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RALPH HOYT.

[Born about 1810.]

REV. RALPH Horr was born in the city of New York, of which he is a resident, in the second lustrum of the present century. After passing several years as a teacher, and as a writer for the gazettes, he studied theology, and was ordained a presbyter of the Protestant Episcopal church in 1842. Verse is but an episode, though a natural one, in the life of a clergyman devoted to the active pursuit of good. Mr. Horr may have written much, but he has acknowledged little. He is known chiefly by "The Chaunt of Life and other Poems," published in 1844, and by the second portion of The Chaunt of Life," etc., which

appeared in the summer of 1845. The « Chaunt of Life" is chiefly occupied with passages of personal sentiment and reflection. The pieces entitled "Snow" and "The World for Sale," in his first volume, attracted more attention, and the author was led to pursue the vein, in "New" and "Old," which were subsequently written. A simple, natural current of feeling runs through them; the versification grows out of the subject, and the whole clings to us as something written from the heart of the author. A few such pieces have often prolonged a reputation, while writers of greater effort have been forgotten.

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,

All the landscape like a page perusing;
Poor, unknown-

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat, Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding, Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat, Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding, There he sat !

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat. Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there,

No one sympathising, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading,
Age, and care:

Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there.
It was summer, and we went to school,

Dapper country lads, and little maidens,
Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"
Its grave import still my fancy ladens,
"HERE'S A FOOL!"
It was summer, and we went to school.
When the stranger seem'd to mark our play,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
I remember well,—too well, that day!
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,
Would not stay!

When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,

Ah! to me her name was always heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell,

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
ISABEL!

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told, Then his eye betray'd a pearl of sorrow, Down it roll'd!

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

I have totter'd here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core!

I have totter'd here to look once more!

All the picture now to me how dear!
E'en this gray old rock where I am seated,
Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah, that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!
Old stone school-house!-it is still the same!
There's the very step I so oft' mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game;

Old stone school-house!-it is still the same!

In the cottage, yonder, I was born;

Long my happy home-that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn,

There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage, yonder, I was born.

Those two gate-way sycamores you see,
Then were planted, just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!
Those two gate-way sycamores you see!

There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb!

There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising,
Traps and trails,-

There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails.

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;
Pond, and river still serenely flowing;
Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,
MARY JANE!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain!

There's the gate on which I used to swing,

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring

That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing!

I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled!

Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said, When around it Jane and I were straying: She is dead!

I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,

Tracing silently life's changeful story,

So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky!
Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod,

Sire and sisters, and my little brother;
Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod!

There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways,
Bless the holy lesson!-but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices,-silent now for ever!
Peaceful days!

There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways!

There my Mary blest me with her hand,

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hasten'd to the spirit-land;

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand!

I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipp'd in the days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core!

I have come to see that grave once more.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told: In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him, sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone!

NEW.

STILL sighs the world for something new, For something new;

Imploring me, imploring you,

Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue;
Ah, hapless world, what will it do!
Imploring me, imploring you,
For something NEW!

Each pleasure, tasted, fades away,
It fades away;

Nor you, nor I can bid it stay,

A dew-drop trembling on a spray;
A rainbow at the close of day;
Nor you, nor I can bid it stay;
It fades away.

Fill up life's chalice to the brim;
Up to the brim;

"Tis only a capricious whim;

A dreamy phantom, flitting dim,
Inconstant still for Her, or Him;
"Tis only a capricious whim,
Up to the brim!

SHE.

She, young and fair, expects delight;
Expects delight;
Forsooth, because the morn is bright,
She deems it never will be night,
That youth hath not a wing for flight,
Forsooth, because the morn is bright,
Expects delight!

The rose, once gather'd, cannot please,
It cannot please;

Ah, simple maid, a rose to seize,

That only blooms to tempt and tease:
With thorns to rob the heart of ease;
Ah, simple maid, a rose to seize;
It cannot please!

"Tis winter, but she pines for spring;
She pines for spring;
No bliss its frost and follies bring;
A bird of passage on the wing;

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Still reaping only fields of grain,
With care, and toil, in heat and rain;
The hapless swain!

Youth, weary youth, 'twill soon be past; "Twill soon be past;

His MANHOOD's happiness shall last;
Renown, and riches, far and fast,
Their potent charms shall round him cast,
His Manhood's happiness shall last :-
"Twill soon be past!

Now toiling up ambition's steep;
Ambition's steep;

The rugged path is hard to keep;

The spring how far! the well how deep! Ah me! in folly's bower asleep! The rugged path is hard to keep; Ambition's steep!

The dream fulfilled! rank, fortune, fame; Rank, fortune, fame;

Vain fuel for celestial flame!

He wins and wears a glittering name, Yet sighs his longing soul the same; Vain fuel for celestial flame, Rank, fortune, fame!

Sweet beauty aims with Cupid's bow;

With Cupid's bow;

Can she transfix him now?-ah, no!
Amid the fairest flowers that blow,
The torment but alights-to go:

Can she transfix him now?-ah, no,
With Cupid's bow!

Indulgent heav'n, O grant but this,
O grant but this,

The boon shall be enough of bliss,
A HOME, with true affection's kiss,
To mend whate'er may hap amiss,
O grant but this!

The Eden won:-insatiate still;
Insatiate still;-

A wider, fairer range, he will;

Some mountain higher than his hill; Some prospect fancy's map to fill; A wider, fairer range, he will; Insatiate still!

From maid to matron, son to sire;
From son to sire,

Each bosom burns with quenchless fire,
Where life's vain phantasies expire

In some new phoenix of desire;

Each bosom burns with quenchless fire,
From son to sire!

Still sighs the world for something new; For something new;

Imploring me, imploring you

Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue. Ah hapless world, what will it do; Imploring me, imploring you,

FOR SOMETHING NEW!

SALE.

THE WORLD FOR SALE!-Hang out the sign;
Call every traveller here to me;
Who'll buy this brave estate of mine,

And set me from earth's bondage free:-
"Tis going!-Yes, I mean to fling
The bauble from my soul away;
I'll sell it, whatsoe'r it bring;-

The World at Auction here to-day!

It is a glorious thing to see,

Ah, it has cheated me so sore! It is not what it seems to be:

For sale! It shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well;

I would not have you purchase dear; "Tis going-going!-I must sell!

Who bids? Who'll buy the Splendid T'ear? Here's WEALTH in glittering heaps of gold,Who bids?-But let me tell you fair, A baser lot was never sold ;—

Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care?
And here, spread out in broad domain,

A goodly landscape all may trace ;
Hall-cottage-tree-field-hill and plain;
Who'll buy himself a burial place!
Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell
That beauty flings around the heart;
I know its power, alas! too well;—

"Tis going-Love and I must part!
Must part!-What can I more with Love!
All over the enchanter's reign;
Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove,-
An hour of bliss,-an age of pain!
And FRIENDSHIP,-rarest gem of earth,-
(Who e'er hath found the jewel his?)
Frail. fickle, false and little worth,-
Who bids for Friendship—as it is!
"Tis going-going!-Hear the call:
Once, twice, and thrice!-'Tis very low!
"Twas once my hope, my stay, my all,-
But now the broken staff must go!
FAME! hold the brilliant meteor high;
How dazzling every gilded name!

Ye millions, now's the time to buy!—
How much for Fame! How much for Fame!
Hear how it thunders!-Would you stand
On high Olympus, far renown'd,—
Now purchase, and a world command!—
And be with a world's curses crown'd!
Sweet star of HOPE! with ray to shine
In every sad foreboding breast,
Save this desponding one of mine,—

Who bids for man's last friend and best!
Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life,

This treasure should my soul sustain ;
But Hope and I are now at strife,
Nor ever may unite again.

And SoNG!-For sale my tuneless lute;
Sweet solace, mine no more to hold;
The chords that charmed my soul are mute,
I cannot wake the notes of old!

Or e'en were mine a wizard shell,
Could chain a world in raptures high;
Yet now a sad farewell!-farewell!—
Must on its last faint echoes die.
Ambition, fashion, show, and pride,-
I part from all for ever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide,

Has taught my haughty heart to bow. Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long,

And still its aching throb to bear ;How broken, that was once so strong; How heavy, once so free from care.

No more for me life's fitful dream;-
Bright vision, vanishing away!
My bark requires a deeper stream;
My sinking soul a surer stay.
By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod,
The best of all I still have left,-
My Faith, my Bible, and my God.

SNOW.

THE blessed morn is come again;
The early gray

Taps at the slumberer's window-pane,
And seems to say

"Break, break from the enchanter's chain, Away,-away!"

"Tis winter, yet there is no sound
Along the air,

Of winds upon their battle-ground,
But gently there,

The snow is falling,-all around
How fair-how fair!

The jocund fields would masquerade; Fantastic scene!

Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade
Have cast their green,

And join'd the revel, all array'd
So white and clean.

E'en the old posts, that hold the bars
And the old gate,

Forgetful of their wintry wars
And age sedate,

High-capp'd, and plumed, like white hussars,
Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill, The eaves, the door;

The hay-stack has become a hill;
All cover'd o'er

The wagon, loaded for the mill
The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail,But where's the well! Like magic of a fairy tale,

Most strange to tell,

All vanish'd, curb, and crank, and rail;

How deep it fell!

The wood-pile too is playing hide; The axe-the log

The kennel of that friend so tried(The old watch-dog,)

The grindstone standing by its side, All now incog.

The bustling cock looks out aghast
From his high shed;

No spot to scratch him a repast,
Up curves his head,

Starts the dull hamlet with a blast,
And back to bed.

The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime
Their morning moan;

Like Memnon's music of old time-
That voice of stone!

So marbled they—and so sublime
Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker folk
To dress below;

Full welcome was the word she spoke,
Down, down they go,

The cottage quietude is broke,-
The snow!-the snow!

Now rises from around the fire

A pleasant strain;

Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire!
And ye profane !—

A hymn to the Eternal Sire
Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine,

Upon the knee,

Opes where the gems of Judah shine,(Sweet minstrelsie!)

How soars each heart with each fair line, O God! to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend,

Devout in prayer;

As snows upon the roof descend,

So angels there

Guard o'er that household, to defend

With gentle care.

Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze; The buckwheat heaps;

Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise, Sweet Susan steeps;

The old round stand her nod obeys, And out it leaps.

Unerring presages declare

The banquet near; Soon, busy appetites are there;

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Now let the busy day begin:-
Out rolls the churn;

Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in
The brush to burn;-

Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin,
Till night's return.

To delve his threshing John must hie;
His sturdy shoe

Can all the subtle damp defy:

How wades he through!

While dainty milkmaids, slow and shy,
His track pursue.

Each to the hour's allotted care:
To shell the corn;

The broken harness to repair;

The sleigh t'adorn :

So cheerful tranquil-snowy-fair,
The WINTER MORN.

EXTRACT FROM THE CHAUNT OF LIFE.

GIVE me to love my fellow, and in love,

If with none other grace to chaunt my strain, Sweet key-note of soft cadences above,

Sole star of solace in life's night of pain.

Chief gem of Eden, fractured in that fall

That ruin'd two fond hearts, and tarnish'd all! Redeemer! be thy kindly spirit mine;

That pearl of Paradise to me restore,

Pure, fervent, fearless, lasting, love divine, Profound as ocean, broad as sea and shore. While Man I sing, free, subject, and supreme, O! for a soul, as ample as the theme!

Sad prelude I have sung, by Sorrow led

Along the mournful shades that own her sway, Where, by a stream that weeping eyes have shed, Low chaunted I my melancholy lay,

In pensive concord with the sootheless wail

Of sighing wanderers in that lonely vale. Ah, chide not those whose wo seems hard to bear, The heart must hover where its treasures sleep. I saw the great, the wise, the gifted there, With humbler multitudes compell'd to weep; No penury, no wealth commands relief!

No serf, no sovereign in the realms of grief!

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