The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem '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 "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, Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, The murdered Traveller.-BRYANT. WHEN Spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, The fragrant birch, above him, hung And many a vernal blossom sprung, The red-bird warbled, as he wrought But there was weeping far away, With watching many an anxious day, They little knew, who loved him so, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Nor how, when, round the frosty pole, The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole Nor how, when strangers found his bones, And marked his grave with nameless stones, But long they looked, and feared, and wept, And dreamed, and started as they slept, So long they looked-but never spied 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, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts, whose truth was proven, There should a wreath be woven And I, who woke each morrow It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. To H--CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. SWEET child, that wasted form, This world is not for thee. 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, And prophesying life to the sealed ground, Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties. Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields, Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream; Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops Thus mutual love brings mutual delight- 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 More thou saidst, Thou priest of nature, priest of God, to man! |