We will not, or we cannot fling We pant for its unrest! We are scatter'd-we are scatter'd! Beyond the reach of pain! When the mortal hath put brightly on Its immortality! TO H. A. B. DEEM not, beloved, that the glow Of love with youth will know decay; For, though the wing of Time may throw A shadow o'er our way; The sunshine of a cloudless faith, The calmness of a holy trust, The fervid passions of our youth- All memories of bliss These still are ours, while looking back Men call us poor-it may be true Amid the gay and glittering crowd; We feel it, though our wants are few, Yet envy not the proud. The freshness of love's early flowers, That wealth could never grant. Something of beauty from thy brow, Chasten'd by time, yet calmly bright; An emblem of the love which lives Like that which gilds the life beyond! The mother, with her dewy eye, Is dearer than the blushing bride A bright link in the chain of love-- Rich in the heart's best treasure, still With a calm trust we'll journey on, But love dies not--the child of GOD-- She leads us with her radiant hand Of bliss beyond the sky! ΤΟ HOPE, strewing with a liberal hand And gilding time's departing hours; Whose music melts upon the heart Like whispers from the world unknown, When shadows from the soul departLove, with its sunlight melting through The mists that over earth are driven, And giving earth itself the hue And brightness of the upper-heavenPeace, hymning with her seraph-tones Amid the stillness of thy soul, Till every human passion owns Her mighty but her mild controlDevotion, with her lifted eye, All radiant with the tears of bliss, Looking beyond the bending sky To worlds more glorious than this Duty, untiring in her toil Earth's parch'd and sterile wastes amongZeal, delving in the rocky soil, With words of cheer upon her tongue- Whose glories to her view are given- SONG. BELIEVE not the slander, my dearest KATRINE! For the ice of the world hath not frozen my heart; In my innermost spirit there still is a shrine Where thou art remember'd, all pure as thou art: The dark tide of years, as it bears us along, Though it sweep away hope in its turbulent flow, Cannot drown the low voice of Love's eloquent song, Nor chill with its waters my faith's early glow. True, the world hath its snares, and the soul may grow faint In its strifes with the follies and falsehoods of earth; And amidst the dark whirl of corruption, a taint May poison the thoughts that are purest at birth. Temptations and trials, without and within, From the pathway of virtue the spirit may lure; But the soul shall grow strong in its triumphs o'er sin, And the heart shall preserve its integrity pure. The finger of Love, on my innermost heart, Wrote thy name, O adored! when my feelings were young; And the record shall 'bide till my soul shall depart, And the darkness of death o'er my being be flung. Then believe not the slander that says I forget, In the whirl of excitement, the love that was thine; Thou wert dear in my boyhood, art dear to me yet: For my sunlight of life is the smile of KATRINE! THE BROOK. "LIKE thee, O stream! to glide in solitude Of my appointed time." Not wisely said, That else would faint beneath the torrid air. Of impious tramplers rescued peril'd right, Is call'd fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers Maliciously assail'd. The poor man's tears Are unregarded; the oppressor's might Revered as law; and he whose righteous way Departs from evil, makes himself a prey. SOLITUDE. THE ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers, And roof'd with ivy, on the mossy seats Reclining, I can while away the hours Indulge, while over me their radiant showers Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down, And thanks to HIM my meditations crown! RAIN. DASHING in big drops on the narrow pane, How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull, And lingers mid the pure and beautiful Visions of early childhood! Sunny faces Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones, And tread again in old familiar places! Such is thy power, O Rain! the heart to bless, Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness! THE TIMES. INACTION now is crime. The old earth reels Inebriate with guilt; and Vice, grown bold, Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels In worship foul to Mammon, is contemn'd. He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemm'd Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels Amid the ancient forests of a land Friends, country, hallow'd homes they left, to be Pilgrims for CHRIST's sake, to a foreign strandBeset by peril, worn with toil, yet free! Tireless in zeal, devotion, labour, hope; Constant in faith; in justice how severe ! Though fools deride and bigot-skeptics sneer, Praise to their names! If call'd like them to cope, In evil times, with dark and evil powers, O, be their faith, their zeal, their courage ours! WILLIAM JEWETT PABODIE. [Born about 1812.] MR. PABODIE is a native of Providence, in Rhode Island. He was admitted to the bar in the spring of 1837, and has since, I believe, practised his profession in his native city. His principal work is "Calidore, a Legendary Poem," published | in 1839. It possesses considerable merit, but is not so carefully finished as some of his minor pieces, nor is there any thing strikingly original in its fable or sentiments. His writings are more distinguished for elegance than for vigour. GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. Go forth into the fields, Ye denizens of the pent city's mart! Leave ye the feverish strife, Hark! from each fresh-clad bough, The silvery gleaming rills Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea, And the young, wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, In voice low whispering 'mong th'embowering trees, Woos you to her embrace. Go-breathe the air of heaven, Where violets meekly smile upon your way; Or on some pine-crown'd summit, tempest riven, Your wandering footsteps stay. Seek ye the solemn wood, Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye, And if within your breast, Hallow'd to nature's touch, one chord remain ; A strange delight shall thrill, A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove; O, in the calm, still hours, Pass ye the proud fane by, The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, And, 'neath the temple of the uplifted sky, Go forth and worship God! TO THE AUTUMN FOREST. RESPLENDENT hues are thine! Triumphant beauty-glorious as brief! Burdening with holy love the heart's pure shrine, Till tears afford relief. What though thy depths be hush'd! More eloquent in breathless silence thou, Than when the music of glad songsters gush'd From every green-robed bough. Gone from thy walks the flowers! Thou askest not their forms thy paths to fleck ;-The dazzling radiance of these sunlit bowers Their hues could not bedeck. I love thee in the spring, Earth-crowning forest! when amid thy shades The gentle south first waves her odorous wing, And joy fills all thy glades. In the hot summer-time, With deep delight thy sombre aisles I roam, But, O, when autumn's hand I linger then with thee, Like some fond lover o'er his stricken bride; Whose bright, unearthly beauty tells that she Here may not long abide. When my last hours are come, Bathe thou in hues as blest-- ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. GONE in the flush of youth! Gone ere thy heart had felt earth's withering care; Ere the stern world had soil'd thy spirit's truth, Or sown dark sorrow there. Fled like a dream away! But yesterday mid life's auroral bloom- Sighs round thy lonely tomb. Fond hearts were beating high, Fond eyes were watching for the loved one gone, And gentle voices, deeming thou wert nigh, Talk'd of thy glad return. They watch'd--not all in vain- Thy form once more the wonted threshold pass'd; But choking sobs, and tears like summer-rain, Welcom'd thee home at last. Friend of my youth, farewell! To thee, we trust, a happier life is given; OUR COUNTRY. OUR country!--'t is a glorious land! With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore, The proud Pacific chafes her strand, She hears the dark Atlantic roar; And, nurtured on her ample breast, How many a goodly prospect lies Rich prairies, deck'd with flowers of gold, Go sweeping onward, dark and deep, Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide, In rich profusion o'er the land, I HEAR THY VOICE, O SPRING! I HEAR thy voice, O Spring! Its flute-like tones are floating through the air, Winning my soul with their wild ravishing, From earth's heart-wearying care. Divinely sweet thy song- But yet, methinks, as near the groves I pass, Low sighs on viewless wings are borne along, Tears gem the springing grass. For where are they, the young, The loved, the beautiful, who, when thy voice, A year agone, along these valleys rung, Did hear thee and rejoice! Thou scek'st for them in vainNo more they'll greet thee in thy joyous round; Calmly they sleep beneath the murmuring main, Or moulder in the ground. Yet peace, my heart--be still! Look upward to yon azure sky and know, For them hath bloom'd a spring, I STOOD BESIDE HIS GRAVE. I STOOD beside the grave of him, The stars stole trembling into sight, Still flush'd the heavens with rosy light. O Death! had then thy summons come, And night itself grew wild and drear,- And winds sigh'd mournful on the ear: And yet I linger'd mid the fern, And leave him to his loneliness! LOUIS LEGRAND NOBLE. [Born, 1912.] THE Reverend LOUIS LEGRAND NOBLE was born in the valley of the Butternut Creek, in Otsego county, in New York. While he was a youth his father removed to the banks of the Wacamutquiock, now called the Huron, a small river in Michigan, and there, among scenes of remarkable wildness and beauty, he passed most of his time until the commencement of his college-life. In a letter to me, he says: "I was ever under a strong impulse to imbody in language my thoughts, feelings, fancies, as they sprung up in the presence of the rude but beautiful things around me: the prairies on fire, the sparkling lakes, the park-like forests, Indians on the hunt, guiding their frail canoes amid the rapids, or standing at night in the red light of their festival fires. I breathed the air of poetry." In the same letter he remarks that he is "indebted, for his intellectual and moral culture, to SAMUEL W. DEXTER, of Boston." He was admitted to holy orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church, in 1840, and now, I believe, resides in South Carolina. THE CRIPPLE-BOY. I. Upon an Indian rush-mat, spread Where burr-oak boughs a coolness shed, They calm'd his pain,--they cheer'd his loneliness- II. Upon a prairie wide and wild Look'd off that suffering cripple-child: The hour was breezy, the hour was bright;— O, 't was a lively, a lovely sight! An eagle sailing to and fro Around a flitting cloud so white- III. Humming a lightsome tune of yore, Saw his mother, and so did speak ; << What makes his mother's HENRY weep? You and I the cottage keep; They hunt the nuts and clusters blue, 52 And yonder see the quiet sheep-- A sailor on the breezy sea!" "A sailor on the stormy sea, my son!What ails the boy!-what have the breezes done!" IV. "I do!-I wish that I could be A sailor on the rolling sea: In the shadow of the sails I would ride and rock all day, Going whither blow the gales, As I have heard a seaman say: I would, I guess, come back again For my mother now and then; And the curling fire so bright, When the prairie burns at night; And tell the wonders I had seen Away upon the ocean green;" "Hush! hush! talk not about the ocean so; Better at home a hunter hale to go." V. Between a tear and sigh he smiled; And thus spake on the cripple-child :"I would I were a hunter hale, Nimbler than the nimble doe, Bounding lightly down the dale, But that will never be, I know! Behind the house the woodlands lie; A prairie wide and green before; And I have seen them with my eye A thousand times or more; Yet in the woods I never stray'd, Or on the prairie-border play'd;O, mother dear, that I could only be A sailor-boy upon the rocking sea!" |