Then far down diving with loud hollow sound ;-
And, deep at first within the distant wood,
The whip-poor-will, her name her only song.
She, soon as children from the noisy sport
Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones,
To hear the echoes of the empty barn,
Are by her voice diverted, and held mute,
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove;
And when the twilight, deepened into night,
Calls them within, close to the house she comes,
And on its dark side, haply on the step
Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen,
Breaks into strains articulate and clear,
The closing sometimes quickened as in sport.
Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve
All harmony, activity, and joy,
Is lovely Nature, as in her blest prime.
The robin to the garden, or green yard,
Close to the door repairs to build again
Within her wonted tree; and at her work
Seems doubly busy, for her past delay.
Along the surface of the winding stream,
Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim;
Or round the borders of the spacious lawn
Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er
Hillock and fence, with motion serpentine,
Easy and light. One snatches from the ground
A downy feather, and then upward springs,
Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,
In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
When all at once dart at the falling prize.
The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown,
Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick
Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops
On the next tree, and on its highest limb,
Or some tall flag, and, gently rocking, sits,
Her strain repeating.
ALL are born free, and all with equal rights.
So speaks the charter of a nativa aoud
Of her unequalled liberties and laws,
While, in that nation,-shameful to relate,
One man in five is born and dies a slave.
Is this my country? this that happy land,
The wonder and the envy of the world ?
O for a mantle to conceal her shame!
But why, when Patriotism cannot hide
The ruin which her guilt will surely bring
If unrepented ? and unless the God
Who poured his plagues on Egypt till she let
The oppressed go free, and often pours his wrath,
In earthquakes and tornadoes, on the isles
Of western India, laying waste their fields,
Dashing their mercenary ships ashore,
Tossing the isles themselves like floating wrecks,
And burying towns alive in one wide grave,
No sooner ope'd but closed, let judgment pass
For once untasted till the general doom,
Can it go well with us while we retain
This cursed thing? Will not untimely frosts,
Devouring insects, drought, and wind and hail,
Destroy the fruits of ground long tilled in chains ?
Will not some daring spirit, born to thoughts
Above his beast-like state, find out the truth,
That Africans are men; and, catching fire
From Freedom's altar raised before his eyes
With incense fuming sweet, in others light
A kindred flame in secret, till a train,
Kindled at once, deal death on every side ?
Cease then, Columbia, for thy safety cease,
And for thine honor, to proclaim the praise
Of thy fair shores of liberty and joy,
While thrice five hundred thousand wretched slaves,
In thine own bosom, start at every word
As meant to mock their woes, and shake their chains,
Thinking defiance which they dare not speak.
Hymn for the African Colonization Society.-PIERPONT.
With thy pure dews and rains,
Wash out, o God, the stains
From Afric's shore;
And, while her palm-trees bud,
Let not her children's blood
With her broad Niger's flood
Be mingled more!
Quench, righteous God, the thirst
That Congo's sons hath cursed,
The thirst for gold.
Shall not thy thunders speak,
Where Mammon's altars reek,
Where maids and matrons shriek,
Bound, bleeding, sold ?
Hear'st thou, O God, those chains,
Clanking on Freedom's plains,
By Christians wrought!
Them, who those chains have worn,
Christians from home have torn,
Christians have hither borne,
Christians have bought !
Cast down, great God, the fanes
That, to unhallowed gains,
Round us have risen-
Temples, whose priesthood pore
Moses and Jesus o'er,
Then bolt the black man's door,
The poor man's prison !
Wilt thou not, Lord, at last,
From thine own image, cast
Away all cords,
But that of love, which brings
Man, from his wanderings,
Back to the King of kings,
The Lord of lords !
Dedication Hymn.-PIERPONT.
O THOU, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, Whom kings adored in songs sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue,
Not now, on Zion's height alone,
The favored worshipper may dwell, Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the patriarch's well. From every place below the skies,
The grateful song, the fervent prayerThe incense of the heart—may rise
To heaven, and find acceptance there.
In this thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.
To thee shall age, with snowy hair,
And strength and beauty, bend the knee, And childhood lisp, with reverend air,
Its praises and its prayers to thee.
O thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of prophet bards was strung, To thee, at last, in every clime,
Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.
Evening Music of the Angels.-HILLHOUSE.
Low warblings, now, and solitary harps, Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices." Louder as they swelled, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mixed with clear silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes, Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys.
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,
And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.
Vernal Melody in the Forest.-CARLOS Wilcox.*
WITH sonorous notes
Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet,
All chanted in the fulness of delight,
The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed
With bushy sides, and covered high above
With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks,
Like pillars rising to support a roof,
It seems a temple vast, the space within
Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody.
Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct,
The merry mocking-bird together links
In one continued song their different notes,
* He was a true poet, and deeply interesting in his character, both as a man and a Christian. He resembled Cowper in many respects ;-in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities-in the modest and retiring disposition of his mind-in its fine culture, and its original poetical cast-and not a little in the character of his poetry. It has been said with truth, that, if he had given himself to poetry as his chief occupation, he might have been the Cowper of New England. We pretend not to place his unfinished and broken compositions on a level with the works of the author of the Task ; but they possess much of his spirit, and, at the same time, are original. "Like Cowper, “he left the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and passion, for those of real life and simple nature, and for the developement of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral and religious truth.” Amidst the throngs of initators, whose names have crowded the pages of the annuals and magazines, his is never to be seen; and the merits of his poetry are almost unknown to those who regulate the criticisms of the public journals. But it is both a proof and a consequence of his original powers and his elevated feelings, that, instead of devoting his mind to the composition of short, artificial pieces for the public eye, he started at once upon a wide and noble subject, with the outline in his mind of a magnificent moral poem. The history, the scenery, and the public and domestic manners in this country, afforded scope for the composition of another Task, which, if the powers of the writer were equal to his subject, would be more for America, and the religious world, ihan even Cowper's was for England and his fellow men. Mr. Wilcox did not live to execute his design ; but the fragments he has lest us are so rich, in a vein of unaffected poetry and piety, that they make is sorrowful for what we have lost, and indignant that his inerits are so little known and appreciated beyond a small circle of affectionate Christian friends.-ED.
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