SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.* THE LIGHT OF HOME. Mr boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair, Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, Like the meteor's flash it will deepen the night, But the hearth of home has a constant flame, "T will burn, 't will burn, forever the same, The sea of ambition is tempest toss'd, And thy hopes may vanish like foam, But when sails are shiver'd and rudder lost, And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, For never, till shining on thy shroud, The sun of fame, 't will gild the name, And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim, And how cold and dim those beams would be, Dear country! our thoughts are more constant to thee Than the steel to the star or the stream to the sea. care, Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair! SONG. WHEN other friends are round thee, Yet do not think I doubt thee; I would not live without thee, Along life's troubled sea; This heart still turns to thee. GEORGE P. MORRIS.t LAND, HO! FILL high the brimmer!—the land is in sight, WOMAN. Ан, woman!-in this world of ours, If destined to exist alone, And ne'er call woman's heart his own! In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, My mother! at that holy name To soothe us in absence of those left behind. The holiest spot on the face of the earth! Within my bosom there's a gush My heart-blood gives a sudden rush, Yes, woman's love is free from guile And pure as bright Aurora's ray; Or master of the swelling sea, Dear woman, PROSPER M. WETMORE. "TWELVE YEARS HAVE FLOWN." TWELVE years have flown since last I saw The dearest life hath ever known: Although twelve weary years have flown. Again upon the soil I stand Where first my infant footsteps stray'd; Again I view my "father-land," And wander through its pleasant shade; I gaze upon the hills, the skies, The verdant banks, with flowers o'ergrown, And while I look with glistening eyes, Almost forget twelve years have flown. Twelve years are flown! those words are brief, The joys and woes remember'd well; The past! the past! a saddening thought, A brief but eloquent reply! Where are youth's hopes--life's morning dream? Seek for the flowers that floated by Upon the rushing mountain stream! Yet gems beneath that wave may sleep, Till after years shall make them known: Thus, golden thoughts the heart will keep, That perish not, though years have flown. THE BANNER OF MURAT. FOREMOST among the first, And bravest of the brave! Where'er the battle's fury burst, Or roll'd its purple wave,-There flash'd his glance, like a meteor, As he charged the foe afar; And the snowy plume his helmet bore Was the banner of Murat! *PROSPER MONTGOMERY WETMORE was born at Stratford, in Connecticut, in 1799. In 1830, he published a volume entitled "Lexington, and other Fugitive Poems." He is now one of the regents of the university of New York, to whom are confided the various interests of education and literature in that state. Mingler on many a field Where rung wild victory's peal! That fearless spirit was like a shieldA panoply of steel; For very joy in a glorious name He rush'd where danger stood; And that banner-plume, like a winged flame, Stream'd o'er the field of blood! His followers loved to gaze On his form with a fierce delight, As it tower'd above the battle's blaze, A pillar midst the fight; And eyes look'd up, ere they closed in death, Through the thick and sulphury air And lips shriek'd out, with their parting breath, "The lily plume is there!" A cloud is o'er him now- For the peril-hour hath come And he stands with his high, unshaded brow, No fear his soul appals: A rattling peal, and a shuddering cry, MRS. LYDIA M. CHILD.* MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. PILLARS are fallen at thy feet, Fanes quiver in the air, A prostrate city is thy seat, And thou alone art there. No change comes o'er thy noble brow, It cannot bend thy lofty soul Though friends and fame depart; The car of fate may o'er thee roll, Nor crush thy Roman heart. And genius hath electric power, Which earth can never tame; Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower, Its flash is still the same. The dreams we loved in early life, May melt like mist away; High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife, And proud hopes in the human heart Like mouldering monuments of art Yet, there is something will not die, Author of "Hobomok," "History of the Condition of Women," etc. REVEREND WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.* THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OF THE SABBATH SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK, CELEBRATING TOGETHER THE 4TH OF JULY, 1839. O, SIGHT Sublime! O, sight of fear! Like whisperings of the mighty sea! Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims; The sea of glass, the throne of days, Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns. Ye rend the air with grateful songs For freedom by old warriors won : O, for the battle which your throngs May wage and win through DAVID'S SON! Wealth of young beauty! that now blooms Before me like a world of flowers; High expectation! that assumes The hue of life's serenest hours; Are ye decaying? Must these forms, So agile, fair, and brightly gay, Hidden in dust, be given to worms And everlasting night, the prey? Are ye immortal? Will this mass Of life, be life, undying still, To where corruption works its will? Thought! that takes hold of heaven and hell, Be in each teacher's heart to-day! So shall eternity be well With these, when time has fled away. "LEAP forth to the careering seas," O, ship of lofty name! And toss upon thy native breeze The stars and stripes of fame! With thee and us to-day; We pledge our fervent love, and thou To kings, nor kiss the yoke! Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea, Which deeds of hell deform; And look! her hands are spread to thee Where Afric's robbers swarm. *The Reverend WILLIAM B. TAPPAN is a native of Beverly, in Massachusetts, and now resides in Boston. He is the author of eight or nine volumes of poems, most of which are of a religious character. Go! lie upon the Ægean's breast, Where sparkle emerald islesGo! seek the lawless Suliote's nest, And spoil his cruel wiles. And keep, where sail the merchant ships, In pride of their own little hour, Spread out those ample wings of thine!- "Tis fit such bulwark of the brine Should leave the shores of PENN; Are germs of welcome peace, Whose sons can die, but know not how JAMES NACK.* SPRING IS COMING. SPRING is coming, spring is coming, Shout we then with Nature's voice, *Mr. NACK is deaf and dumb, and has been so from his childhood; yet his poetical writings, in almost every variety of measure, are distinguished for more than common melody of versification. A volume of his poems, with a memoir by PROSPER M. WETMORE, was published in New York, in 1836. REVEREND GEORGE B. CHEEVER.* TO MY SICK AND SUFFERING BROTHER, ON HIS FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY. I WISH, dear N., my heart could weave Where love in every line should leave Its own dear tones for thee. And, sooth, if love could teach the soul The wish, I know, is sadly vain : Thoughts rise, and fond affections throng, But with the sweetest, white-stoled train There comes no tone of song. I would chain down the airy crowds, And keep them while I seek sweet words; Alas! they change like summer-clouds, They droop like prison'd birds. How can I paint their changeful dyes, Or stay them in their flight? They come like birds from Paradise, They fly away as light. The simplest birthday wish is shy; All Love's best thoughts, of the same race; Dear brother, thou wilt then forgive, For, were my soul all melody, My words the same they use in heaven, More freely to thee given. One in our mutual sympathies,— I've rock'd thee in thy cradle,-play'd With thee in childhood's frolic hours, With thee have roam'd through grove and glade, And pluck'd the vernal flowers. We've shared old winter's wild delight, We've gather'd nuts in summer-woods, We've proudly watch'd our breeze-borne kite Among the sailing clouds. But not in such gay sympathy Our mutual love has tenderest grown,For oft must grief's sad harmony Interpret its deep tone. When sickness blanch'd thy rosy cheek, And brought thy buoyant spirit low, How dear thou wast from week to week, I trembled then to know. * Author of "God's Hand in America," "Travels in the East," Editor of "Common-Place Book of American Poetry," etc. Our youngest, brightest household flower! To see thee droop from hour to hour, O, then I felt the privilege To breathe my silent, humble prayer;— We wept o'er pains whose wasting edge My frame could better bear. I watch'd thy restless sleep,-I tried These duties were love's natural sphere: This day, did fancy paint what's true, This day 'tis yet thy being's dawn, But, ah, how full the mingled scene, Throws o'er each melancholy line Through all it sees thy Father's form, His gracious, guiding hand beholds; And, in the gloomiest of the storm, Some bright design unfolds. Amidst the sufferings of years Thou seest thou didst not walk alone; Where all was agony and tears, There most His mercy shone. 'Twas thus he drew thy careless heart Of laughing health, and dimpled ease, The house was merry with thy song, Thy fawn-like step danced free and wild; And of the happy schoolboy throng Thou wast the happiest child. All elements to thee look'd gay, All seasons minister'd delight;— Chased the bright jubilee away! I know thine answer well. In vain If, strangers still to care and pain, We never think of Heaven. What soothes the soul, betrays;-select A life all ease is all abused ; O, precious grace! that made thee wise The pleasures of the happiest boy That He, whose love is wisdom too, By trials here below. Should health and active power return, And life put on a brighter glow, Be often at his cross, and learn His goodness best to show. 'Tis only He who gives the boon By grace can make it truly good; And I would have thy life be one Of ceaseless gratitude. In active health or sad disease, O, ne'er forget that precious word- Thou art beyond its weak control,- Lifts up thy strengthen'd soul. CHRIST holds thee in his powerful hand; Soon, every foe and fear subdued, Thy feet shall press the shining land, Beyond Death's narrow flood. Yet, if his blessed will reserve Thy faith for trials long and late, Remember then, "they also serve, Who only stand and wait." Yet, mark me! When a few short years Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain, Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, CATHERINE H. ESLING.* BROTHER, COME HOME. COME home! Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Come home! Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine, Come where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, Where cherish'd memory rears her altar's shrine; Brother, come home. Come home! Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, Come home! It is not home without thee, the lone seat In vain we list for what should herald thee; Come home! We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, Come home! Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, The maiden name of Mrs. ESLING was CATHERINE H. WATERMAN. She resides in Philadelphia, and has been for several years a frequent contributor to the periodicals of that city. She has also edited two or three annuaries. No collection of her metrical compositions has been published. 2 P 2 |