But, loved by innocence and youth, Would we, I thought, the soul imbue, And, when with usefulness combined, There is no form upon our earth, That bears the mighty Maker's seal, The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth-Day of the Author's Mother.-FRISBIE. No lights! they break the spell ;-away! O, as yon mirror's polished frame I see thee, dearest mother, there, And e'en Philosophy might stoop, And now 'tis silence all, and gloom, And my own solitary room. The Soul's Defiance.*—ANONYMOUS. I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast, Rage on-thou may'st destroy this form, And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit, that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted, on its fury looks With steadfast eye. *This poem was written many years ago, by a lady, and written from experience and feeling. There is a very remarkable grandeur and power in the sentiments, sustained, as they are, by an energy of expression well suit ed to the spirit's undaunted defiance of misfortune.-ED. I said to Penury's meagre train, Shall mock your force the while, I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, Yet still the spirit, which you see I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Yet still the spirit, that sustains I said to Death's uplifted dart, For still the spirit, firm and free, Wrapt in its own eternity, Shall smiling pass away Hymn for the second Centennial Anniversary of the City of Boston.-J. PIERPONT. BREAK forth in song, ye trees, For on its rushing wings, To your cool shades and springs, That breeze a people brings, Exiled, though free. Ye sister hills, lay down These are the great of earth,- Great, in their well proved worth, These are the living lights, Till they who name the name Toward Bethlehem's star. Gone are those great and good, Who here, in peril, stood And raised their hymn. Peace to the reverend dead! The light, that on their head Two hundred years have shed, Ye temples, that, to God, Rise where our fathers trod, The faith, that dared the sea, The truth, that made them free, Their cherished purity, Their garnered dust. Thou high and holy ONE, While day shall break and close, On these our hills. Napoleon at Rest.-J. PIERPONT. His falchion flashed along the Nile, Here sleeps he now, alone!-not one, Behind the sea-girt rock, the star Gazed as it faded and went down. High is his tomb: the ocean flood, Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud, That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here! The far off world at last Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark! Comes there from the pyramids, And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The world be awed to mourn him?—No! The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry The mournful murmur of the surge, The clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh. |