STANZAS.

THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers,
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.
I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perch'd, and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,

Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,

Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
The northern breeze that rustles by

Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare,

No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there, with all the birds, and seek

A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, And leave me lonely with the night. I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone,See-that it all is fair and bright, Feel-that it all is cold and gone.

THE STORM OF WAR.

O! ONCE was felt the storm of war!
It had an earthquake's roar;
It flash'd upon the mountain height,
And smoked along the shore.
It thunder'd in a dreaming ear,

And up the farmer sprang;
It mutter'd in a bold, true heart,
And a warrior's harness rang.
It rumbled by a widow's door,-
All but her hope did fail;
It trembled through a leafy grove,
And a maiden's cheek was pale.
It steps upon the sleeping sea,

And waves around it howl;
It strides from top to foaming top,
Out-frowning ocean's scowl.

And yonder sail'd the merchant ship,
There was peace upon her deck;
Her friendly flag from the mast was torn,
And the waters whelm'd the wreck.
But the same blast that bore her down
Fill'd a gallant daring sail,

That loved the might of the blackening storm,
And laugh'd in the roaring gale.

The stream, that was a torrent once,
Is rippled to a brook,

The sword is broken, and the spear

Is but a pruning-hook.
The mother chides her truant boy,

And keeps him well from harm;
While in the grove the happy maid
Hangs on her lover's arm.

Another breeze is on the sea,
Another wave is there,
And floats abroad triumphantly
A banner bright and fair.
And peaceful hands, and happy hearts,
And gallant spirits keep

Each star that decks it pure and bright,
Above the rolling deep.

THE GUERILLA.

THOUGH friends are false, and leaders fail,
And rulers quake with fear;
Though tamed the shepherd in the vale,
Though slain the mountaineer;
Though Spanish beauty fill their arms,
And Spanish gold their purse-
Sterner than wealth's or war's alarms

Is the wild Guerilla's curse.

No trumpets range us to the fight:

No signal sound of drum Tells to the foe, that, in their might, The hostile squadrons come. No sunbeam glitters on our spears, No warlike tramp of steeds Gives warning-for the first that hears Shall be the first that bleeds.

The night-breeze calls us from our bed,
At dew-fall forms the line,

And darkness gives the signal dread
That makes our ranks combine:
Or should some straggling moonbeam lie
On copse or lurking hedge,
"T would flash but from a Spaniard's eye,
Or from a dagger's edge.

"T is clear in the sweet vale below, And misty on the hill;

The skies shine mildly on the foe,

But lour upon us still.

This gathering storm shall quickly burst, And spread its terrors far,

And at its front we'll be the first,

And with it go to war.

O! the mountain peak shall safe remain-
"Tis the vale shall be despoil'd,
And the tame hamlets of the plain
With ruin shall run wild;
But liberty shall breathe our air

Upon the mountain head,
And freedom's breezes wander here,
Here all their fragrance shed.

THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG.

On the deep is the mariner's danger,
On the deep is the mariner's death,
Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger,
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath?
"Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,

Lone looker on despair,
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,

The only witness there.

Who watches their course, who so mildly

Careen to the kiss of the breeze?
Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly
Are clasp'd in the arms of the seas?
"Tis the sea-bird, &c.

Who hovers on high o'er the lover,

And her who has clung to his neck? Whose wing is the wing that can cover, With its shadow, the foundering wreck? "Tis the sea-bird, &c.

My eye in the light of the billow,

My wing on the wake of the wave,
I shall take to my breast, for a pillow,
The shroud of the fair and the brave.
I'm a sea-bird, &c.

My foot on the iceberg has lighted,

When hoarse the wild winds veer about; My eye, when the bark is benighted, Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair; The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there.

Here, say old men, the Indian magi made
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade
That shrouds sequester'd rock, or darkening glade,

Or tangled dell.

Here PHILIP came, and MIANTONIMO,
And ask'd about their fortunes long ago,
AS SAUL to Endor, that her witch might show
Old SAMUEL.

And here the black fox roved, that howl'd and shook
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook
For earthly fox;

Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear,
And his soft peltry, stripp'd and dress'd, to wear,
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair
Transfer him to a box.

Such are the tales they tell. "T is hard to rhyme
About a little and unnoticed stream,
That few have heard of-but it is a theme

I chance to love;

And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, And whistle to the note of many a deed Done on this river-which, if there be need, I'll try to prove.

*This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam.

SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH Commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years.

In this series

he published most of the poems of which he is known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His

Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published a volume entitled "The Outcast, and other Poems," most of the contents of which had previously been printed; and, in 1841, “Sketches from a Student's Window," a collection of poems and prose writings that had originally appeared in "The Token" and other periodicals.

Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is questionable whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully.

BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS.

I.

I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's newHow the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight.

II.

Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the CarribeeBright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,So they danced aid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween; For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme; So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales

24

But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch— And, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced-be it known-'t was not in the clime

Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime;

Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip! O, no! 't was the land of the fruit and the flowerWhere summer and spring both dwelt in one bower

Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough,

And the other with blossoms encircled its brow,Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of

Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave;
Or slid with the moonbeams down deep to the grove
Of coral, "where mullet and gold-fish rove:"
How there, in long vistas of silence and sleep,
They waltzed, as if mocking the death of the deep:
How oft, where the wreck lay scatter'd and torn,
They peep'd in the skull-now ghastly and lorn;
Or deep, mid wild rocks, quizzed the goggling shark,
And mouth'd at the sea-wolf-so solemn and
stark--

Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea
Were made but for fairies--for gambol and glee!
Enough, that at last they came to the isle,
Where moonlight and fragrance were rivals the
while.

Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here,
To turn the bright gem to the blood-mingled tear.
O, no! still blissful and peaceful the land,
And the merry elves flew from the sea to the strand.
Right happy and joyous seem'd now the bright crew,
As they tripp'd mid the orange groves flashing in
dew,

For they were to hold a revel that night,
A gay, fancy ball, and each to be dight
In the gem or the flower that fancy might choose
From mountain or vale, for its fragrance or hues.

IV.

Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, To gather their gear for the revel bright. To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, In emulous speed some sportive flewAnd deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, While others for topaz and emerald stray, Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. As these are gathering the rarest of gems, Others are plucking the rarest of stems. They range wild dells where the zephyr alone To the blushing blossoms before was known; Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strungWhere temples of nature with arches of bloom, Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine; Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, And gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower.

V.

The hour is come, and the fairies are seen
In their plunder array'd on the moonlit green.
The music is breathed-'t is a soft tone of pleasure,
And the light giddy throng whirl into the measure.
"Twas a joyous dance, and the dresses were bright,
Such as never were known till that famous night;
For the gems and the flowers that shone in the scene,
O'ermatch'd the regalia of princess and queen.
No gaudy slave to a fair one's brow

Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now;
But lighted with souls by the playful elves,
The brilliants and blossoms seem'd dancing them-
selves.

VI.

Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them

there!

Such a scampering never before was seen
As the fairies' flight on that island green.
They rush'd to the bay with twinkling feet,
But vain was their haste, for the moonlight fleet
Had pass'd with the dawn, and never again
Were those fairies permitted to traverse the main,—
But mid the groves, when the sun was high,
The Indian marked with a worshipping eye
The humming-birds, all unknown before,
Glancing like thoughts from flower to flower,
And seeming as if earth's loveliest things,
The brilliants and blossoms, had taken wings:-
And fancy hath whisper'd in numbers light,
That these are the fairies who danced that night,
And linger yet in the garb they wore,
Content in our clime, and more blest than before!

THE RIVER.

O, TELL me, pretty river!

Whence do thy waters flow? And whither art thou roaming, So pensive and so slow?

My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers; My cradle was a fountain, O'ercurtain'd by wild flowers.

"One morn I ran away,
A madcap, hoyden rill-
And many a prank that day
I play'd adown the hill!

"And then, mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers,
That stoop'd, with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.

"But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave

I hear the ocean's roar,

And there must be my grave!"

THE LEAF.

It came with spring's soft sun and showers,
Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers;
It flourish'd on the same light stem,
It drank the same clear dews with them.
The crimson tints of summer morn,
That gilded one, did each adorn.
The breeze, that whisper'd light and brief
To bud or blossom, kiss'd the leaf;
When o'er the leaf the tempest flew,
The bud and blossom trembled too.

But its companions pass'd away,
And left the leaf to lone decay.
The gentle gales of spring went by,
The fruits and flowers of summer die.
The autumn winds swept o'er the hill,
And winter's breath came cold and chill.
The leaf now yielded to the blast,
And on the rushing stream was cast.
Far, far it glided to the sea,
And whirl'd and eddied wearily,
Till suddenly it sank to rest,

And slumber'd in the ocean's breast.

Thus life begins-its morning hours,
Bright as the birth-day of the flowers;
Thus passes like the leaves away,
As wither'd and as lost as they.
Beneath the parent roof we meet
In joyous groups, and gayly greet
The golden beams of love and light,
That kindle to the youthful sight.
But soon we part, and one by one,

Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone.
One gentle spirit seeks the tomb,
His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom.
Another treads the paths of fame,
And barters peace to win a name.
Another still tempts fortune's wave,
And seeking wealth, secures a grave.
The last grasps yet the brittle thread-
Though friends are gone and joy is dead,
Still dares the dark and fretful tide,
And clutches at its power and pride,
Till suddenly the waters sever,

And, like the leaf, he sinks forever.

LAKE SUPERIOR.

"FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests weave

Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves,

With listening ear, in sadness broods;

Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves,

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods.

Nor can the light canoes, that glide
Across thy breast like things of air,
Chase from thy lone and level tide

The spell of stillness reigning there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave,
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,
To all a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder-riven oak, that flings
Its grisly arms athwart the sky,
A sudden, startling image brings
To the lone traveller's kindled eye.

The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show
Their dim forms in the forest shade,
Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw
Fantastic horrors through the glade.

The very echoes round this shore

Have caught a strange and gibbering tone;
For they have told the war-whoop o'er,
Till the wild chorus is their own.

Wave of the wilderness, adieu!
Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods!
Roll on, thou element of blue,

And fill these awful solitudes!
Thou hast no tale to tell of man-

God is thy theme. Ye sounding cavesWhisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves!

THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS.

THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair,

And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,
They catch the ruddy beams of day,
And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,
Their blushing favourite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers;
They rob Aurora's locks of light

To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell

Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well.

Then, take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, While that confiding heart receives

The thought it whispers to thine ear.