The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine Shall fill all the earth with my fame."
He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form On the canvas enchantingly glowed;
His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; And the pure pearly white, and the carnation warm, Contending in harmony, flowed.
And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem To the figure of Geraldine fair:
With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem Each muscle, each feature; in short, not a gleam Was lost of her beautiful hair.
'Twas the fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes Still a pupil did ruefully lack;
And who shall describe the terrific surprise
That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries Not a speck of his palette of black!
"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground,
He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief Whisk away from his sight with a bound.
"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone; Then, rising, the fairy, in ire,
With a touch of her finger, she loosened her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) And she swelled to a column of fire.
Her spear now a thunder-bolt flashed in the air, And sulphur the vault filled around; She smote the grim monster: and now, by the hair High-lifting, she hurled him, in speechless despair, Down the depths of the chasm profound.
Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, "Come forth!" said the good Geraldine; When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er, With grace more than ever divine!
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, fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Grew sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarmed, and hard beset;
Nor how, when, round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home;
And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come.
So long they looked-but never spied His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.
On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.-F. G. HALLECK.
GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth.
And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine,
It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow ; But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.
SWEET child, that wasted form, That pale and mournful brow, O'er which thy long, dark tresses In shadowy beauty flow- That eye, whence soul is darting With such strange brilliancy,
Tell us thou art departing
This world is not for thee.
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, O, where are we? While that celestial country Thick clouds and darkness hide, In a strange land of exile, Still, still must we abide.
O Father of our spirits, We can but look to thee; Though chastened, not forsaken, Shall we thy children be. We take the cup. of sorrow, As did thy blessed Son- Teach us to say, with Jesus,
'Thy will, not ours, be done!"
The dying 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 leaves
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 the sealed ground,
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties. And now they're all around us;-offspring bright Of earth,-a mother, who, with constant care, Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields, In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream; Or peering o'er it-vanity well feigned-- In quaint approval seem to glow and nod At their reflected graces.-Morn to meet, They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops To deck their bosoms.-There, on tall, bald trees, From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds. Over my head the winds and they make music; And, grateful, in return for what they take, Bright hues and odors to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight- Brings beauty, life ;-for love is life;-hate, death.
Thou prophet of so fair a revelation,Thou who abod'st with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow,
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell, To speak of comfort unto lonely man,- Didst say to him,-though seemingly alone 'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees, Or the more silent ground,-that 'twas not death, But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair ;— That thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him The winter's night, and, patient of the day, And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in thee,) Waitedst return of summer.
Thou priest of nature, priest of God, to man! Thou spok'st of faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
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