A PARALLEL.

THE waves that on the sparkling sand
Their foaming crests upheave,
Lightly receding from the land,
Seem not a trace to leave.
Those billows, in their ceaseless play,
Have worn the solid rocks away.

The summer winds, which wandering sigh
Amid the forest bower,

So gently as they murmur by,

Scarce lift the drooping flower.
Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom,
Spring's wither'd beauties to the tomb.

Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne,
Their impress leave behind;

And spirits, which their bonds would spurn, The blighting traces find.

Till alter'd thoughts and hearts grown cold The change of passing years unfold.

LAKE GEORGE.

NoT in the banner'd castle,

Beside the gilded throne,

On fields where knightly ranks have strode,
In feudal halls-alone

The spirit of the stately mien,
Whose presence flings a spell
Fadeless on all around her,
In empires loves to dwell.
Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters
Call up the shadows vast
That linger in their dim domain,
Dreams of the vision'd past!
As sweep the gorgeous pageants by,
We watch the pictured train,
And sigh that aught so glorious
Should be so brief and vain.
But here a spell yet deeper

Breathes from the woods and sky,

Proudlier these rocks and waters speak
Of hoar antiquity;

Here nature built her ancient realm
While yet the world was young,
Her monuments of grandeur

Unshaken stand, and strong.

Here shines the sun of Freedom
Forever o'er the deep,

Where Freedom's heroes by the shore

In peaceful glory sleep;

And deeds of high and proud emprize
In every breeze are told,

The everlasting tribute

To hearts that now are cold.

Farewell, then, scenes so lovely!
If sunset gild your rest,
Or the pale starlight gleam upon

The water's silvery breast

Or morning on these glad, green isles
In trembling splendour glows-
A holier spell than beauty
Hallows your pure repose!

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

BIRD of the lone and joyless night,

Whence is thy sad and solemn lay? Attendant on the pale moon's light,

Why shun the garish blaze of day? When darkness fills the dewy air,

Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone, amid the silence, there

Thy wild and plaintive note is heard. Thyself unseen, thy pensive moan Pour'd in no living comrade's ear, The forest's shaded depths alone

Thy mournful melody can hear. Beside what still and secret spring,

In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sitt'st thou, with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away? Sad minstrel thou hast learn'd, like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee,

Who will not trust its charm again.

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill
To listening night, when mirth is o'er;
I, heedless of the warning, still

Believe, to be deceived once more.

SONG.

COME, fill a pledge to sorrow,
The song of mirth is o'er,

And if there's sunshine in our hearts,
"Twill light our theme the more.
And pledge we dull life's changes,

As round the swift hours passToo kind were fate, if none but gems -Should sparkle in Time's glass.

The dregs and foam together

Unite to crown the cup

And well we know the weal and wo

That fill life's chalice up!

Life's sickly revellers perish,

The goblet scarcely drain'd;

Then lightly quaff, nor lose the sweets Which may not be retain❜d.

What reck we that unequal

Its varying currents swell

The tide that bears our pleasures down, Buries our griefs as well.

And if the swift-wing'd tempest

Have cross'd our changeful day,
The wind that toss'd our bark has swept
Full many a cloud away!

Then grieve not that naught mortal
Endures through passing years—
Did life one changeless tenor keep,
"T were cause, indeed, for tears.
And fill we, ere our parting,

A mantling pledge to sorrow;
The pang that wrings the heart to-day
Time's touch will heal to-morrow!

Island, and in the same year relinquished the occupation of a merchant. He has since devoted his attention entirely to literature; and has edited two or three popular periodicals. He resides in New York.

MORN AT SEA.

CLEARLY, with mental eye,

Where the first slanted ray of sunlight springs,
I see the morn with golden-fringed wings
Up-pointed to the sky.

In youth's divinest glow,

She stands upon a wandering cloud of dew,
Whose skirts are sun-illumed with every hue
Worn by Gon's covenant bow!

The child of light and air!

O'er land or wave, where'er her pinions move, The shapes of earth are clothed in hues of love And truth, divinely fair.

Athwart this wide abyss,

On homeward way impatiently I drift;

O, might she bear me now where sweet flowers lift Their eyelids to her kiss!

Her smile hath overspread

The heaven-reflecting sea, that evermore

Is tolling solemn knells from shore to shore
For its uncoffin'd dead.

Most like an angel-friend,

With noiseless footsteps, which no impress leave, She comes in gentleness to those who grieve, Bidding the long night end.

How joyfully will hail,

With reenliven❜d hearts, her presence fair, The hapless shipwreck'd, patient in despair, Watching a far-off sail.

Vain all affection's arts

To cheer the sick man through the night have been:
She to his casement goes, and, looking in,
Death's shadow thence departs.

How many, far from home,
Wearied, like me, beneath unfriendly skies,
And mourning o'er affection's broken ties,

Have pray'd for her to come.

Lone voyager on time's sea!
When my dull night of being shall be past,
O, may I waken to a morn, at last,
Welcome as this to me!

A DEATH-BED.

HER suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She pass'd through Glory's morning-gate, And walk'd in Paradise!

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

IN beauty lingers on the hills

The death-smile of the dying day;
And twilight in my heart instils
The softness of its rosy ray.

I watch the river's peaceful flow,

Here, standing by my mother's grave, And feel my dreams of glory go,

Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.

Gon gives us ministers of love,

Which we regard not, being near; Death takes them from us-then we feel That angels have been with us here!

As mother, sister, friend, or wife,

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain;
And when the grave has closed between
Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain!
Would, mother! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career,
For sins and follies loved too well,

Hath fallen the free, repentant tear.
And, in the waywardness of youth,
How better thoughts have given to me
Contempt for error, love for truth,

Mid sweet remembrances of thee.

The harvest of my youth is done,

And manhood, come with all its cares, Finds, garner'd up within my heart,

For every flower a thousand tares.

Dear mother! couldst thou know my thoughts, Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine,

The depth of feeling in my breast,

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!

A SPRING-DAY WALK.

ADIEU, the city's ceaseless hum,

The haunts of sensual life, adieu! Green fields, and silent glens! we come, To spend this bright spring-day with you. Whether the hills and vales shall gleam

With beauty, is for us to choose; For leaf and blossom, rock and stream, Are colour'd with the spirit's hues. Here, to the seeking soul, is brought A nobler view of human fate, And higher feeling, higher thought, And glimpses of a higher state. Through change of time, on sea and shore, Serenely nature smiles away; Yon infinite blue sky bends o'er

Our world, as at the primal day. The self-renewing earth is moved

With youthful life each circling year; And flowers that CERES' daughter loved At Enna, now are blooming here. Glad nature will this truth reveal,

That God is ours and we are His;

O, friends, my friends! what joy to feel
That He our loving father is!

TO ONE FAR AWAY. SWIFTER far than swallow's flight, Homeward o'er the twilight lea; Swifter than the morning light, Flashing o'er the pathless sea, Dearest in the lonely night Memory flies away to thee! Stronger far than is desire;

Firm as truth itself can be; Deeper than earth's central fire; Boundless as the circling sea; Yet as mute as broken lyre,

Is my love, dear wife, for thee! Sweeter far than miser's gain,

Or than note of fame can be Unto one who long in vain

Treads the paths of chivalryAre my dreams, in which again My fond arms encircle thee!

BEATRICE.

UNTOUCH'D by mortal passion,
Thou seem'st of heavenly birth,
Pure as the effluence of a star
Just reach'd our distant earth!
Gave Fancy's pencil never
To an ideal fair

Such spiritual expression

As thy sweet features wear.
An inward light to guide thee
Unto thy soul is given,
Pure and serene as its divine
Original in heaven.
Type of the ransom'd PSYCHE!

How gladly, hand in hand,

To some new world I'd fly with thee From off this mortal strand.

LINES.

UNDERNEATH this marble cold,
Lies a fair girl turn'd to mould;
One whose life was like a star,
Without toil or rest to mar
Its divinest harmony,

Its Gon-given serenity.

One, whose form of youthful grace,
One, whose eloquence of face
Match'd the rarest gem of thought
By the antique sculptors wrought:
Yet her outward charms were less
Than her winning gentleness,
Her maiden purity of heart,
Which, without the aid of art,
Did in coldest hearts inspire
Love, that was not all desire.
Spirit forms with starry eyes,
That seem to come from Paradise,
Beings of ethereal birth,

Near us glide sometimes on earth,
Like glimmering moonbeams dimly seen
Glancing down through alleys green;
Of such was she who lies beneath
This silent effigy of grief.

Wo is me! when I recall
One sweet word by her let fall—
One sweet word but half-express’d—
Downcast eyes told all the rest,
To think beneath this marble cold,
Lies that fair girl turn'd to mould.

THE DREAMING GIRL.
SHE floats upon a sea of mist,
In fancy's boat of amethyst!
A dreaming girl, with her fair cheek
Supported by a snow-white arm,
In the calm joy of innocence,

Subdued by some uncarthly charm.
The clusters of her dusky hair
Are floating on her bosom fair,
Like early darkness stealing o'er

The amber tints that daylight gave,
Or, like the shadow of a cloud

Upon a fainting summer-wave.
Is it a spirit of joy or pain
Sails on the river of her brain?
For, lo! the crimson on her cheek

Faints and glows like a dying flame;
Her heart is beating loud and quick—
Is not love that spirit's name?
Up-waking from her blissful sleep,
She starts with fear too wild to weep;
Through the trailing honeysuckle,

All night breathing odorous sighs, Which her lattice dimly curtains,

The morn peeps in with his bright eyes. Perfume loved when it is vanish'd, Pleasure hardly felt ere banish'd, Is the happy maiden's vision,

That doth on her memory gleam, And her heart leaps up with gladnessThat bliss was nothing but a dream!