WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. [Born, 1810.] MR. GALLAGHER, I believe, is a native of Ohio. | Literary Journal," "The Hesperian," and other He now resides in Cincinnati, where he conducts a daily gazette. He has been engaged in literary pursuits from early life, and has edited, in succession, "The Cincinnati Mirror," "The Western popular miscellanies. His first volume of poems appeared in 1835, and he has since published "Erato," in three volumes. The last-mentioned work embraces nearly all his metrical compositions. TO THE WEST. LAND of the West!-green forest-land! And child of her munificence! And with clear vision gazing thence, Thy glories round me far expand: Rivers, whose likeness carth has not, And lakes, that elsewhere seas would be,Whose shores the countless wild herds dot, Fleet as the winds, and all as free; Mountains that pierce the bending sky, And with the storm-cloud warfare wage: Shooting their glittering peaks on high, To mock the fierce, red lightning's rage; Arcadian vales, with vine-hung bowers, And grassy nooks, 'neath beechen shade, Where dance the never-resting Hours, To music of the bright cascade; Skies softly beautiful, and blue Flowers rich as morning's sunrise hue, gray Land of the West!-where naught is old Or fading, but tradition hoary, Thy yet unwritten annals hold Of many a daring deed the story! Man's might of arm hath here been tried, world And woman's glorious strength of soul,— When war's fierce shout rang far and wide, When vengeful foes at midnight stole On slumbering innocence, and gave Nor onset-shout, nor warning word, Nor nature's strong appealings heard From woman's lips, to "spare and save Her unsuspecting little one, Her only child-her son! her son!" Unheard the supplicating tone, Which ends in now a shriek, and now a deep death-groan! Land of the West!-green forest-land! Of men who ne'er their lineage shamed: Aye ready, morn, or night, or noon; The men of DANIEL BOON! Their dwelling-place--the "good green-wood;" The deep and solemn shade: Breathed in the thunder's voice aloud, Other than fitting root, or stone, Of Time, and sinking, one by one; All honour to the few that yet do linger with us! By quiet lake, or gliding river,-- With souls that would indignant turn, Land of the West!--beneath the Heaven Our Western Andes prop the sky-- Till Freedom's eagles sink in blood, And quench'd are all the stars that now her banners stud! Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge: The kine are forth again, The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Pleasantly comest thou, Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass; As the light breezes pass, That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, So, to the thirsting soul, To where the spirit freely may expand, SPRING VERSES. How with the song of every bird, Some recollection dear is stirr'd Of many a long-departed hour, Whose course, though shrouded now in night, I know not if, when years have cast Of all the present, much is bright; Which burns before me constantly; Yet coldly shines it on my brow; And in my breast it wakes to life None of the holy feelings now, With which my boyhood's heart was rife: It cannot touch that secret spring Which erst made life so bless'd a thing. Give me, then give me birds and flowers, Which are the voice and breath of Spring! For those the songs of life's young hours With thrilling touch recall and sing: And these, with their sweet breath, impart Old tales, whose memory warms the heart. MAY. WOULD that thou couldst last for aye, Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers, Would that thou couldst last for aye! Out beneath thy morning sky Glistening, early flowers among- Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dew-drop And quickly to destruction hurl'd But hath swept the green earth's bosom; Crown'd with flowers, and rush along They are in life's May-month hours, And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but life's flowers? Would that thou couldst last for aye, Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers, Festoon'd with the dewy vine: Merry, ever-merry May, Would that thou couldst last for aye! With the warm, cheering light, the coming sun As the passing Christian's soul, [bestows: Nearing the celestial goal, Brighter and brighter grows, till GoD illumes the whole. Out beneath thy noontide sky, Giving fancy ample play; One of ADAM's race to-day. That we feel 'tis heaven-sent! Waking thoughts, that long have slumber'd, Bearing soul and sense away, To revel in the perfect day Which 'waits us, when we shall for aye [clay! Discard this darksome dust-this prison-house of Out beneath thy evening sky, Not a breeze that wanders by OUR EARLY DAYS. OUR early days!-How often back A boy-my truant steps were seen And now, its streams are dry; and sere Gone are its flowers; its bird's glad voice A youth-the mountain-torrent made WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. And Windsor's haunted "alleys green" Dingle" and "bosky bourn" between, The whole wide realm of Old Romance: A man-the thirst for fame was mine, Time, health, hope, peace-and madly striven, Is oftenest but an empty sound. But it hath found so much to be But hollowness and mockery, Our early days! They haunt us ever- THE LABOURER. STAND up-erect! Thou hast the form, And pure, as breast e'er wore. What then?-Thou art as true a man Who is thine enemy? the high In station, or in wealth the chief? If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree. No:-uncurb'd passions, low desires, Forever, till thus check'd; These are thine enemies--thy worst; Thou art thyself thine enemy! The great!--what better they than thou? True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust! Of both--a noble mind. With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in GoD, The mothers of our forest-land! They shrank not from the foeman They quail'd not in the fight- The mothers of our forest-land! Their bosoms pillow'd men! And proud were they by such to stand, In hammock, fort, or glen, To load the sure, old rifle To run the leaden ball To watch a battling husband's place, The mothers of our forest-land! Such were their daily deeds. Their monument!-where does it stand? No nobler matrons Rome- The mothers of our forest-land! They sleep in unknown graves: And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves, They had not been more neglected! But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground." JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. [Born about 1810.] MR. CLARKE is a native of Boston. He is a grandson of the Reverend JAMES FREEMAN, D. D., for many years minister of King's Chapel, in that city, and was from his childhood designed for the church. He was educated in the university and in the divinity-school at Cambridge, and on being admitted to orders, went to Louisville, Kentucky, where he resided several years, and conducted with much ability a monthly miscellany of religion and letters, entitled "The Western Messenger." In 1840 he returned to Boston, and he is now pastor of a church in that city. HYMN AND PRAYER. INFINITE Spirit! who art round us ever," In whom we float, as motes in summer-sky, May neither life nor death the sweet bond sever, Which joins us to our unseen Friend on high. Unseen-yet not unfelt-if any thought Has raised our mind from earth, or pure desire, A generous act, or noble purpose brought, It is thy breath, O LORD, which fans the fire. To me, the meanest of thy creatures, kneeling, Conscious of weakness, ignorance, sin, and shame, Give such a force of holy thought and feeling, That I may live to glorify thy name; That I may conquer base desire and passion, That I may rise o'er selfish thought and will, O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, Walk humbly, softly, leaning on thee still. I am unworthy. Yet, for their dear sake I ask, whose roots planted in me are found; For precious vines are propp'd by rudest stake, And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground. Beneath my leaves, though early fallen and faded, Young plants are warm'd,-they drink my branches' dew: Let them not, LORD, by me be Upas-shaded; Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true. For their sake, too, the faithful, wise, and bold, Whose generous love has been my pride and stay, Those who have found in me some trace of gold, For their sake purify my lead and clay. And let not all the pains and toil be wasted, Spent on my youth by saints now gone to rest; Nor that deep sorrow my Redeemer tasted, When on his soul the guilt of man was press'd. Tender and sensitive, he braved the storm, That we might fly a well-deserved fate, Let all this goodness by my mind be seen, THE POET. HE touch'd the earth, a soul of flame, Yet smiled as one who knows no fear, Shed over human loss and sin. Lit by an inward, brighter light Than aught that round about him shone, He walk'd erect through shades of night; Clear was his pathway-but how lone! Men gaze in wonder and in awe Upon a form so like to theirs, Worship the presence, yet withdraw And carry elsewhere warmer prayers. Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest, Forgetting once his strange estate, Unloosed the lyre from off his breast, And strung its chords to human fate; And, gayly snatching some rude air, Caroll'd by idle, passing tongue, Gave back the notes that linger'd there, And in Heaven's tones earth's low lay sung; Then warmly grasp'd the hand that sought Men laid their hearts low at his feet, And sunn'd their being in his light, Press'd on his way his steps to greet, And in his love forgot his might. And when, a wanderer long on earth, And dimm'd the lustre of a birth They cherish'd e'en the tears he shed, |