REVEREND GEORGE B. CHEEVER.* TO MY SICK AND SUFFERING BROTHER, ON HIS FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY. I WISH, dear N., my heart could weave Where love in every line should leave Its own dear tones for thee. And, sooth, if love could teach the soul The wish, I know, is sadly vain: Thoughts rise, and fond affections throng, But with the sweetest, white-stoled train There comes no tone of song. I would chain down the airy crowds, And keep them while I seek sweet words; Alas! they change like summer-clouds, They droop like prison'd birds. How can I paint their changeful dyes, The simplest birthday wish is shy; All Love's best thoughts, of the same race; For, while I'm sure I have them nigh, They've fled, and left no trace. Dear brother, thou wilt then forgive, For, were my soul all melody, My words the same they use in heaven, This earnest heart could never be More freely to thee given. We're one; our mother's equal care; One in our mutual sympathies,And, more than all, in mutual prayer, By endless, holy ties. I've rock'd thee in thy cradle,-play'd With thee in childhood's frolic hours, With thee have roam'd through grove and glade, And pluck'd the vernal flowers. We've shared old winter's wild delight, We've gather'd nuts in summer-woods, We've proudly watch'd our breeze-borne kite Among the sailing clouds. But not in such gay sympathy Our mutual love has tenderest grown,For oft must grief's sad harmony Interpret its deep tone. When sickness blanch'd thy rosy cheek, And brought thy buoyant spirit low, How dear thou wast from week to week, I trembled then to know. *Author of "God's Hand in America," "Travels in the East," Editor of "Common-Place Book of American Poetry," etc. Our youngest, brightest household flower! To see thee droop from hour to hour, O, then I felt the privilege To breathe my silent, humble prayer;We wept o'er pains whose wasting edge My frame could better bear. I watch'd thy restless sleep,-I tried These duties were love's natural sphere: Our drooping flower I cherish'd so, This day, did fancy paint what's true, This day 't is yet thy being's dawn, But, ah, how full the mingled scene, Throws o'er each melancholy line His gracious, guiding hand beholds; And, in the gloomiest of the storm, Some bright design unfolds. Amidst the sufferings of years Thou seest thou didst not walk alone; Where all was agony and tears, There most His mercy shone. "T was thus he drew thy careless heart Of laughing health, and dimpled ease, The house was merry with thy song, Thy fawn-like step danced free and wild; And of the happy schoolboy throng Thou wast the happiest child. All elements to thee look'd gay, All seasons minister'd delight;"T was constant motion every day, "Twas gentle sleep at night. How soon a cloud of dreary hue Chased the bright jubilee away! I know thine answer well. In vain What soothes the soul, betrays;-select A life all ease is all abused ; O, precious grace! that made thee wise The pleasures of the happiest boy That He, whose love is wisdom too, By trials here below. Should health and active power return, And life put on a brighter glow, 'Tis only He who gives the boon In active health or sad disease, O, ne'er forget that precious word"He shall be kept in perfect peace, Whose soul is stay'd on God." If still thy feeble frame decay, Lifts up thy strengthen'd soul. Thy faith for trials long and late, Remember then, "they also serve, Who only stand and wait." Yet, mark me! When a few short years Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain, Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, CATHERINE H. ESLING.* BROTHER, COME HOME. COME home! Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Come home! Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine, Come where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, Where cherish'd memory rears her altar's shrine; Brother, come home. Come home! Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, Come home! It is not home without thee, the lone seat In vain we list for what should herald thee; Come home! We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, Come home! Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, The maiden name of Mrs. ESLING was CATHERINE H. WATERMAN. She resides in Philadelphia, and has been for several years a frequent contributor to the periodicals of that city. She has also edited two or three annuaries. No collection of her metrical compositions has been published. JOHN B. VAN SCHAICK.* JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND STILL. THE day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet, 66 [up, God of this people hear! and let the sun With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight. *For many years editor of "The Daily Advertiser," of Albany, New York. He died in 1839, at the age of thirty-six years. ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER.* THE DEVOTED.† STERN faces were around her bent, And eyes of vengeful ire, And fearful were the words they spake, Yet calmly in the midst she stood, Was back for answer borne ;- Her heart and pulse beat firm and free, O'er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow, The haughtiest chief that round her stood "My noble lord is placed within For many a warrior's watchful eye "But thou mayst win his broad estates, And life and honour to thyself, So thou his haunts declare." Her eye flash'd proud and clear, "And if ye seek to view his form, From round his secret dwelling-place, They quail'd beneath her haughty glance, And left her all unharm'd amidst Her loveliness and pride! * Born in Wilmington, Delaware, in 1807, and died in Michigan, in 1834. She was a member of the Society of Friends. A volume of her writings was published in 1836. It was a beautiful turn given by a great lady, who being asked where her husband was, when he lay concealed for having been deeply concerned in a conspiracy, resolutely answered that she had hidden him. This confession caused her to be carried before the governor, who told her that naught but confessing where she had hidden him, could save her from the torture. "And will that do ?” said she. "Yes," replied the governor, "I will pass my word for your safety, on that condition." "Then," replied she, "I have hidden him in my heart, where you may find him." HUGH PETERS.* A GOOD-NIGHT TO CONNECTICUT. THE boat swings from the pebbled shore, To such a shore as thine? I've gazed upon the golden cloud Which shades thine emerald sod; Thy hills, which Freedom's share hath plough'd, Their knee to aught but God; Thy birds, which cut with rushing wing And thought thy glories small. But now ye've shrunk to yon blue line I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine, That I am part of thee. I see thee blended with the wave, Thou mountain land-thou land of rock, Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock, And nerved like those who stood the shock The laurel wreaths their fathers won, That rives thy mountain ash; And thou hast gems; ay, living pearls; Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls, And smiles like Hermon's dew: They've hearts like those they're born to wed, Too proud to nurse a slave; HUGH PETERS was a native of Connecticut. He was drowned, near Cincinnati, in 1832, aged about thirty years. They'd scorn to share a monarch's bed, And I have left thee, home, alone, "You see your home no more." A bruised and broken reed. Farewell, my native land, farewell! Which bounds yon eastern sky; FREDERICK W. THOMAS.* 'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE. "TIs said that absence conquers love! But, O! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, Lady, though fate has bid us part, Yet still thou art as dear, They know me still the same. But when I ask my heart the sound, And when some other name I learn, In vain! I never can forget, And would not be forgot; E'en as the wounded bird will seek I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot. * Author of "East and West," "Clinton Bradshaw," "The Emigrant," &c. snares; And the hour that invites to the calm of Devotion, Undisturb'd by regrets, unencumber'd with cares. How cheerless the late blooming face of creation! Weary Time seems to rest in his rapid career; And pausing awhile midst his own desolation, Looks exultingly back on the Grave of the Year. Hark! the blast whistles loud, and the shadows are closing That inwrapt his broad path in the mantle of Night, While Pleasure's gay sons are securely reposing, Undismay'd at the wrecks that have number'd his flight, From yon temple where Fashion's bright torches are lighted, Her votaries, in throngs, crown'd with garlands appear; And, (as yet their warm hopes by no spectres affrighted,) Assemble to dance round the Grave of the Year. O! I hate the stale banquet the triflers have tasted, When I think on the ills of Life's comfortless day, How the flowers of my childhood their verdure have wasted, And the friends of my youth have been stolen away. They know not how vain is the warmest endeavour To woo the kind moments, so slighted when near; When the hours that Oblivion has cancell'd forever, Her hand has entomb'd-in the Grave of the Year. Since the last solemn reign of this day of reflection, What crowds have resign'd life's ephemeral breath! How many have shed their last tear of dejection, And closed the dim eye in the darkness of death? How many have sudden their pilgrimage ended, Beneath the sad pall that now covers their bier; Or to Death's lonesome valley have gently descended, And found their last bed-with the Grave of the Year. "Tis the year that so late, its new promise disclosing, | Rose bright on the happy, the careless, and gay, Who now on their pillows of dust are reposing, Where the sod presses cold on their bosoms of clay. Then talk not of Bliss-while her smile is expiring! Disappointment still crowns it in Misery's tear: Reflect and be wise, for the day is retiring, [Year. And to-morrow will dawn-on the Grave of the Ah! trust not the gleam of Life's perishing taper, So faintly that shines o'er the wanderer's head; "Twill expire-when no sun may dispel the thick vaNo dawn of the morning revisit my bed. [pour, * Mr. GAMAGE wrote for the literary journals for several years under the signature of "Montgarnier." I believe he was a native of Massachusetts. He died in 1828. As breaks the white foam on the boisterous billow, So the visions of Pleasure and Hope disappear, Like night-winds that moan through the verdureless willow, Or the shades that now meet-round the Grave of the Year. Yet awhile and around us no seasons will flourish, But silence for each her dark mansion prepare; Where Beauty no longer her roses shall nourish, Nor the lily o'erspread the wan cheek of Despair! But the eye shall with lustre unfading be brighten'd, When it wakes to true bliss in yon orient sphere: By sunbeams of splendour immortal enlighten'd, Never more to go down-on the Grave of the Year! HORACE GREELEY.* THE PRESS. LONG slumber'd the world in the darkness of error, And ignorance brooded o'er earth like a pall: To the mitre and crown men abased them in terror, Though galling the bondage, and bitter the thrall: When a voice like the earthquake's reveal'd the dishonour A flash like the lightning's unseal'd every eye, And o'er hill-top and glen floated liberty's banner, While round it men gather'd to conquer or die! 'Twas the voice of the Press-on the startled ear breaking, In giant-born prowess, like PALLAS of old: "Twas the flash of intelligence gloriously waking A glow on the cheek of the noble and bold; And tyranny's minions, o'erawed and affrighted, Sought a lasting retreat in the cloister and cowl, And the chains which bound nations in ages benighted Were cast to the haunts of the bat and the owl. Then hail to the Press! chosen guardian of freedom! Strong sword-arm of justice! bright sunbeam of truth! We pledge to her cause, (and she has but to need them,) The strength of our manhood, the fire of our youth: Should despot e'er dare to impede her free soaring, And proudly her sons shall recall their devotion, While millions shall listen to honour and bless, Till there bursts a response from the heart's strong emotion, [Press!" And the earth echoes deep with "Long life to the * Mr. GREELEY was for many years editor of "The New Yorker," one of the best literary journals ever published in America. He now conducts "The Tribune," an able daily gazette, in New York. |