not approach, that radiant white ; 332 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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. LONGFELLOW.* WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue, The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, 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 nnd 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 ; some of it will be remembered with that of Dana and Bryant. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 333 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 gilted lyre of heavenly song, And warmed the soul with new vitality. A stirring energy through nature breathed j The voice of adoration from her broke, Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard Long in the sullen waterfall, what time Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth Its bloom or blighting, 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 everything 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm Hung on his dun, 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 worship. 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 EASTBURN. 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; For it tells of a morn when this night shall pass by, And my spirit shall dwell where the days do not die. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 335 The Dying Girl. MRS. KALE'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, l.ath flown To guide my soul's mysterious flight. I 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 Affliction's night, Thou shall 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. 336 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Autumn* PEABODT. 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. 0, thus serene, and free from fear, Shall be our last repose ; Thus, like the sabbath of the year, Our latest evening close. Spring. PEABODT. TV HEX brighter suns and milder skies Proclaim the opening year, * This piece, and some others in tl:i volume, are selected from a littla Catechiam in verse, prepared several years since by Mr. I'cabody, fur the use of children. It contains true poetry, besides being well adapted, bf its simplicity, for the purpose which the author had ia view. ED. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 offering raise. Forth walks the laborer to his toil, And sees the fresh avay 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. 29 339 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Rosalie. MRS. HALE'S MAGAZINI. THERE sits a woman on the brow Of yonder rocky height; There, gazing o'er the waves below, She sits from morn till night. Sho 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 falling 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 COMMON-PLAGE BOOK OF POETRY. 339 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, untired, to sit, And watch, the live-long day; Nor, till the star of eve is Tit, 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. 040 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. To thee, sweet one, repose was given, Yet not without alloy; That thou mi^hi'st early think of heaven, The piomised seat of joy ; That thou might'st know what love supreme Pervades a mother's breast Flame quenchless as ;he heavenly beam, The purest and the best. William, that love which shadows thee, Is eminently mine : 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 with 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 parish, 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. 1 have proved it. Through perils dire, dangers most imminent, Seven days and nights midst rocks and wilder-nesses, And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice, Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing, Save the far-soaring vulture, comes, 1 dared My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish. Tain. 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. Tain. But did'st thou see him .' Had. Never did I view COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 311 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 : I 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. When morning's tears of joy were shed, Or nature's evening incense rose, We thought upon the grave with dread, And shuddered at iis 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, with 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 1 attend thee to ihe 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, Aa their chief portion, with the speed of wings, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, Ol changing tims, scarce asking why or whence, Men coma and go lilce 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 10 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 on3 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 thes, dash aside Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer Through calm and tempest, till it cro*s the tide, Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. Dedication Hymn. PIERPOHT. WITH trump, and pipe, and viol chords, And song, the full assembly brings Its tribute to the Lord of lords, I to homage to the King of kiuga- 844 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, a3~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 dowrt their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store : While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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. PEABODT. IT seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high ; And 1 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 beavty 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 h<td 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 out-bound 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 nooa. 346 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. I loved thee, and my heart was blessed ; but, ere that day was spent, I saw thy light aryl 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 burn again; The cheek was pale ; the snowy lips were geiitly 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, iu agony, it ought not so to be ; I hoped that thou, within the grave my weary head should'st lay. \nd 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 thou art where the ills of life caa never reach thee more, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 347 Part of the I9th Psalm. JAMES WALLIS EASTBURM". THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow, And sparkling spheres of golden fight, 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 ? 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 that, mother ? The dove, my son. And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan. 348 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. Kver, my son, be thou like the dove, :n friendship as faithful, as constant in lo fThat is that, mother ? The eagle, boy, ^roudly 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, He 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 shJl come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. Scene at the Death- Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson. MRS. SIGOURNEY. " His eye spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mr. Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it retted oil E<l ward, his el. lest sun, with an expression which was interpreted by afl rre*- nt to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, ' Behold thy Mother !' " Memoir of Fayson, 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-stiings. 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 I and mark how tenderly it fell COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRV. 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 England, that a mor- tal pestilence ha<t, p. short time previous to their arrival, in a great measure depopulated some of the finest portions of the country on the seaboard. TiiO Indians themselves corroborated this, opinion, and gave the Knglish 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 ; * Revolution, xlx. 17. 30 350 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 light, 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 was 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 ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 351 He did rot take his hunting-bow He never sought the w.oods 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-lit 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 352 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 hi* 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 with 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 wall 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 his 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 billows. 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. Caln.ly 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. A Thanksgiving Hymn. HENRY WARS, JR. FATHER of earth and heaven, Whose arm upholds creation, 30* 354 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRT. 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, 0, then, let hope attend us! Thy peace to us be given ! That we may rise above the skies, And sing thy pruise in heaven 1 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 355 The Temple of Theseus. 11 JAMES WALLIS EASTBURK. UNCHTJMBLED yet, the sacred fane upreara Its brow, majestic in the storm of years: Time has but slightly 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 JEthra'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 beautiful and entire remains of ancient art was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who Duelled protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and ii tewruil by the Athuuiuus as much, perhaps, as it ever was. 356 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. On the Death of a beautiful young Girl. 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 their birth : The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lute. '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 musical 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 i , 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 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 wrai of Mr. Pierpont's occasional (xles. This piece, Napoleon at Ri'st, i.ia u Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in thoir gcaoral character, ua<i -.1 tuiif ublitau. ED. 358 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide I- 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 Notes of the Birds. I. MCL.ELLAN, JUN. WELL do I 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. 360 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 sick 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 cup.?, 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 Hid lodging in the wilderness of woods, f COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 mines 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, 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 3C2 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Sentimental Music. F. G. HAI.LECK. SOUNDS as of far offbells 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 theipe ; 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 heart, And dim the eye with tears. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 HALE. 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: 0, 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth-Day of the Author's Mother. FP.ISBIE. 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 Ihe dying flame, And indistinctly shows the moon Half-shrouded in a glimmering gloom, 0, could some wizard wave his wand, And show me then the happy band ! 'Tis done : like summer clouds that pass 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 ! 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 Soul's Defiance* ANONYMOUS. 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 brooks 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 grandpu r and power in the ientiments, sustained, as they are, by an energy nf expression wellsuit- ed to the spirit's undaunted defiance of misfortune. ED. 31* 366 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OP POETRY. I 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 0, 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 Hymn for the second Centennial Anniversary of the City of Boston. J. PIERPONT. BREAK forth in song, ye trees, As through your tops the breeze Sweeps from the sea ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 tills, While day shall break and close, While night her crescent shows, O, let thy light repose On these our hills. 3C8 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. Napoleon at Rest. J. PIERPOJTT. His falchion flashed along the Nile, His host he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that bla/ed 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The Death of Napoleon. I. MCLELLAN, JUN. "The fifth of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. The words ' tcte d'arwee,' (head of the army,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heady fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired." Scott's Life of Napoleon. 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 fhe 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, Like 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 ' have taken place at Jerusalem, which Mas destroyed great purl of that city, shaken down the Mosque of Omar, and reduced the Holy Sepulchre to ruins from top to bottom.'' JVew Yark Jl/trcaiitiic Advertiser. FOUR lamps were burning o'er two mighty graves Godfrey's and Baldwin's Salem's Christian kings And 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 every 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 371 1 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,") Thou 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 Bethlehemdid 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 i 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 ! ^hy 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY 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'* porch, be that your aid! 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 Consttntine the Great, huilt the church of the sepulchre on Mount Calvary. The walls are of stone, and the roof of cedar. The four lamps which light it are very costly. It i-- kept in repair Dy the offerings 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 ot'Bethesda and Gihon the tomb of the Vir- gin .Mary, and of king Jehoshaphat the pillar of Absalom the tomb of Xuchariah and tho cainpo aanto, or holy field, which is supposed to have been purchased with the price of Judas' treason are, or were lately, the most interesting parts of Jerusalem. The Angler's Song. I. MCLELLAN, Jim. " There is no life more pleasant than the life of the well-governed 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 9. 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. I COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. W 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. Who is my Neighbor? 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. 32 374 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Thy neighbor ? 'Tfo the heart bereft Of every earthly gem ; Widow and orphan, helpless left: Go tliuu, 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 MIRROR. 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 WATCHMAJT. 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 Irom consolation flying ; He who calls hath felt thy wound, Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing : " Bring thy broken heart to me ; Welcome offering it shall be ; Streaming tears and bursting sighs, Mine accepted sacrifice." 376 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. The Sweet Brier. BRAINARD. OUR 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 i i beauty's bower One half so lovely ; pet it grows 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 0, mother, tell me how !" " Daughter, do you remember, dear, The cold, dark thing you brought, COiMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 377 And laid upon the casement here, A withered worm, you thought ? 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!'' " 0, yes, mamma ! how very gay Its wings of starry gold ! And see ! it lightly tlies away Beyond my gentle hold. 0, 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 faile with coining death." I AM not 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 its core. 32 * 378 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. 0, 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 379 Weep yet not bitter tears ; Let them be holy, silent, free from pain : Think of me as a bird who, many years, 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 Noon 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. 0, 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK POETRY. 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 mjght 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. New England's Dead. I. MCLELLAN, JTJN. " 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 ; and there they will remain forever." Webster'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 ! P 382 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, 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, O God, that first commandment came, Forth leaped the sun ; and earth and sky Lay in his light, and felt his flame. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 ! 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. 384 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 wentforth 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 ; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 385 And so. when the sun looked out on the 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 e*rth ; 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. And the hand of the sexton shook as lie pressed The damp earth down on the hunter's breast. 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, lake the howl of a demon struggling forth They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither." Rev. xi. 12. MRS. SIGOUHNEY. " 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 know 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 : COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 387 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 ! O, when the pangs of death I bear, Sing ye that song to me. Occasional Hymn. J. PIERPONT. O THOXT, 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. COMMERCIAL 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 been 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 pure flower of heaven, thou art removed on high. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 389 God's Omnipresent Agency. CARLOS WILCOX. How desolate were nature, and how void Of every charrn, 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, when, in all that breathes, Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work I- 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 !" " My native land, good night !" 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, I have joyed to see thy power, 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. ANONYMOUS. 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 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 Grave 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETttT. 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 Ihe 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 tell 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, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 BACKWOODSMAN. 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 nil 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRS". He's a noble soul, that champion knight, And he bears a martial brow ; 0, 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 shall 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. 0, 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, Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore, To him that weeps for home. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP POETRY. 395 Wings, 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 Disimbodied Spirit. PEABODT. 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 ! I 396 COMMON-PLACB BOOK OF POETRY. 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.O. 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, StUl 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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. Hymn of the Cherokee Indian. I. MCLELLAUT, Juw. They waste us ; ay, like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away And fast thoy follow, as we go, t Toward;* the setting day, Till they shall nil the lund, 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 your 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 r'i man of the wild ; To Ins day there'll dawn no morrow; Therefore is he full of sorrow. 34 * 393 COMMON-P BOOK OF POETRY. Frem 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, Fcr 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 thesd 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 1 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. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 333 Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening din's, 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. ' fThe 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 Doems as a bubble all your waves! 400 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Oriental Mysticism. LEONARD WOODS. The following passage is translated from a German version of the Dscrmn- har Odsat, n Persian poem of the thirteenth century, and is here onVrod as a specimen of the mystic writings of the East. a single sprig brought to town from a distant and unfrequented garden. These writings itrn char- acterized by wildncss of fancy, a philosophy extremely abstruse, ami e|>e- cially by a deep spiritual life They prove, us will lie seen in the lines which follow, that the human mind has strong religious instincts ; which, however, unless guided by a. higher wisdom, are liable to great perver- sion. Extravagant as the conception of the passage here selected must a|i|-ar to us, it lias still its foundation in truth. That the ideas of infinite' and divine tilings, which slumber in tho mind, are often violently awakened by external objects, is what every one has experienced. Says a modern poet, in prospect of " clear, plucid Lcman," " It is A '^ r n* Which warns me, by its stillness, to ,~ ,:ike E.II Id's troubled waters for a purer sjiring." And whnt. is the story of Rudbari and Hassan, but an exhibition, a la mode orientate, 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, Tho 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 oil 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 ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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, aod 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 emhark on a Missionary Enterprise. B. B. THATCHER. 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. Hast tliou forgot, friend of my better days, Hast tliou forgot the early, innocent joys Of our remotest childhood ; when our lives Were linked in one, and our young hearts bloomed out Like violet-bell? upon the self-same stem, Pouring the dewy odors of life's spring Into each other's bosom all the bright And forrowless thoughts of a confiding love, And intermingled vows, and blossoming hopes Of future good, and infant dreams of bliss, Bud<!ing and breathing sunnily about them, As crimson-spotted cups, in spring time, hang On all the delicate fibres of the vine i And where, oh ! where are the unnumbered vows We made, my sister, at the twilight fall, A thousand limes, and the still starry hours Of the dew-glittering 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 nearest, 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 anori, the notes Long loved of o'd oh ! hear them, heed them not PVess on ! tor, like the fairies of the tale, That mocked, unseen, the tempted traveller, With power alone o'er those \viio gave them car, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 403 B They would but turn thee from a high resolve. Then look not back ! oh ! triumph in the strength Of an exalted purpose! Eagle-like, Press sunward on. Thou shall not be alone. Have but an eye on God, as surely God Will have an eye on thee press on ! press on ! TJie Pilgrim Fathers. SPRAGTTE. THEY come that coming who shall tell ? 5"he 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, nd boldly meet the wrath and wo, hat 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 sland, 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 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 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 ! W r hat 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 ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY. 405 0, many a time it hath been told, The story of those men of old : For this fair Poetry hath wreathed Her sweetest, purest flower; For this proud Eloquence hath breathed His strain of loftiest power : Devotion, too, h.ith lingered round Each spot of consecrated ground, And hill and valley blessed ; There, where our banished fathers strayed. There, where they loved, and wept, aud 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. ^^^PJ 40^77 . SOJTHgRN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY