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216 Rockingham Gazette,
McLellan, I. Jr.
Rockwell, J. O.
359, 369, 379, 381, 397
. 86, 200 Sands, R. C.
284 Sigourney, Mrs. 38, 48, 48, 112, 123,
127, 163, 175, 292,309, 348, 386,
National Gazette (Walsh's).
82, 251 Smith, Louisa P
New York American.
New York Daily Advertiser. 113 Talisman.
New York Evening Post.
Tappan, W. B.
New York Review.
331 Thatcher, B. B.
New York Statesman.
272 Townsend, Elizabeth.
North American Review, 307
Norton, A. 65, 225, 255, 269 Unitarian Miscellany.
393 U.S. Rev. & Lit. Gazette.. 177
O. W. H.
Ware, H. Jr.
. 143, 220,
Peabody, W. O. B. 181, 215, 281,
325, 336, 336, 337, 345, 395 Whittier,J.G. 37,66,87,110,349,384
Percival, J. G. 50, 85, 107, 138, 172, Wilcox, C. 17, 39, 41, 45, 61, 68, 77,
183, 202, 204, 228, 258, 262, 84, 98, 105, 106, 330, 342, 389
267, 267, 294, 351
Willis, N. P. 27, 85, 91, 111, 119,
141, 169, 178, 213, 224, 271,310,
Pierpont, J. 42, 43, 61, 107, 156, 183,
198, 211, 293, 301, 343, 357, Woodworth.
366, 368, 382, 387
Pinkney, E. C.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY.
A Sacred Melody.—ANONYMOUS.
Be thou, O 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.
WOULDST thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ?
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.
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 light 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 and 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 ?
Be ware 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,
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 shalt 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.-BRYANT.
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 wəft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,
And 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 enjoy
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 continuous laughter to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips 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 Death 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
Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge ?