THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,

List-thy bosom-door!

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
"Tis thy heart of sin:

"Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in!

Death comes down with reckless footstep
To the hall and hut:

Think you Death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
JESUS waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;

But thy door is fast!
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth:
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating
Christ to let thee in:

At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot,
JESUS waited long to know thee,
But he knows thee not!

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England green and old,

That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have toll'd; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallow'd day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time!

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime;

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king

Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
Upon a Christmas morn,

Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born;

How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and mistletoe,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring!
Those glorious Easter chimes;
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,
Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the LORD,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the LORD that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells!
And heir of her ancestral fame,
And happy in my birth,
Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,
The joy of all the earth;

For thine thy mother's voice shall be,
And here-where Gon is king,

With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring.

MARCH.

MARCH-march-march!

Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead! Every stride, every tramp,

Every footfall is nearer; And dimmer each lamp,

As darkness grows drearer; But ho! how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho, how they laugh, Going down to the dead! How they whirl--how they trip, How they smile, how they dally, How blithesome they skip,

Going down to the valley; Oh-ho, how they march,

Making sounds as they tread;

Ho-ho, how they skip,

Going down to the dead!

March-march-march!

Earth groans as they tread! Each carries a skull;

Going down to the dead! Every stride-every stamp, Every footfall is bolder; "Tis a skeleton's tramp,

With a skull on his shoulder

But ho, how he steps

With a high-tossing head,

That clay-cover'd bone,
Going down to the dead!

A VALENTINE.

SHE that is fair, though never vain or proud, More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd; Whose taste refined even female friends admire, Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire; She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast, To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd; True to herself, yet willing to submit, More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit; Though young, discreet-though ready, ne'er unBlest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind: [kind, She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts inSo at her door go leave my Valentine. [cline,

ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES,
SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET.

To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd
How wealth and glory cluster'd in her streets,
And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill,
We send these tributes, plunder'd from the sea.
These many-colour'd, variegated forms,
Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall
To the deep music of the Atlantic wave.
Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop,
Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange,
Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair,
And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf:
From narrow cells, scoop'd in the rocks, we take
These fairy textures, lightly moor'd at morn.
Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep,
We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these.
Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles,
Festoon'd and spangled in sea-caves, and say
What hues of land can rival tints like those,
Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings
Who dwell beneath the waters! Such our gift,
Cull'd from a margin of the western world,
And offer'd unto genius in the old.

FROM THE POST OF HONOUR."

GLORY.

UNCHANGING Power! thy genius still presides O'er vanquish'd fields, and ocean's purpled tides; Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board, Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword; For thee and thine combining squadrons form To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm; The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name, And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame; For him the bell shall wake its loudest song, For him the cannon's thunder echo long, For him a nation weave the unfading crown, And swell the triumph of his sweet renown. SO NELSON watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days, Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze— Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars, And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars. So the young hero, with expiring breath, Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death, Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast, And nail their colours dauntless to the mast; Then dies, like LAWRENCE, trembling on his lip That cry of Honour, "Don't give up the ship!"

TRUE HONOUR.

The painter's skill life's lincaments may trace, And stamp the impress of a speaking face; The chisel's touch may make that marble warm Which glows with all but breathing manhood's But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [formAre those which write their impress on the heart. On TALFOURD's page what bright memorials glow Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below! Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd, Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd, Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here, The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere. Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust, And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust, To ELIA's grave the pilgrim shall repair, And hang with love perennial garlands there.

And thou, great bard of never-dying name, Thy filial care outshines the poet's faine; For who, that wanders by the dust of GRAY While memory tolls the knell of parting day, But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb, That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom, To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear, So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier! Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave, Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave." Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea, The countless shrines of woman's charity? In thy gay capital, bewildering France, Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome, Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home, Methinks I see that sainted sister now Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow; Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace, With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face? Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres, We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.

WEBSTER.

[dance,

Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed; Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side, And all their country's honest fame deride. All are not such: some glowing blood remains To warm the icy current of our veins— Some from the watch-towers still descry afar The faintest glimmer of an adverse star. When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail, Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale! On some great point where Honour takes her stand, The Ehrenbreitstein of our native landSee, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause, The mail'd defender of her rights and laws! On his great arm behold a nation lean, And parcel empire with the island queen; Great in the council, peerless in debate,` Who follows WEBSTER takes the field too late. Go track the globe, its changing climes explore, From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore; See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas, See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze, Roam through the world, but find no brighter names Than those true honour for Columbia claims.

TIE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

Our vanished years! let Memory's muffled bell
Toll but one requiem, and but one farewell,
For him whose eyelids in a wintry grave
Were closed in anguish by the icy wave.
Rest, early friend, bemoaned in life's young bloom,
Gone, like a shadow, to the voiceless tomb.
When last we climbed to yon high, leafy crest,
To watch the sunlight fading in the west,
Ah, little thought I that this hand would trace
These words of grief above thy burial-place.
Thou hast our tears; but lo! the clouds depart,
Our brother sleeps with sunshine on his heart;
The storm has passed, the seas are silent now,
And Heaven's sweet smile has settled on his brow.

SLEIGHING-SONG.

On swift we go, o'er the fleecy snow,

When moonbeams sparkle round; When hoofs keep time to music's chime. As merrily on we bound.

On a winter's night, when hearts are light,
And hea'th is on the wind,

We loose the rein and sweep the plain,
And leave our cares behind.

With a laugh and song, we glide along
Across the fleeting snow;

With friends beside, how swift we ride
On the beautiful track below!
Oh, the raging sea has joy for me,

When gale and tempests roar ;

But give me the speed of a foaming steed, And I'll ask for the waves no more.

FAIR WIND.

On, who can tell, that never sail'd

Among the glassy seas,

How fresh and welcome breaks the morn That ushers in a breeze!

"Fair wind! fair wind!" alow, aloft,

All hands delight to cry,

As, leaping through the parted waves,

The good ship makes reply.

While fore and aft, all staunch and tight,
She spreads her canvass wide,
The captain walks his realm, the deck,
With more than monarch's pride;
For well he knows the sea-bird's wings,
So swift and sure to-day,

Will waft him many a league to-night
In triumph on his way.

Then welcome to the rushing blast

That stirs the waters now-
Ye white-plumed heralds of the deep,
Make music round her prow!
Good sea-room in the roaring gale,
Let stormy trumpets blow;

But chain ten thousand fathoms down
The sluggish calm below!

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.
UNDERNEATH the sod, low lying,
Dark and drear,

Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever bending o'er her,
Eyes that weep;

Forms, that to the cold grave bore her,
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above;

Souls like thine with GoD inherit
Life and love!

LAST WISHES OF A CHILD.

"ALL the hedges are in bloom,

And the warm west wind is blowing, Let me leave this stifled room—

Let me go where flowers are growing. "Look! my cheek is thin and pale, And my pulse is very low; Ere my sight begins to fail,

Mother dear, you'll let me go; "Was not that the robin's song

Piping through the casement wide?
I shall not be listening long-
Take me to the meadow-side!
"Bear me to the willow-brook-
Let me hear the merry mill-
On the orchard I must look,

Ere my beating heart is still.
"Faint and fainter grows my breath-
Bear me quickly down the lane;
Mother dear, this chill is death-
I shall never speak again!"

Still the hedges are in bloom,

And the warm west wind is blowing; Still we sit in silent gloomO'er her grave the grass is growing.

A BRIDAL MELODY.

SHE stood, like an angel just wander'd from heaven,
A pilgrim benighted away from the skies,
And little we deem'd that to mortals were given
Such visions of beauty as came from her eyes.
She look'd up and smiled on the many glad faces,
The friends of her childhood, who stood by her side;
But she shone o'er them all, like a queen of the
Graces,

When blushing she whisper'd the vow of a bride. We sang an old song, as with garlands we crown'd

her,

And each left a kiss on her delicate brow; [her, And we pray'd that a blessing might ever surround And the future of life be unclouded as now.

MR. WALLACE, the son of an eminent Presbyterian clergyman, who died during his childhood, was born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1819. He received his general education at the Bloomington and South Hanover colleges in Indiana, and afterward studied the law, in his native city. When about twenty-two years of age, having already acquired considerable reputation in literature, by various contributions to western and southern journals, he came to the Atlantic states, and with the exception of a few months passed in Philadelphia, and a year and a half in Europe, he has since resided in New York, occupied in the practice of his profession and in the pursuits of literature.

REST.

THE nation hath gone mad with action now.
Oh, many-troubled giant, with a heated brow,
And sultry heart, within whose wide
And lofty chambers stalketh Pride,

And hungry, pale Ambition, scenting power,
Wilt thou not let the wearied river steal
Through quiet hills for one short hour,
And dream, unvexed by the eager keel,
Of that sweet peace he knew in times of old,
When only Nature sat near him and rol'd
Her simple songs amid her flowery fold?
And let the forest lift some unshorn plumes
Amid the ancient glooms:

For this it pleads with trembling hands,
Appealing to far Heaven from all the invading bands!
And leave the mountains for a time untrod-
And thou shalt see

Their dumb, gray lips yet struggling to be free,
So that they may shout backward to the sea-
We also know and reverence our Gon."
Oh, Titan, of the eagle-eye and growing pain!
Wilt thou not rest on Alabama's plain?
O'er Huron lean and let his mirror show,
Unruffled by thy fiery feet,

That harmonies of light yet fall below-
That Heaven and Earth may meet:
Sleep, sleep, thou wide-brow'd

In Florida's magnolian bower,

power,

And where New England's pilgrim-feet were prest,
Or by Ohio's softly wandering wave;
Or in the dusk halls of Kentucky's cave,
Or on the flowery and broad prairies rest

Of Illinois and Indiana,-slumber, in the west!
Your eagles took their lordly ease
On folded wing,

After disporting with the braggart Breeze,
And Thunder, watching by his cloudy spring
Whose cool stream tumbled to the thirsty seas.
The birds went all asleep on their high rocks,
Nor ruffled a feather in the rude fire-shocks.

The poetical compositions of Mr. WALLACE are numerous, and they are for the most part distinguished for a sensuous richness of style, earnestness of temper, and much freedom of speculation. The longest of them is "Alban," a romance of New York, published in 1848, and intended to illustrate the influence of certain prejudices of society and principles of law upon individual character and destiny. It has passages of fine description and spirited narrative, and some happy touches of satire, but is scarcely successful as a moral poem. author is more at home in the serious and stately rhythm and solemn fancies of such pieces as "To the | Hudson," which are the best measures of his powers.

The

Millions, a lesson ye can learn from these.
And see, the great woods slumber, and the lake
No longer is awake

Beneath the stars, that nod and start with sleep
In their white-clouded deep:

Fitfully the moon goes nodding through
The valleys of the vapory blue,

And dreams, forgetting all her queenly ills,
Of angels sleeping on Elysian hills:
The drowsy lake,

So sweet is slumber, would not yet awake;
But-like an infant two years old,
Before whose closed eyes

Dreamily move the boys of paradise,
Singing their little psalms

Under the stately palms

It stirreth softly lest rough motion might
Put out the moon's delicious light.

So rest! and Rest shall slay your many woes. Is motion godlike? godlike is repose—

A mountain-stillness, of majestic might,
Whose peaks are glorious with the quiet light

Of suns, when Day is at his close.

Nor deem that quiet must ignoble be.
Jove laboured lustily once in airy fields;
And over the cloudy lea

He planted many a budding shoot

Whose liberal nature daily, nightly, yields
A store of starry fruit:

His labour done, the weary god went back
Up the broad mountain-track

To his great house; there he did wile away
With lightest thought a well-won holyday;
And all the powers croon'd softly an old tune,
Wishing their sire might sleep
Through all the sultry noon

And cold blue night; and very soon

They heard the awful thunderer breathing low and

deep.

And in the hush that dropp'd adown the spheres,
And in the quiet of the awe-struck space,
The worlds learn'd worship at the birth of years ·