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 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
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Cornell University Library 
 PS 586.P74 
 
 The Poets of the West:a selection of fav 
 
 3 1924 022 027 225 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022027225 
 
THE 
 
 POETS OF THE WEST 
 
 A SELECTION OF FAVOURITE AMERICAN POEMS 
 WITH MEMOIRS OF THEIR AUTHORS. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY F. O. C. DARLEY, JASPER CROPSEY, J. H. HILL, 
 BIRKET FOSTER, ETC. 
 
 ^^m:Ms.j:s^-~^- ~ 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, SON & CO. 47, LUDGATE HIT.L. 
 
 1859. 
 
LONDON : 
 R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Grave 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! . . 
 A Visit from St. Nicholas 
 America to Great Britain 
 The Husband's and Wife's 
 Home, Sweet Home . . 
 
 It Snows 
 
 The Brothers . . 
 Lines to a Young Mother 
 The Indian Summer . 
 Talk with the Sea . . 
 Song of Marion's Men . 
 The Death of the Flowers . 
 
 Green River 
 
 The Hunter of the Prairies. 
 The Gladness of Nature . . 
 
 Morning Sunlight 
 
 Bronx 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 Red Jacket 
 
 Connecticut 
 
 Joseph Hopkinson . . . 
 
 Fa,e 
 17 
 
 Clement C. Moore. . . 
 
 19 
 
 Washington Allston . 
 
 21 
 
 Richard H. Dana . . 
 
 23 
 
 John Howard Payne . . 
 
 27 
 
 Sarah J. Hale . . 
 
 29 
 
 Charles Sprague . . 
 
 31 
 
 — 
 
 32 
 
 Zydia Huntley Sigourney 
 
 33 
 
 — 
 
 35 
 
 William Cullen Bryant . 
 
 36 
 
 — 
 
 39 
 
 — 
 
 41 
 
 — 
 
 44 
 
 — 
 
 47 
 
 Maria Brooks .... 
 
 48 
 
 Joseph Rodman Drake . 
 
 SO 
 
 — 
 
 52 
 
 Fitz- Greene Halleck . . 
 
 53 
 
 — 
 
 57 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Morning AMONG THE Hills . . . James G. Per cival . . . 6i 
 
 Room, Boys, Room Charles Fenno Hoffman . 66 
 
 Woodman, spare that Tree . . George P. Morris ... 68 
 
 The Wide World is drear . . Lucretia Maria Davidson 6^ 
 
 Blessings on Children .... William Gilmore Simms 71 
 
 Excelsior H. Wadsworth Longfellow 74 
 
 A Psalm of Life ....... — 76 
 
 The Village Blacksmith ... — 78 
 
 God's-Acre — 81 
 
 The Reaper and the Flowers . — 82 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon Nathaniel P. Willis . . 84 
 
 Maud Muller John Greenleaf Whittier . 8'6 
 
 The Last Leaf . . .... Oliver Wendell Holmes . 92 
 
 On lending a Punch-Bowl . . — g^ 
 
 Snow — A Winter Sketch . . Palph Hoyt gg 
 
 The Bells Edgar Allan Poe . . . 103 
 
 A Forest Nook Alfred B. Street . . . io8 
 
 Labour . . . . .... Frances Sargent Osgood . in 
 
 West Point H. Theodore Tuckerman 113 
 
 He standeth at the Door and ) , ,, „, , , ^ 
 
 [ Arthur Cleveland Coxe . 117 
 KNOCKETH ) 
 
 The Singing Leaves J. Russell Lowell . . .119 
 
 The Wayside Spring Thomas Buchanan Read . 123 
 
 Hassan to his Mare Bayard Taylor .... 126 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 DRAWN BY PAGE 
 
 A miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer . . . . F. O. C. Darley 20 
 
 Away from all the living here ye rest ..... J. H. HiLL . . 23 
 
 Oh I give me my lowly thatched cottage again . . . BiRKET Foster . 28 
 
 When the groves 
 
 ■ J. H. Hill . . 33 
 In fleeting colours wrote their own decay . 
 
 Our bajid is few, but true and tried F. O. C. Darley 37 
 
 Where wanaers the stream with waters of green . . J. H. HiLL . . 41 
 
 The bear that marks my weapon's gleam F. O. C. Darley 44 
 
 And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground . J. H. HiLL . . 47 
 
 I sat me down upon a green bank-side J. W. Casilears 50 
 
 For thou wast monarch born F. O. C. Darley 53 
 
 Or wandering through the southern countries teaching — 59 
 
 The sky without a vapour or a stain Birket Foster . 63 
 
 The forest for him had no danger or gloom . . . . Jasper Cropsey. 68 
 
VI LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 DRAWN BY PAGE 
 
 Oh I the hapty faith of children, that is glad in all \ 
 
 ■^^■>' J ■> « F. o. C. Darley 71 
 
 it sees ... \ 
 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay . . ... — 74 
 
 And children coming home from school, look in at \ _ 
 
 ( BiRKET Foster . 78 
 the open door .... \ 
 
 This is the field and Acre of our God — 81 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade F. O. C. Darley 87 
 
 As he totters 0^ er the ground — 93 
 
 The little captain stood and stirred the posset luith his \ 
 sword j 
 
 The haystack has become a hill — 9^ 
 
 By the side of the pale faced moon BiRKET Foster. 105 
 
 The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower . . . J. H. HiLL . . 108 
 
 Beneath the cliffs the river steals J. W. Casilears i 14 
 
 At the gate of heaven beatitig, \ 
 
 Wailing for thy sin | JOHN FRANKLIN 118 
 
 For I to Vanity Fair am bound J. H. HiLL . .119 
 
 Here sits and dips his little can — 124 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 JOSEPH HOPKINSON, LL.D. was bom in Philadelphia, on 
 November I2th, 1770, and was educated for the bar in his father's 
 office. He rose to distinction in his profession, and from 1815 to 1818 
 was a member of the House of Representatives. In 1828 he was 
 appointed Judge of the United States District Court of Philadelphia. 
 This of&ce he retained till his death, on the 15 th of January, 1842. 
 His well-known lyric, " Hail, Columbia !" has been adopted as one of 
 the national songs of America, and has conferred a poetic immortality 
 upon its author. 
 
 CLEMENT C. MOORE, LL.D. the son of a bishop of the 
 Protestant Episcopal Church in New York, was bom at New Town, 
 Long Island, July ijth, 1779, and graduated B.A. at Columbia College 
 in 1799. He early devoted his attention to biblical studies, and 
 published a "Lexicon of the Hebrew Language." In 1844 he col- 
 lected the poems he wrote during his earlier life, the longest of which 
 is " A Trip to Saratoga '' — a pleasant narrative of a family journey. 
 His " Visit from St. Nicholas," taken from an old Dutch legend, is an 
 especial favourite. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON, the descendant of a family of dis- 
 tinction in South Carolina, was born at Charleston, November Jth, 
 1779. He completed his education at Harvard College, and shortly 
 afterwards sailed for England, where he became a student of the Royal 
 Academy, under the presidency of Benjamin West. Here he remained 
 three years ; and then, after a sojourn at Paris, he went to Rome, 
 where he resided for four years, and became the intimate associate of 
 Coleridge. In 1809 he returned to America, and took up his abode at 
 
VIH MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 Boston, where he married the sister of Dr. Charming. Two years after 
 he again visited London ; and, during the five years he remained here, 
 produced some of his finest paintings. It was at this period tliat his 
 wife died. In 1818 he was elected an Associate of the Royal Academy ; 
 and in the following year he returned to Boston, where, in 1830, he 
 married the sister of his friend, Richard H. Dana. He then removed 
 to Cambridgeport, where he continued to reside for the rest of his life. 
 In 1839 he exhibited a gallery of his paintings — forty-five in number — 
 at Boston, with great success. He died very suddenly on the night of 
 the 8th of July, 1843. His principal poems were "The Sylph of the 
 Seasons," published in 1813 ; " Monaldi," a story of great power ; and 
 "The Paint King." Besides these, he was the author of many minor 
 pieces and sonnets. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA, n descendant of an old English 
 family, one of whom was sheriff of Middlesex in the reign of Eliza- 
 beth, was born at Cambridge, near Boston, on November isth, 1787. 
 His early years were passed at Newport, where he passed much of his 
 time rambling along the rock-bound coast, and becoming familiar with 
 ocean scenery. When he was old enough, he entered Harvard College ; 
 but his feeble health did not allow him to apply himself to constant 
 study. At his first entry into the world, he devoted himself to the law, 
 and became a member of the legislature ; but his constitutional sen- 
 sitiveness unfitted him for his profession, and he relinquished it for the 
 more congenial walks of literature. For a few years he assisted in 
 the management of the North American Review, and wrote several 
 articles, which excited the attention of literary men. In 1825 he 
 published his first poem, " The Dying Raven,'' in the New York 
 Review ; and, two years afterwards, gave to the world a small volume, 
 "The Buccaneer and other Poems." In 1839 he delivered a course of 
 lectures on the English poets, which were warmly applauded ; and in 
 1850 published a complete edition of his works, including poems, 
 prose tales, and criticisms, in two volumes. Mr. Dana now resides at 
 Boston, and passes most of the summer months at his sea-side house at 
 Cape Ann. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE was bom at New York on June 9th, 
 1792. His remarkable career as an actor and dramatist belongs to the 
 history of the stage. At the age of twenty-one he sailed for England, 
 where he resided for more than forty years. As a poet he will only be 
 celebrated as the author of the well-known song, " Home, sweet 
 Home ; " of which upwards of 100,000 copies were sold in the year 
 1832. He died at Tunis, — where he was for some time consul for the 
 United States, — in 1852. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. l.V 
 
 SARAH JOSEPHA HALE (whose maiden name was Buell) was 
 bom at Newport, in New Hampshire. She married David Hale, an 
 eminent lawyer; and, at his death in 1822, was left, with five children, 
 dependent upon her own exertions. She is well known as the author 
 of many successful tales and poems, and editor of various magazines. 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE is a native of Boston, where he was bom 
 on the 26th of October, 1791. He was educated at the Franklin school, 
 where, by an accident, he lost the use of his left eye. He entered into 
 mercantile pursuits at an early age ; and, on the establishment of the 
 Globe Bank in 1825, he was chosen its cashier, the duties of Which 
 office he has fulfilled with exemplary fidelity to the present day. His 
 chief poem, entitled " Curiosity," is a succession of pictures, illustrating 
 this universal passion. His dramatic odes are elegant and polished 
 compositions. 
 
 LYDIA SIGOURNEY, the only child of Ezekiel Huntley, was 
 bom at Norwich, Connecticut, September ist, 1791. She read fluently 
 at three years of age, and composed verses when she was seven. In 
 1815 Miss Huntley published her first book ; and four years afterwards 
 she became the wife of Mr. Charles Sigoumey, a merchant of Hartford. 
 Mrs. Sigoumey is one of the most voluminous of American authoresses ; 
 and has already published nearly fifty different volumes. " Pocahontas, " 
 issued in the year 1841, is considered to be her most successful poem. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, the son of an eminent physician, 
 was bom at Cummington, Massachusetts, on November 3d, 1794. 
 Rewrote his first poem, "The Embargo," a political satire, when he 
 was thirteen years of age. He afterwards entered Williams College, 
 where he distinguished himself in classical learning. In 181 5 he was 
 admitted to the bar, and commenced the practice of his profession at 
 Great Barrington, where he was married. After ten years of successful 
 practice, Bryant removed to New York, and devoted himself exclu- 
 sively to literary pursuits. He edited or wrote for various reviews and 
 magazines ; and in 1826 became permanently engaged upon the 
 Evening Post, one of the oldest papers in the country, and with which 
 he is still connected. Mr. Bryant has visited Europe several times, and 
 his collected works have more than once been published in England, 
 where, next to Longfellow, he is the favourite of American poets. 
 
 MARIA BROOKS was bom at Medford about the year 1795. Her 
 father, whose name was Gowen, died when she was a child, and her 
 education was completed under the care of Mr. Brooks, a merchant of 
 
 h 
 
X MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS, 
 
 Boston, who afterwards married her. Unhappily, mercantile disaster 
 followed a few years of prosperity. In 1820 Maria Brooks, or, to 
 adopt her poetical name, Maria del' Occidente, published her first 
 volume of poetry. Three years afterwards her husband died, when she 
 removed to Cuba, where she wrote "Zophiel; or, the Bride of 
 Seven," her most admired poem, which was republished in London 
 in the year 1833, under the auspices of Southey, who in " The 
 Doctor" calls her "the most impassioned and most imaginative of 
 all poetesses." The death of her uncle, a Cuban planter, who left 
 her his property, gave Mrs. Brooks a settled income, and she returned 
 to the United States, where, except during a visit to England, 
 she continued to reside' for many years. In 1843 she revisited Cuba, 
 where she died at Matanzas, November nth, 1845. 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE was bom in New York, August Jthl 
 1795. His father died while he was young, and left his mother and 
 three sisters with a, small income. Young Drake studied medicine 
 under a celebrated physician. Dr. Romayne, and soon after he had 
 completed his studies, married Sarah Eckford, through whom he in- 
 herited a moderate fortune. His chief poem, "The Culprit Fay," 
 abounds in charming fancies. In 181 9 he visited New Orleans on 
 account of his health ; but returned to New York in the following 
 spring, and died of consumption on the 21st of September 1820, 
 at the age of twenty-five. A simple monument erected over his 
 grave bears only his name and age, with the touching lines of his 
 friend Halleck — 
 
 ' None knew him but to love him, 
 Nor named him but to praise." 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK was bom at Guildford, Connecticut, 
 in August 1795 ; and when about eighteen years of age, became a 
 clerk in a New York banking house, and subsequently with John Jacob 
 Astor. He evinced an early taste for poetry, and wrote verses, which 
 were inserted in the Evening Post, and the contemporary maga- 
 zines. He soon after became celebrated, with Drake, as the writer of 
 satirical poems, reflecting on New York society. In 1822 and the 
 following year, Halleck visited Great Britain and the Continent, and 
 wrote poems on "Alnwick Castle " and " Burns. '' His collected works 
 have been published seyeral times with considerable success. For 
 many years past Mr. Halleck has resided at his native town, occasion- 
 ally paying visits to New York, where he is always received with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. XI 
 
 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL, the son of a physician, was born at 
 Kensington, Connecticut, on September i5tli, 1795. He entered Yale 
 College at sixteen, and early distingiiished himself by his learning, and 
 his facility in writing verse. He was afterwards admitted to the 
 practice of medicine, and removed to Charleston, where, however, he 
 devoted himself to literary pursuits. He has received several govern- 
 ment appointments, and is now State Geologist of Wisconsin. His 
 poems, which are very popular, have been collected and published in 
 America and England. Dr. Percival is also a great linguist and critic. 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS was bom in Philadelphia in 1802. He 
 went to New York early in life, and was one of the founders of a 
 weekly journal, called the New York Mirror, which was carried on 
 for many years. Since then Mr. Morris has started several other 
 journals, most of which have been successful. He is known in the 
 poetic world chiefly as the writer of songs and ballads, one of which, 
 " Woodman, spare that Tree," is extremely popular on both sides of 
 the Atlantic. He is also the author of several dramas, one of which, 
 " Brier Cliff," has been played in New York at four theatres on the same 
 night to crowded houses. 
 
 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN, the son of Judge Hoffman, was 
 bom in New York in 1806. When eleven years of age he met with an 
 accident, which necessitated the amputation of his right leg. At the 
 age of fifteen he entered Columbia College, where he received the 
 honorary degree of M.A. He then studied the law, and for a few 
 years practised at the bar in New York. But literature seems to have 
 had a greater attraction for him ; and from the age of twenty-four he 
 was for many years constantly connected with various magazines and 
 journals. In 1849 Mr. Hoffman was most unhappily attacked with a 
 mental disorder, which has interrupted his literary career. 
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON was bom at Plattsburgh, Sep- 
 tember 27th, 1808. Of her early life we are told several anecdotes, 
 which show that she was a child of most precocious intellect, and 
 poems are preserved which she wrote when in her ninth year. Intense 
 study soon undermined her naturally frail constitution ; and before she 
 had completed her seventeenth year she died of consumption. Her 
 younger sister, Margaret Miller Davidson, seems to have possessed 
 the same quick faculties, and unhappily met with the same fate. 
 The poems of both sisters have been collected, and have met with 
 much approbation. 
 
xii MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, a native of Charleston, South 
 Carolina, was bom on the 17th of April, 1806. He chose the law for a 
 profession, and for a short time practised at the bar. Literary pursuits, 
 however, had greater temptations for him ; and he, early in Ufe, became 
 associated with public journals. In 1832 Mr. Simms visited New York, 
 and there published his poem " Atalantis, " which was well received, 
 and which introduced him to all the best authors of that city. Since 
 then his literary career has been uniformly successful. He is the author 
 of several volumes of poetry and songs, and has written dramas, novels, 
 and historical romances. He is also the editor of the Southern 
 Quarterly Review. Mr. Simms still resides at Charleston. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was bom in Portland, 
 Maine, "in an old square wooden house, upon the edge of the sea," on 
 February 27th, 1807. He entered Bowdoin College, where, in due 
 time, he graduated. For a short time he studied the law in his father's 
 office ; but, on receiving the appointment of Professor of Modem 
 Languages at his college, he devoted himself entirely to literature. In 
 1826 Mr. Longfellow visited Europe. He was absent three years ; and 
 on his return published various essays and sketches. In 1835 he was 
 chosen Professor of Modern Languages at Harvard College ; and to 
 qualify himself for this important honour, he made a, second tour 
 through Europe, and visited the more northern countries. His first 
 volume of poetry, " Voices of the Night," was published at Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, in 1839; "Evangeline" appeared in 1847; "The 
 Golden Legend " in 1851; and "Hiawatha" in 1856. Besides these 
 he is the author of numerous smaller poems and several prose tales. In 
 England Mr. Longfellow is undoubtedly the most popular of all the 
 American poets. 
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS was bom in Portland, January 
 20th, 1807. When he was six years of age his father removed to 
 Boston, where the youth received his early education. He afterwards 
 graduated at Yale ; and, while there, wrote several small poems, 
 which appeared in the journals. Immediately after leaving college, 
 Mr. Willis entered upon a literary career, and became the editor of 
 various magazines. He then visited Europe, and stayed in England 
 (where, in 1835, he married Miss Stace, the daughter of an officer at 
 Woolwich) for two years. Upon his return to America he built a 
 cottage in the valley of the Susquehanna, where he hoped to pass the 
 remainder of his life. The failure of his publisher and other unhappy 
 events, however, induced Mr. Willis once more to return to active 
 literary pursuits. He again visited Europe, and has since published 
 several books of travel and poems, and still continues to edit the 
 Home Journal. Mr. Willis's first wife died early, and Mr. Willis 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. XIU 
 
 married again in 1845 the daughter of the Hon. Joseph Grinnell, 
 Member of Congress for Massachusetts. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER is of a Quaker family, and 
 was bom near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. Early in life he 
 visited Boston, and became the editor of a newspaper, where subse- 
 quently he published various tales and poems. In 1840 Mr. Whittier 
 removed to Amesbury, Massachusetts, whence he still sends frequent 
 contributions to tlie various literary journals. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, the son of a literary man of 
 some fame, was bom at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 29th of 
 August, 1809. He graduated at Harvard College in 1829, and then 
 entered the profession of the law, which he afterwards abandoned for 
 medicine. In 1833 he visited Europe, where he remained for three 
 years, chiefly at Paris; and in 1836 returned to Cambridge to take his 
 medical degree. Dr. Holmes has published many excellent little 
 poems, mostly of a humorous turn ; and he is considered to be one of 
 the best lecturers in America. His last work is the "Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast Table." He now resides at Pittsfield on the Housatonic, 
 on the remnant of an estate inherited from his mother. 
 
 RALPH HOYT is a native of New York. He had a good educa- 
 tion, and became a teacher in a school. In 1842 he took orders, and 
 has since been a minister of the Protestant Episcopal Church in New 
 York. He has lately resided at a cottage in the village of Fort Lee 
 in New Jersey, where, with the assistance of his friends, he has built a 
 small church. Mr. Hoyt has published several poems, mostly of a 
 devout tendency, and many of which have now become very popular. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE was bom in Baltimore in January, 181 1. 
 His grandfather was a man of some standing, and served in the Revo- 
 lution with distinction. His father, David Poe, was a law student at 
 Baltimore, where he fell in love with and married an English actress, 
 Elizabeth Amold, and then took to the stage himself. Edgar was the 
 eldest of three children ; and was so remarkable for his beauty and 
 vivacity, that when both his parents died, a friend of theirs, Mr. John 
 Allan, a wealthy merchant of Virginia, adopted him as his son, and 
 provided liberally for his education. In 1816 Mr. and Mrs. Allan took 
 Edgar with them to England, where he was placed at school at Stoke 
 Newington. Here he stayed till he was eleven years of age, when he 
 returned to America, and entered the University at Charlottesville. It 
 is said that he might have taken the highest honours, but his dissolute 
 conduct led to his expulsion from the college. He shortly afterwards 
 
xiv MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 quarrelled with his benefactor, and went to Europe. After twelve 
 months' absence he became involved in some quarrel at St. Petersburgh, 
 and was sent home by the American Minister there. Mr. Allan again 
 received him into favour, and procured liim an appointment, which he 
 only kept for one year ; and soon afterwards, by some reckless be- 
 haviour, he offended his excellent friend beyond all forgiveness. 
 Edgar Poe then gave his attention more entirely to literary pursuits ; 
 and in 1835 removed to Richmond, where he married his cousin, who, 
 after a union of ten years, died of consumption. In 1844 he took up 
 his residence at New York ; and in the following year published, in a 
 magazine, his poem, " The Raven," which was immediately received 
 with the greatest applause. In 1849 he was preparing for a second 
 marriage at Baltimore, when he was seized with a fit of insanity, 
 brought on by his constant habit of intoxication, and was carried to a 
 hospital, where he died on the 7th of October, 1849, at the age of 
 thirty-eight. He was buried in Baltimore churchyard, and not a stone 
 was erected to mark the spot ! Never was a finer genius brought into 
 alliance with so dissolute a man ! 
 
 ALFRED B. STREET, the son of the Hon. Randall Street, was 
 born at Poughkeepsie on the Hudson, and at an early age removed with 
 his father to Monticello in Sullivan county, then almost a wilderness. 
 The scenery of these beautiful regions is faithfully reproduced in his 
 poems. Mr, Street early studied the law ; and on his admission to the 
 bar removed to Albany, where he has since resided, and where he has 
 for several years held the appointment of State Librarian. He is a 
 contributor to various magazines and journals, and has published several 
 volumes of his collected works. His poems are chiefly descriptive of 
 the various phases of American scenery. 
 
 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, the daughter of Mr. Locke, a 
 merchant of Boston, was bom there in the year 1812. In her early 
 youth Miss Locke wrote verses, which were inserted in a juvenile 
 magazine. In 1834 she formed the acquaintance of Mr. S. S. Osgood, 
 a young painter, to whom she sat for her portrait, and who soon after- 
 wai-ds married her. In the following year they came to London, where 
 they resided four years, Mr. Osgood following his profession, and his 
 wife publishing a collection of her poems. In 1840 Mrs. Osgood 
 received intelligence of the death of her father, and immediately re- 
 turned with her husband to Boston, where they continued to reside 
 many years. In 1849 Mr. Osgood took a journey to California; and in 
 the following year returned wiLh ample means, only to find his wife sinking 
 iiito an early grave. She died of consumption on the 12th of May, 
 i8.fo. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. XV 
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN, the descendant of an old 
 English family of Devonshirej was born in 1813 at Boston, where he 
 received his early education. When twenty years of age he visited 
 Europe for a twelvemonth, for the benefit of a milder climate ; and 
 again in 1837 passed several months in Italy and Sicily. During 
 these years Mr. Tuckerman was a constant contributor to various 
 magazines, and published several volumes of sketches and poems. In 
 1845 he removed from Boston to New York, where he has since 
 resided. 
 
 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE, the son of the Rev. S. H. Coxe, 
 of Brooklyn, was bom at Mendham, New Jersey, May loth, 1818. 
 After a course of private instruction he entered the University of New 
 York, where he graduated in 1838. In July 1841, Mr. Coxe was ordained 
 deacon, and in the following year became rector of St. Anne's, 
 Morrisania. He was next called to St John's Church, Hartford ; and 
 at present he is the rector of Grace Church, Baltimore. Mr. Coxe 
 wrote several poems at an early age; and in 1840 published a volume 
 of " Christian Ballads," which has been very successful. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, the descendant of a well-known 
 New England family, was bom at Elm-wood, the present residence of 
 the family, at Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22d, 1819. He 
 was educated in the town, and in 1838 obtained his degree at Harvard 
 College. Mr. Lowell then studied for the bar ; but soon relinquished 
 the law for the more congenial path of literature. In 1843 he com- 
 menced a literary journal, which, however, was not successful. In the 
 following year his poem, " A Legend of Brittany," appeared, and met 
 with deserved applause. In 1848 he published another series of poems, 
 including " The Vision of Sir Launfal," one of the most popular of his 
 productions. Mr. Lowell was married in December 1844 ; but un- 
 happily his vidfe died in October 1853. Her husband privately printed 
 a volume of her poems, which exhibit considerable genius. 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester County, 
 Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. His boyhood was passed among 
 scenes of country life, until he was seventeen years of age, when, after 
 the death of his father, he moved to Cincinnati, and obtained a situation 
 in the studio of Clevinger the sculptor. Devoting himself to art, he 
 soon obtained some reputation as a portrait painter, and in 1841 went 
 to New York with the intention of following this profession. In the 
 following year he moved to Boston, where, in 1847, he published his 
 first volume of " Poems. '' This was followed by a second volume of 
 " Lays and Ballads," published in 1848 in Philadelphia. 
 
XVI MEMOIRS OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR, the son of a Pennsylvanian farmer, was born 
 January nth, 1825, in the village of Kennett Square, Chester County. 
 At the age of seventeen he was apprenticed to a printer at West- 
 chester. He employed his leisure hours in learning Latin and 
 French, and in writing verses, which were well received by the editors 
 of various magazines. In the year 1844 he obtained sufficient funds 
 to enable him to accomplish a long wished-for project of a walking 
 tour through Europe, the expenses of which for two years were 
 a little above two hundred pounds. In the summer of 1851 he set 
 out on a tour in the East ; visited England, the Rhine, Vienna, and 
 in November arrived at Cairo. He then entered Central Africa, and 
 made a journey of four thousand miles through the interior. He next 
 visited Palestine and Syria ; and, passing through Constantinople, re- 
 turned to England. In the following year he went to Bombay, and 
 thence to China and Japan. After an absence of two years and a half, 
 during which time he had travelled upwards of fifty thousand miles, he 
 returned to New York. During all this time letters^ descriptive of his 
 journey, continually appeared from him in the Tribune newspaper. 
 He has since visited Norway and Sweden, and Russia, and Tartary, 
 and published records of his travels. 
 
HAIL, COLUMBIA! 
 
 JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 
 Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band ! 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause. 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 And when the storm of war was gone, 
 Enjoyed the peace your valour won ! 
 Let independence be our boast, 
 Ever mindful what it cost ; 
 Ever grateful for the prize. 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 Firm — -united — let us be, 
 Rallying round our liberty ; 
 As a band of brothers joined, 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 
 Immortal patriots ! rise once more ; 
 
 Defend your rights, defend your shore ; 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 
 B 
 
HAIL, COLUMBIA ! 
 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
 While offering peace sincere and just, 
 In heaven we place a manly trust. 
 That truth and justice will prevail, 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause. 
 Ring through the world with loud applause : 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 
 With equal skill and godlike power, 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 Of horrid war j or guides with ease 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
 Behold the chief who now commands, 
 Once more to serve his country stands — 
 The rock on which the storm will beat, 
 The rock on which the storm will beat : 
 But, armed in virtue firm and true. 
 His hopes are fixed on heaven and you. 
 When Hope was sinking in dismay, 
 And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 His steady mind, from changes free. 
 Resolved on death or liberty. 
 Firm — united, &c. 
 
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 CLEMEXT C. MOORE. 
 
 'T WAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house 
 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
 
 The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. 
 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
 
 Tire children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
 
 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ; 
 
 And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, 
 
 Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap ; 
 
 When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
 
 I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter 
 
20 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
 
 Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
 
 The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 
 
 Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. 
 
 When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
 
 But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer. 
 
 With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
 
 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
 
 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
 
 And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; 
 
 " Now, Dasher I now, Dancer ! now, Prancer and Vixen I 
 
 On, Comet I on, Cupid I on, Donder and Blitzen I 
 
 To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 
 
 Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all ! " 
 
 As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
 
 When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; 
 
 So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
 
 With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
 
 And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof. 
 
 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof — 
 
 As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
 
 Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
 
 He was dressed all in- fur from his head to his foot. 
 
 And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 
 
 A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
 
 And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. 
 
 His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry ! 
 
 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 
 
 His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow. 
 
 And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow ; 
 
 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. 
 
 And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath ; 
 
 He had a broad face and a little round belly. 
 
 That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 
 
 He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, 
 
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 2 
 
 And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; 
 A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 
 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 
 He spoke not a word, but went straiglit to his work. 
 And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk. 
 And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; 
 He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle. 
 And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. 
 But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
 '■'■Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night /" 
 
 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 All hail ! thou noble land, 
 Our Fathers' native soil ! 
 O, stretch thy mighty hand, 
 Gigantic grown by toil. 
 O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! 
 For thou with magic might 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The Genius of our clime. 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep. 
 
 Shall hail the guest sublime ; 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 
:2 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
 Then let the world combine, — 
 O'er the main our naval line 
 Like the milky-way shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! 
 
 Though ages long have past 
 
 Since our Fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untravelled seas to roam, 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 That blood of honest fame 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ? 
 
 While the language free and bold 
 Which the Bard of Avon sung. 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; — 
 While this, with reverence meet. 
 Ten thousand echoes greet. 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast ; — 
 
 While the manners, while the arts, 
 
 That mould a nation's soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts, — - 
 Between let Ocean roll. 
 Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : 
 Yet still from either beach 
 The voice of blood shall reach, 
 More audible than speech, 
 "We are One." 
 
^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE, 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 Husband and wife ! No converse now ye hold, 
 As once ye did in your young days of love, 
 On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays. 
 Its silent meditations, its glad hopes. 
 
2 4 THE HUSBANDS AND WIFE S GRAVE. 
 
 Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ; 
 
 Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 
 
 Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares 
 
 Call you not now together. Earnest talk 
 
 On what your children may be, moves you not. 
 
 Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ; 
 
 'Tis not like that in which ye rested once 
 
 Most happy — silence eloquent, when heart 
 
 With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames. 
 
 Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat 
 
 Touched the soft notes of love. 
 
 Stillness profound. 
 Insensible, unheeding, folds you round; 
 And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in. 
 Away from all the living, here ye rest : 
 In all the nearness of the narrow tomb. 
 Yet feel ye not each other's presence now. 
 Dread fellowship ! together, yet alone. 
 
 Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then. Love ? 
 And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
 Commingling spirits 1 Are thoughts that know no bounds, 
 But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
 The eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — 
 Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? 
 Dwellers in darkness, who th' illuminate realms 
 Of uncreated light have visited and lived 1 
 Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne, 
 Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
 Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
 In glory? throne, before which even now 
 Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down 
 Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? 
 
THE HUSBANDS AND WIFE S GRAVE. 25 
 
 Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, 
 Thou awful, unseen presence — are they quenched, 
 Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
 By that bright day which ends not, as the sun 
 His robe of light ilings round the glittering stars ^ 
 
 And with our frames do perish all our loves ? 
 Do those that took their root and put forth buds. 
 And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
 Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty. 
 Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? 
 Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, 
 And make it send forth winning harmonies. 
 That to the cheek do give its living glow. 
 And vision in the eye the soul intense 
 With that for which there is no utterance- 
 Are these the body's accidents 1 no more 1 
 To live in it, and when that dies, go out 
 Like the burnt taper's flame ? 
 
 Oh, listen, man ! 
 A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
 "Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices 
 Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, 
 By angel fingers touched when the mild stars 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 The song of our great immortality : 
 Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
 The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 Oh, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
 From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moonlight ; 
 'T is floating midst day's setting glories ; Night, 
 Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
 
 c 
 
26 THE husband's anu wikk's crave. 
 
 Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears : 
 
 Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
 
 All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
 
 As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
 
 By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
 
 The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 
 
 Why is it that I linger round this tomb 1 
 What holds it ? Dust that cumbered those I mourn. 
 They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, 
 And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell 
 In love — their God's and angels'. Mutual love. 
 That bound them here, no longer needs a speech 
 For full communion ; nor sensations strong. 
 Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
 To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
 Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each. 
 By natures new, impart themselves, though silent. 
 Each quick'ning sense, each throb of holy love, 
 Affections sanctified, and the full glow 
 Of being, which expand and gladden one, 
 By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
 In both immortal frames : Sensation all. 
 And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought ! 
 Ye paired, yet one ! wrapped in a consciousness 
 Twofold, yet single — this is love, this life ! 
 
 Why call we, then, the square-built monument, 
 The upright column, and the low-laid slab. 
 Tokens of death, memorials of decay ? 
 Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 27 
 
 And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest, 
 In these shaped stones and lettered tables, figures 
 Of life : More are they to thy soul than those 
 Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God 
 Brought to the old Judeans — types are these 
 Of thine eternity. 
 
 I thank thee, Father, 
 That at this simple grave, on which the dawn 
 Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath 
 No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind 
 Hast sent a sacred light, and that away 
 From this green hillock, whither I had come 
 In sorrow. Thou art leading me in joy. 
 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 
 
 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ! 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there. 
 Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere, 
 
 Home ! home, sweet home ! 
 
 There's no place like home ! 
 
An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain ; 
 
 Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 
 The birds singing gaily that come at my call : 
 
 Give me these, and the peace of mind, dearer than all. 
 
 Home ! sweet sweet home ! 
 
 There's no place like home. 
 
29 
 
 IT SNOWS. 
 
 SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 " It snows !" cries the school-boy — " hurrah !" and his shout 
 
 Is ringing through parlour and hall, 
 While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out, 
 
 And his playmates have answered his call. 
 It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy, — 
 
 Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow, 
 Like tbe rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, 
 
 As. he gathers his treasures of snow ; 
 Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, 
 While health and the riches of Nature are theirs. 
 
 " It snows !" sighs the imbecile — " Ah !" and his breath 
 
 Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight ; 
 While from the pale aspect of Nature in death 
 
 He turns to the blaze of his grate : 
 And nearer, and nearer, his soft cushioned chair 
 
 Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame — ■ 
 He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air. 
 
 Lest it wither his delicate frame ; 
 Oh ! small is the pleasure existence can give, 
 When the fear we shall die only proves that we live ! 
 
 "It snows!" cries the traveller — "Ho!" and the word 
 Has quickened his steed's lagging pace ; 
 The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard, 
 Unfelt the sharp drift in his face ; 
 
30 IT SNOWS. 
 
 For bright through the tempest his own home appeared — 
 Ay ! though leagues intervened, he can see 
 
 There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared, 
 And his wife with their babes at her knee. 
 
 Blest thought ! how it lightens the grief-laden hour. 
 
 That those we love dearest are safe from its power. 
 
 " It snows !" cries the belle, — " Dear how lucky," and turns 
 
 From her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; 
 like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns 
 
 While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : 
 There are visions of conquest, of splendour, and mirth. 
 
 Floating over each drear winter's day; 
 But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth, 
 
 Will melt, like the snowflakes, away ; 
 Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss. 
 That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this. 
 
 "It snows!" cries the widow, — "Oh, God!" and her sighs 
 
 Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; 
 Its burden ye '11 read in her tear-swollen eyes, 
 
 On her cheek, sunk with fasting and care. 
 'Tis night — and her fatherless ask her for bread — 
 
 But " He gives the young ravens their food," 
 And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread, 
 
 And she lays on her last chip of wood. 
 Poor sufif'rer ! that sorrow thy God only knows — 
 'Tis a pitiful lot to be poor, when it snows ! 
 
'I' HE BROTHERS. 
 
 CHARLES SrRAGUEi. 
 
 We are but two — the others sleep 
 Through Death's untroubled night ; 
 
 We are but two — oh, let us keep 
 The link that binds us bright ! 
 
 Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
 That warms us is the same ; 
 
 That good old man — his honest blood 
 Alike we fondly claim. 
 
 We in one mother's arms were locked- 
 
 Long be her love repaid ; 
 In the same cradle we were rocked, 
 
 Round the same hearth we played. 
 
 Our boyish sports were all the same. 
 Each little joy and woe ; — 
 
 Let manhood keep alive the flame, 
 Lit up so long ago. 
 
 We are but two — be that the band 
 
 To hold us till we die ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 
 
 Till side by side we lie. 
 
LINES TO A YOUNG MOTHER. 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 Young mother! what can feeble friendship say, 
 To soothe the anguish of this mournful day ? 
 They, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled. 
 Know how the living sorrow for the dead ; 
 Each tutored voice, that seeks such grief to cheer. 
 Strikes cold upon the weeping parent's ear ; 
 I've felt it all — alas ! too well I know 
 How vain all earthly power to hush thy woe ! 
 God cheer thee, childless mother! 'tis not given 
 For man to ward the blow that falls from heaven. 
 
 I've felt -it all — as thou art feeling now; 
 Ijke thee, with stricken heart and aching brow. 
 I've sat and watched by dying beauty's bed, 
 And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed ; 
 I've gazed upon the sweet but pallid face, 
 And vainly tried some comfort there to trace ; 
 I've listened to the short and struggling breath ; 
 I've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death ; 
 Like thee, I've veiled my head in speechless gloom. 
 And laid my first-born in the silent tomb. 
 
THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 
 
 When was the red man's summer 1 
 
 When the rose 
 Hung its first banner out ? AVhen the gray rock, 
 Or the bro\vn heath, the radiant kalmia clothed 1 
 Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks 
 Started to see the proud lobelia glow 
 Like living flame I When through the forest gleamed 
 The rhododendron ? or the fragrant breath 
 Of the magnolia swept deliciously 
 O'er the half-laden nerve '! 
 
 D 
 
34 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 No. When the groves 
 In fleeting colours wrote their own decay, 
 And leaves fell eddying on the sharpened blast 
 That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed 
 The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, 
 Heavy of wing and fearful ; when, with heart 
 Foreboding or depressed, the white man marked 
 The signs of coming winter : then began 
 The Indian's joyous season. J'hen the haze, 
 Soft and illusive as a fairy dream. 
 Lapped all the landscape in its silvery fold. 
 The quiet rivers that were wont to hide 
 'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betrayed 
 By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept. 
 While, wrapped in morning dreams, the sea and sky 
 Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged 
 In the same element. Slowly the sun, 
 And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved. 
 And then it took upon its parting wing 
 A rainbow glory. 
 
 Gorgeous was the time, 
 Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee. 
 Our brother hunter, but to us replete 
 With musing thoughts in melancholy train. 
 Our joys, alas ! too oft were woe to thee ; 
 Yet ah, poor Indian ! whom we fain would drive 
 Both from our hearts and from thy father's lands, 
 The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown, 
 And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 
 
TALK WITH THE SEA. 
 
 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 
 
 I SAID with a moan, as I roamed alone, 
 
 By the side of the solemn sea, — 
 " Oh cast at my feet, which thy billows meet. 
 
 Some token to comfort me. 
 'Mid thy surges cold, a ring of gold 
 
 I have lost, with an amethyst bright. 
 Thou hast locked it so long, in thy casket strong. 
 
 That the rust must have quenched its light. 
 
 " Send a gift, I pray, on thy sheeted spray. 
 
 To solace my drooping mind, 
 For I'm sad and grieve, and ere long must leave 
 
 This rolling globe behind." 
 Then the Sea answered, " Spoils are mine, 
 
 From many an argosy. 
 And pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep. 
 
 But nought have I there for thee ! " 
 
 "When I mused before, on this rock-bound shore, 
 
 The beautiful walked with me. 
 She hath gone to her rest in the churchyard's breast 
 
 Since I saw thee last, thou Sea ! 
 Restore ! restore ! the smile she wore. 
 
 When her cheek to mine was pressed, 
 Give back the voice of the fervent soul 
 
 That could lighten the darkest breast !" 
 
36 SONG OF Marion's men. 
 
 But the haughty Sea in its majesty 
 
 Swept onward as before, 
 Though a surge in wrath from its rocky path 
 
 Shrieked out to the sounding shore — 
 "Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing 
 
 Than mortal e'er claimed before, 
 For never the wealth of a loving heart 
 
 Could Ocean or Earth restore." 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold ; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good greenwood. 
 
 Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 
 As seamen know the sea. 
 We know its walls of thorny vines, 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass, 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery, 
 That little dread us near ! 
 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 A strange and sudden fear ; 
 
 37 
 
 When, waking to their tents on fire, 
 They grasp their arms in vain, 
 
 And they who stand to face us 
 Are beat to earth again. 
 
38 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil : 
 We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
 
 As if a hunt were up, 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 And slumber long and sweetly 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads — 
 The glitter of their rifles. 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
 
 Across the moonlit plain; 
 'Tis life to feel the night- wind 
 
 That lifts his tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp — 
 
 A moment — and away 
 Back to the pathless forest. 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 Grave men with hoary hairs, 
 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 39 
 
 And lovely ladies greet our band 
 
 With kindliest welcoming, 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms. 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton, 
 
 For ever, from our shore. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.' 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 
 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay. 
 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and 
 
 stood 
 In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 
 
40 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. 
 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on 
 
 men. 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and 
 
 glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come. 
 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are 
 
 still. 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. 
 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore. 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf. 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief : 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 
 
\TV/ 
 
 GREEN RIVER. 
 
 W I 1.1,1 AM CULLl'.N BRYANT. 
 
 When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
 I steal an liour from study and care, 
 And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
 Where wanders the stream with waters of green. 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
 Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
 And they, whose meadows it murmurs through. 
 Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 
 Yet pure its waters— its shallows are bright 
 
 E 
 
42 GREEN RIVER. 
 
 With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light, 
 
 And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
 
 And dimples deepen and whirl away, 
 
 And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 
 
 The swifter current that mines its root, 
 
 Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill. 
 
 The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 
 
 With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown. 
 
 Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. 
 
 Oh, loveliest there the spring days come. 
 
 With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 
 
 The flowers of summer are fairest there. 
 
 And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 
 
 And sweetest the golden autumn day 
 
 In silence and sunshine glides away. 
 
 Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
 Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
 But windest away from haunts of men,' 
 To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
 And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill. 
 Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
 Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, 
 From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
 Or the simpler comes with basket and book, 
 For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
 Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 
 To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
 Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
 On the river cherry and seedy reed, 
 And thy own wild music gushing out 
 With mellow murmur and fairy shout. 
 From dawn to the blush of another day, 
 Like traveller singing along his way. 
 
GREEN RIVER. 43 
 
 That fairy music I never hear, 
 Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
 And mark them winding away from sight. 
 Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
 While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings. 
 And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
 But I wish that fate had left me free 
 To wander these quiet haunts with thee. 
 Till the eating cares of earth should depart. 
 And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 
 And I envy thy stream as it glides along. 
 Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 
 
 Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men. 
 
 And scrawl stiange words with the barbarous pen, 
 
 And mingle among the jostling crowd. 
 
 Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 
 
 I often come to this quiet place, 
 
 To breathe the airs that rufile thy face. 
 
 And gaze upon thee in silent dream. 
 
 For in thy lonely and lovely stream 
 
 An image of that calm life appears 
 
 That won my heart in my greener years. 
 
 »^^!n>v^ 
 
A > 
 
 THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 •\VILLIA1I CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Av, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 
 Were never stained with village smoke : 
 
 The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 
 Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
 
 Here, with my rifle and my steed. 
 And her who left the world for me, 
 
THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 45 
 
 I plant me where the red deer feed 
 In the green desert — and am free. 
 
 For here the fair savannas know 
 
 No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
 Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 
 
 Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
 In pastures, measureless as air, 
 
 The bison is my noble game ; 
 The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
 
 The branches, falls before my aim. 
 
 Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
 
 From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
 The bear that marks my weapon's gleam. 
 
 Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
 In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; 
 
 The brinded catamount, that lies 
 High in the boughs to watch his prey. 
 
 Even in the act of springing, dies. 
 
 With what free growth the elm and plane 
 
 Fling their huge arms across my way. 
 Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 
 
 Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
 Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
 
 No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
 Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 
 
 Where never scythe has swept the glades. 
 
 Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 
 
 The heavy herbage of the ground, 
 Gathers his annual harvest here, 
 
 With roaring like the battle's sound, 
 
46 THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 
 And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 
 
 I meet the flames with flames again, 
 And at my door they cower and die. 
 
 Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
 
 Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
 The boundless future in the vast 
 
 And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
 Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ; 
 
 Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
 And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 
 
 Bright clusters tempt me as I pass 1 
 
 Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 
 
 Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
 Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 
 
 Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
 I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 
 
 O'er woody vale and grassy height; 
 And kind the voice and glad the eyes 
 
 That welcome my return at night. 
 
THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
 
 When our mother Nature laughs around ; 
 
 When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 
 
 And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? 
 
48 THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 
 
 There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
 And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 
 
 The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, 
 And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 
 
 The clouds are at play in the azure space, 
 
 And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 
 
 And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
 And there they roll on the easy gale. 
 
 There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
 There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 
 
 There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower. 
 And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 
 
 And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
 On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray. 
 
 On the leaping waters and gay young isles : 
 Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 
 
 MORNING SUNLIGHT. 
 
 MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun !- 
 The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires 
 
 As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done. 
 As when he moved exulting in his fires. 
 
MORNING SUNLIGHT. 49 
 
 The infant strains his little arms to catch 
 The rays that glance about his silken hair ; 
 
 And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match 
 
 Thy face, when turned away from bower and palace fair. 
 
 Sweet to the lip, the draught, the blushing fruit ; 
 
 Music and perfumes mingle with the soul ; 
 How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute ! 
 
 And light and beauty's tints enhance the whole. 
 
 Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee : 
 Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms ; 
 
 Thou never weariest : no inconstancy 
 
 But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. 
 
 How many lips have sung thy praise, how long ! 
 
 Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo, 
 The pleasured bard pours forth another song, 
 
 And finds in thee, like love, a theme for ever new. 
 
 Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth 
 
 In thy near realms ; and, like their snow-wreaths fair, 
 
 The bright-haired youths and maidens of the North 
 Smile in thy colours when thou art not there. 
 
 'Tis there thou bidd'st a deeper ardour glow. 
 
 And higher, piarer reveries completes! ; 
 As drops that farthest from the ocean flow, 
 
 Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. 
 
 Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night. 
 
 Some wretch impassioned, from sweet morning's breath, 
 
 Turns his hot brow and sickens at thy light ; 
 
 But Nature, ever kind, soon heals or gives him death. 
 
 F 
 
BRONX. 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, 
 Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, 
 
 Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide. 
 
 Like parting friends who linger while they sever ; 
 
 Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready. 
 
 Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. 
 
BRONX. 51 
 
 Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow 
 Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, 
 
 Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, 
 Or the fine frostwork which young Winter freezes, 
 
 When first his power in infant pastime trying. 
 
 Congeals sad Autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. 
 
 From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling. 
 And in the clefts sumach of liveliest- green. 
 
 Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling. 
 The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen 
 
 Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, 
 
 Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes un- 
 heeded. 
 
 The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around, 
 The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat ; 
 
 The antic squirrel capered on the ground 
 Where lichens made a carpet for his feet : 
 
 Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle 
 
 Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fins' tiny twinkle. 
 
 There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, 
 White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting. 
 
 Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses ; 
 Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting 
 
 A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden 
 
 Shining beneath droptlids the evening of her wedding. 
 
 The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, 
 Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em. 
 
 The winding of the merry locust's horn, 
 
 The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : 
 
 Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, 
 
 Oh ! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. 
 
52 SONNET. 
 
 And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand 
 
 Again in the dull world of earthly blindness 1 
 
 Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 
 Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness 1 
 
 Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, 
 
 To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude ? 
 
 Yet I will look upon thy face again. 
 My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 
 
 A face more pleasant than the face of men. 
 Thy waves are old companions : I shall see 
 
 A well-remembered form in each old tree, 
 
 And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men, 
 
 And chilled with the world's ice 1 Then come with me, 
 
 And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen 
 
 Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, un viewed 
 
 By scoffing eye ; and let our hearts beat free 
 
 With their own mutual throb. For wild and rude 
 
 The access is, and none will there intrude, 
 
 To poison our free thoughts, and mar our solitude ! 
 
 Such scenes move not their feelings — for they hold 
 No fellowship with nature's loneliness ; 
 The frozen wave reflects not back the gold 
 
 And crimson flushes of the sunset hour ; 
 
 The rock lies cold in sunshine — not the power 
 Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its barrenness. 
 
^^s. 
 
 RED JACKET, 
 A CIIIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TlfSCAROKAS. 
 
 ON LOOKING AT HIS rORTKAIT, BY WEIR. 
 
 KlIZ-GREENE HAI.I.FX'K. 
 
 Cooper, whose name is with liis country's woven, 
 First in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 
 
 A wanderer now in other climes, lias ]>roven 
 His lo\-e for the young land he left hehintl , 
 
J RED JACKET. 
 
 And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, 
 Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought 
 
 Magnificent as his own mind's creations. 
 
 And beautiful as its green world of thought : 
 
 And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
 As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 
 
 He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 
 The most enlightened people ever known. 
 
 That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
 
 In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 
 
 And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
 There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. 
 
 And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, 
 We shall export our poetry and wine ; 
 
 And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
 Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. 
 
 If he were with me. King of Tuscarora ! 
 
 Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now. 
 In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 
 
 Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — 
 
 Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic. 
 Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings — ■ 
 
 Well might he boast that we, the Democratic, 
 Outrival Europe, even in our kings ! 
 
 For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 
 Tell not the planting of thy parent tree. 
 
 But that the forest tribes have bent for ages 
 To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 
 
RED JACKET. , 55 
 
 Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 
 
 Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, 
 
 Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
 Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 
 
 Yet it is music in the language spoken 
 
 Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; 
 
 As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
 As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 
 
 Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 
 That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine. 
 
 And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, 
 A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 
 
 Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
 And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood. 
 
 As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, 
 Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. 
 
 Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's ? 
 
 Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
 As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant sailors. 
 
 Heroes in history, and gods in song. 
 
 Is beauty 1 — Thine has with thy youth departed ; 
 
 But the love-legends of thy manhood's years. 
 And she who perished, young and broken-hearted. 
 
 Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 
 
 Is eloquence 1 — Her spell is thine that reaches 
 The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport ; 
 
 And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
 The secret of their mastery — they are short. 
 
6 RED JACKET. 
 
 The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, 
 The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
 
 Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
 The hearts of millions till they move as one : 
 
 Thou hast it. At thy. bidding men have crowded 
 
 The road to death as to a festival ; 
 And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded 
 
 With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 
 
 Who will believe 1 Not I — for in deceiving 
 Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 
 
 I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
 That all things beautiful are what they seem ; 
 
 Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
 Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour. 
 
 With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, 
 As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower ; 
 
 With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; 
 
 With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
 Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 
 
 That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! 
 
 That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain. 
 Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 
 
 And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain 
 
 Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! 
 
 And underneath that face, like summer ocean's. 
 Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear. 
 
 Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions. 
 Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. 
 
CONNECTICUT. 57 
 
 Lo\e — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, 
 Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; 
 
 Hatred — of missionaries and cold water ; 
 Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 
 
 Hope— that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
 Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 
 
 Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 
 
 Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 
 
 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 (FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.) 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 Still her gray rocks tower above the sea 
 
 That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave ; 
 
 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree. 
 Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 
 
 Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and 
 free. 
 And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave ; 
 
 .\nd where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray. 
 
 Nor even then, unless in their own way. 
 
 Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
 A " fierce democracie," where all are true 
 
 To what themselves have voted — right or wrong — 
 And to their laws denominated blue ; 
 
 G 
 
58 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
 
 A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 
 Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest, 
 Sacred— the San Marino of the West. 
 
 A justice of the peace, for the time being, 
 
 They bow to, but may turn him out next year ; 
 
 They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
 In price or creed, dismiss him without fear ; 
 
 They have a natural talent for foreseeing 
 
 And knowing all things ; and should Park appear 
 
 From his long tour in Africa, to show 
 
 The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — " We know. 
 
 They love their land, because it is their own, 
 And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 
 
 Would shake hands with a king upon his throne. 
 And think it kindness to his majesty ; 
 
 A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 
 
 Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 
 
 All— but a few apostates, who are meddling 
 
 With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; 
 
 Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
 The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 
 
 Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 
 And gaining by what they call "hook and crook," 
 
 And what the moralists call overreaching, 
 A decent living. The Virginians look 
 
 Upon them with as favourable eyes 
 
 As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. 
 
 But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
 At home, where all their worth and pride is placed ; 
 
C'<1NXEC'1'ICUT. 
 
 59 
 
 And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 
 
 And there the lowHest farmhouse hearth is graced 
 
 With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 
 
 Faithful in lo^•e, in iTonour stern and chaste. 
 
 •^ 't>'}-&^f~^TrJ'- 
 
 In friendship Avarm and true, in danger ]ira\'e. 
 Beloved in life, and sainted in the c;ra\-c. 
 
 And minds liave there been nurtured, whose control 
 Is felt even in tlieir nation's destin)- ; 
 
6o 
 
 CONNECTICUI 
 
 Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, 
 And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
 
 Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 
 
 Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
 
 And tales of love and war— listen to one 
 
 Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennington. 
 
 When on that field his band the Hessians fought, 
 Briefly he spoke before the fight began : 
 
 "Soldiers! those German gentlemen are bought 
 For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, 
 
 By England's king ; a bargain, as is thought. 
 
 Are we worth more 1 Let's prove it now we can ; 
 
 For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun. 
 
 Or Mary Stark's a widow ! " It was done. 
 
 Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, 
 Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales. 
 
 The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
 Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 
 
 Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
 Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales 
 
 Through sun and snow; and in the autumn time 
 
 Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 
 
 Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
 Her twilight hills — her cool and starry eves. 
 
 The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, 
 The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves. 
 
 Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 
 Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; 
 
 And his mind's brightest vision but displays 
 
 The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 
 
MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. 6 1 
 
 And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 
 
 Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
 The maiden listening in the moonlit grove, 
 
 The mother smiling in her infant's bower ; 
 Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 
 
 Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
 Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
 To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them 
 there. 
 
 MORNING AMONG THE HILI,S. 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 A NIGHT had passed away among the hills, 
 And now the first faint tokens of the dawn 
 Showed in the east. The bright and dewy star. 
 Whose mission is to usher in the morn. 
 Looked through the cool air, like a blessed thing 
 In a far purer world. Below there lay. 
 Wrapped round a woody mountain tranquilly, 
 A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light. 
 That now came up from out the unseen depth 
 Of the full fount of day, and they were laced 
 With colours ever brightening. I had waked 
 From a long sleep of many changing dreams. 
 And now in the fresh forest air I stood 
 Nerved to another day of wandering. 
 
2 MORNING AMONG THE HILLS, 
 
 Before me rose a pinnacle of rock, 
 
 Lifted above die wood that hemmed it in, 
 
 And now already glowing. There the beams 
 
 Came from the far horizon, and they wrapped it 
 
 In light and glory. Round its vapoury cone 
 
 A crown of far-diverging rays shot out. 
 
 And gave to it the semblance of an altar 
 
 Lit for the worship of the undying flame. 
 
 That centred in the circle of the sun, 
 
 Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves, 
 
 Anon would stand in solitary pomp 
 
 Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them 
 
 With splendour as a garment. Thitherward 
 
 I bent my eager steps ; and through the grove, 
 
 Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung 
 
 With a rich harvest of unnumber'd gems. 
 
 Waiting a clearer dawn to catch the hues 
 
 Shed from the starry fringes of its veil 
 
 On cloud, and mist, and dew, and backward thrown 
 
 In infinite reflections, on I went, 
 
 Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging, 
 
 I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited 
 
 Silent the full appearing of the sun. 
 
 Below there lay a far-extended sea, 
 Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it. 
 And toss'd it round the high-ascending rocks, 
 And swept it through the half-hidden forest tops. 
 Till, like an ocean waking into storm. 
 It heaved and weltered. Gloriously the light 
 Crested its billows, and those craggy islands 
 Shone on it like to palaces of spar 
 Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead, 
 The sky, without a vapour or a stain. 
 
I\rORNING AMONG THE Hirj.S. 
 
 Intensely blue, even deepened into purple, 
 When nearer the horizon it received 
 A tincture from the mist that there dissolved 
 Into the viewless air, — the sky bent round, 
 
 -Sftv 
 
 ^:- 
 
 The awful dome of a most mighty temple, 
 Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less 
 Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence — 
 I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts 
 
64 MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. 
 
 Of wonder and of joy that then came o'er me, 
 
 Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, 
 
 So bright, so glorious ! Such a majesty 
 
 In yon pure vault ! So many dazzling tints 
 
 In yonder waste of waves, — so like the ocean 
 
 With its unnumber'd islands there encircled 
 
 By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle, 
 
 Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds 
 
 To bathe in purest sunbeams, seemed an osprey 
 
 Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines. 
 
 Their tops half-mantled in a snowy veil, 
 
 A frigate with full canvas, bearing on 
 
 To conquest and to glory. But even these 
 
 Had round them something of the lofty air 
 
 In which they moved ; not like to things of earth, 
 
 But heightened, and made glorious, as became 
 
 Such pomp and splendour. 
 
 Who can tell the brightness, 
 That every moment caught a newer glow. 
 That circle, with its centre like the heart 
 Of elemental fire, and spreading out 
 In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky 
 And on the ophaline waves, crowned with a rainbow 
 Bright as the arch that bent above the throne 
 Seen in a vision by the holy man 
 In Patmos ! who can tell how it ascended, 
 And flowed more widely o'er that lifted ocean, 
 Till instantly the unobstructed sun 
 Rolled up his sphere of fire, floating away — 
 Away in a pure ether, far from earth, 
 And all its clouds, — and pouring forth unbounded 
 His arrowy brightness ! From that burning centre 
 At once there ran along the level line 
 Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold — 
 
MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. 65 
 
 Liquid and flowing gold, that seemed to tremble 
 Even with a furnace heat, on to the point 
 Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapour 
 Parted away, and melting into air, 
 Rose round me, and I stood involved in light. 
 As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapped me 
 In its innocuous blaze. Away it rolled. 
 Wave after wave. They climbed the highest rocks. 
 Poured over them in surges, and then rushed 
 Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent 
 Dashed instant to the plain. It seemed a moment, 
 And they were gone, as if the touch of fire 
 At once dissolved them. Then I found myself 
 Midway in air ; ridge after ridge below. 
 Descended with their opulence of woods 
 Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake 
 Flashed in the sun, and from it wound a line, 
 Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge 
 Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks 
 Was round me — but below how beautiful, 
 How rich the plain ! a wilderness of groves 
 And ripening harvests ; while the sky of June — • 
 The soft, blue sky of June — and the cool air. 
 That makes it then a luxury to live. 
 Only to breathe it, and the busy echo 
 Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks, 
 Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart, 
 That where I stood seemed heaven. 
 
R ( ) O M, B U V S, R O (J) U. 
 
 CHARLliS FEXNU HOFFMAN. 
 
 TifEKE was an old lumter camped down by the ri 
 AVho fislied in this water, and shot on that hill. 
 Tlie forest for liim liad no danger nor gloom, 
 I'Vir all that he wanted was plenty of room ' 
 
ROOM, BOYS, ROOM. 67 
 
 Says he, " The world's wide, there is room for us all ; 
 Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall. 
 Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, 
 For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?" 
 
 He wove his own nets, and his shanty was spread 
 With the skins he had dressed and stretched out overhead ; 
 Fresh branches of hemlock made fragrant the floor, 
 For his bed, as he sung when the daylight was o'er, 
 "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all ; 
 Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall. 
 Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, 
 For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?" 
 
 That spring now half choked by the dust of the road, 
 Under boughs of old maples once limpidly flowed ; 
 By the rock whence it bubbles his kettle was hung, 
 Which their sap often filled while the hunter he sung, 
 " The world's wide enough, there is room for us all ; 
 Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall. 
 Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon. 
 For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?" 
 
 And still sung the hunter — when one gloomy day. 
 He saw in the forest what saddened his lay, — 
 A heavy-wheeled wagon its black rut had made. 
 Where fair grew the greensward in broad forest glade — 
 " The world's wide enough, there is room for us all ; 
 Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall. 
 Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, 
 For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room ? " 
 
 He whistled to his dog, and says he, " We can't stay ; 
 I must shoulder my rifle, up traps, and away;" 
 
68 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
 
 Next day, 'mid those maples the settler's axe rung, 
 
 While slowly the hunter trudged off as he sung, 
 
 " The world's wide enough, there is room for us all ; 
 
 Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall. 
 
 Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, 
 
 For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?" 
 
 ^^. 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree ! 
 
 Touch not a single bough ! 
 In youth it sheltered me. 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'Twas my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not ! 
 
 That old familiar tree, 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Are spread o'er land and sea. 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down % 
 Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
 Oh, spare that aged oak, 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 6g 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters played. 
 My mother kissed me here ; 
 
 My father pressed my hand — 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak stand ! 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
 While I've a hand to save. 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not. 
 
 THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh say not the wide world is lonely and dreary ! 
 
 Oh say not that life is a wilderness waste ! 
 There's ever some comfort in store for the weary. 
 
 And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast. 
 
70 THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 
 
 There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er the soul, 
 Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear, 
 
 That when waking the dew-drops of mem'ry may fall. 
 And blot out for ever, the wide world is drear. 
 
 There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief. 
 Which will beam o'er his pathway of danger and fear ; 
 
 There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm "joy of grief," 
 Oh then say not the wide world is lonely and drear ! 
 
 There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the breast, 
 Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear. 
 
 Which return on the heart, and there lingering rest. 
 Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear. 
 
 'Tis true, that the dreams of the evening will fade, 
 When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and clear ; 
 
 Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade. 
 And say that the world is not lonely and drear. 
 
 Oh, then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste ! 
 
 That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear. 
 But remember that man, undeserving, is blest. 
 
 And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear. 
 
IJLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 
 Blessings on the blessing children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to earth, 
 Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the house with mirth ; 
 Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom, 
 Which tire bliss for ever gladdens, of the region whence they come ; 
 Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care. 
 And a buoyant faith m being, which makes all in nature fair ; 
 
■J 2 BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 
 
 Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigh, 
 And a hope that in existence finds each hour a luxury ; 
 Going singing, bounding, brightening — never fearing as they go. 
 That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find a foe ; 
 In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely flies. 
 Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty in the skies ; 
 Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store. 
 All the present still a garden gleaned a thousand times before ; 
 All the future but a region where the happy serving thought 
 Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the wingbd hunter caught ; 
 Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight. 
 Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight ; 
 As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies, 
 Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes. 
 Oh ! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours. 
 Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers ; 
 Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare, 
 Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the heart of care. 
 How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove, 
 Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love ! 
 We are in the shouting comrades, shaking off the load of years. 
 Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts and agonies and tears ; 
 We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts. 
 Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts ; 
 What an image of the vigour and the glorious grace we knew. 
 When to eager youth from boyhood, at a single bound we grew ! 
 Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek the glow. 
 In our eyes the life and gladness — of our blood the overflow. 
 Bless the mother of the urchin ! in his form we see her truth : 
 He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth ; 
 Never can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair, 
 Nor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair : 
 Bless the mother of the young one ! he hath blended in his grace, 
 All the hope and joy and beauty, kindling once in either face ! 
 
BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 73 
 
 Oh ! the happy faith of children ! that is glad in all it sees, 
 And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries ; 
 In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance blest, 
 Wise in value of the .sportive, and in restlessness at rest; 
 Lacking every creed, yet having faith so large in all they see 
 That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. 
 What trim fancies bring them flowers; what rare spirits walk their 
 
 wood. 
 What a wondrous world the moonlight harbours of the gay and good ! 
 Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still. 
 And the lightning gleams, a seraph, to persuade them to the hill : 
 'Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the midnight rains, 
 Broods beside the shuttered windows, and with gentle love complains ; 
 And how wooing, how exalting, with the richness of her dyes. 
 Spans the painter of the rainbow her bright arch along the skies. 
 With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the fancy's sight 
 How 'twere easy for the sad one to escape to worlds of light. 
 Ah ! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in every dream 
 That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom, a gleam ! 
 Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth ; 
 Joy is born of well believing, and the fiction wraps the truth. 
 
EXCELSIOR. 
 
 HE.VRv u-Ans«T,RTH Lnxr.FEr,,,n,,-. 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast 
 As through an Alpine village passed ' 
 A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice 
 A banner with the strange device, 
 Excelsior 1 
 
EXCELSIOR. 75 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
 And from his lips escaped a groan, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ; 
 "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
 And loud that clarion voice replied. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " O, stay,'' the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 But still he answered, with a sigh. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
 Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
 This was the peasant's last Good-night ; 
 A voice replied, far up the height. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 
76 A PSALM OF LIFE 
 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled air. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
 Half-buried in the snow was found. 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 That banner with the strange device. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and gray. 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
A PSALM OF LIFE. 77 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 
 
 Is our destined end or way; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave. 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living Present ! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another. 
 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
78 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Let US, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart for any fate : 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labour and to wait. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 HENRY "WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 
 
 His face is like the tan ; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat ; 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow ; 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
 With measured beat and slow, 
 
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 
 19 
 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 
8o THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling — re j oicing — sorrowing — 
 Onward through life he goes : 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 
 Something atteinpted — something done. 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought. 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
GOD'S-ACRE. 
 
 HKXRV WADSWORTir I.("iXGFELLOW. 
 
 I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
 The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just ; 
 
 It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
 
 And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 
 
8 2 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
 Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 
 
 The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts. 
 Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 
 
 Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 
 
 In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 
 
 At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
 Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 
 
 Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
 In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
 
 And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 
 
 With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. 
 
 AVith thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn up the sod, 
 And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 
 
 This is the field and Acre of our God, 
 
 This is the place, where human harvests grow ! 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 
 
 And, with his sickle keen. 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 
 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 83 
 
 " Shall I have nought that is fair 1 " saith he ; 
 
 " Have nought but the bearded grain ? 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
 
 I will give them all back again." 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 " My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 
 
 The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
 " Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
 
 Where He was once a child. 
 
 " They shall all bloom in fields of light. 
 
 Transplanted by my care, 
 And saints, upon their garments white, 
 
 These sacred blossoms wear." 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
 
 The flowers she most did love; 
 She knew she should find them all again 
 
 In the fields of light above. 
 
 O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
 
 The Reaper came that day; 
 'Twas an angel visited the green earth. 
 
 And took the flowers away. 
 
THE BELFRY PIGEOJV- 
 
 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 
 
 On the cross-beam under the Old South, bell 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is there, 
 Out and in with the morning air ; 
 I love to see him track the street, 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 There's a human look in its swelling breast. 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel, 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 
 Chime of the hour, or funeral knell — 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
 When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, 
 When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning light. 
 When the child is waked with "nine at night," 
 
THE BELFRV PIGEON. 
 
 When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
 Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirred, 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest. 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
 Then drops again with filmed eyes. 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen ! 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
 But, unlike me, when day is o'er. 
 Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar, 
 Or, at a half-felt wish for rest. 
 Canst smooth thy feathers on thy breast, 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 I would that, in such wings of gold, 
 I could my weary heart upfold ; 
 I would I could look down unmoved, 
 (Unloving as I am unloved,) 
 And, while the world throngs on beneath, 
 Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
 And never sad with others' sadness, 
 And never glad with others' gladness. 
 Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. 
 And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 
 
86 
 
 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTEK. 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
 Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
 White from its hill-slope looking down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing filled her breast — 
 
 A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
 For something better than she had known. 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
 Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
MAUD MULLER 
 
 »7 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 
 
 And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 And filled for him her small tin cup. 
 
88 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 
 
 " Thanks ! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 
 
 Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
 The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud Muller looked and sighed ■ " Ah, me ! 
 That I the Judge's bride might be ! 
 
 " He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
 And praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
 " My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
 
 And the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 
 "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
 And all should bless me who left our door." 
 
MAUD MULLER. 89 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
 And saw Maud MuUer standing still. 
 
 "A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
 Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 
 
 "And her modest answer and graceful air 
 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 " Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
 Like her, a harvester of hay : 
 
 " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
 Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 
 
 "But low of cattle and song of birds, 
 And health and quiet and loving words." 
 
 But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. 
 And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 
 
 So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
 And Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
 
 When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well, 
 Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
 Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
 He watched a picture come and go : 
 
 L 
 
90 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 
 He longed for the way-side well instead ; 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
 To dream of meadows and clover blooms. 
 
 And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain : 
 " Ah, that I were free again ! 
 
 " Free as when I rode that day, 
 
 Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 
 
 She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 
 And many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 
 
 And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
 Over the road-side, through the wall, 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein : 
 
 And, gazing down with timid grace, 
 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls; 
 
MAUD MULLER. pi 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
 The tallow candle an astral burned, 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw. 
 And joy was duty and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life again. 
 Saying only, "It might have been." 
 
 Alas for Maiden, alas for Judge, 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge ! 
 
 God pity them both ! and pity us all. 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 
 The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may 
 Roll the stone from its grave away ! 
 
92 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 I SAW him once before, 
 As he passed by the door, 
 
 And again 
 The pavement stones resound 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prime, 
 Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
 
 Cut him down, 
 Not a better man was found 
 By the Crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets. 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 
 Sad and wan. 
 And he shakes his feeble head, 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 
 "They are gone." 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 On the lips that he has prest 
 In their bloom, 
 
THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 93 
 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said - 
 Poor old lady, she is dead 
 Long ago,— 
 
94 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 That he had a Roman nose, 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 In the snow. 
 
 But now his nose is thin, 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like a staff, 
 And a crook is in his back. 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here ; 
 But the old three-cornered hat, 
 And the breeches, and all that. 
 
 Are so queer ! 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 In the spring, — 
 Let them smile, as I do now 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 
 Where I cling. 
 
ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL, 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLIIES, 
 
 This ancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of good old times, 
 Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; 
 They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, 
 That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. 
 
g6 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 
 
 A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale — 
 
 'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; 
 
 And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should 
 
 fail, 
 He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 
 
 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, 
 Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; 
 And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 
 'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. 
 
 But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine. 
 
 Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine. 
 
 But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps, 
 
 He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. 
 
 And then, of course, you know what's next — it left the Dutchman's 
 
 shore 
 With those that in the Mayflower came, — a hundred souls and 
 
 more, — 
 Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes — 
 To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 
 
 'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, 
 When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim, 
 The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword. 
 And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. 
 
 He poured the fiery hollands in — the man that never feared — 
 He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard ; 
 And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and prayed. 
 All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid ! 
 
 That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, 
 He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; 
 
ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 97 
 
 And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, 
 " Run from the white man when you find he smells of hollands gin ! " 
 
 A hundred year, and fifty more had spread their leaves and snows, 
 A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose ; 
 When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 
 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 
 
 " Drink, John," she said, " 't will do you good — poor child, you '11 
 
 never bear 
 This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air, 
 And if — God bless me — you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill;" 
 So John did drink — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's 
 
 Hill! 
 
 I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer ; 
 I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here ; 
 'T is but the fool that loves excess — hast thou a drunken soul, 
 Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! 
 
 I love the memory of the past — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — 
 The moss that clothes its broken walls— the ivy on its towers — 
 Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed — my eyes grow moist and dim, 
 To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. 
 
 Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; 
 The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; 
 And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin. 
 That dooms one to those dreadful words — " My dear, where have 
 you been ? " 
 
98 
 
 SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 
 
 RALPH HOY'I-. 
 
 The blessed morn has 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 ! " 
 
 'T is 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 joined the revel, all arrayed 
 
 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 capped, and plumed, like white hussars. 
 
 Stand there in state. 
 
SN'UW A WIN'I'isk SKE'ICH. 
 
 The drifts arc hanging by tlic sil 
 The eaves, the door ; 
 
 The hay-stack Iras become a hill 
 All covered o'er 
 
 The wagon, loaded for tlie mill 
 The eve before. 
 
 Maria ])rings the «atcr-])ail, 
 But where 's the well '! 
 
SNOW — A WINTER SKETCH. 
 
 Like magic of a fairy tale, 
 
 Most strange to tell, 
 All vanished, 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. 
 
 Old drowsy Dobbin, at the call, 
 
 Amazed, awakes ; 
 Out from the window of his stall 
 
 A view he takes ; 
 While thick and faster seem to fall 
 
 The silent flakes. 
 
 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 ; 
 
SNOW A WINTER SKETCH. 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh God, to Thee ! 
 
 Around the altar low they bend. 
 
 Devout in prayer ; 
 As snows upon the roof descend, 
 
 So angels there 
 Come down 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; 
 
I02 SNOW — A WINTER SKETCH. 
 
 Soon busy appetites are there ; 
 
 And disappear 
 The glories of the ample fare, 
 
 With thanks sincere. 
 
 Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh 
 From copse and spray, 
 
 (Sweet strangers ! with the winter's sky 
 To pass away ;) 
 
 And gather crumbs in full supply, 
 For all the day. 
 
 Let now the busy hours 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 ; 
 As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair, 
 
 Speeds on the morn. 
 
 While mounts the eddying smoke amain 
 From many a hearth. 
 
THE BELLS. 103 
 
 And all the landscape rings again 
 
 With rustic mirth ; 
 So gladsome seems to every swain 
 
 The snowy earth. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 
 
 I. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells — 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the tintinabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 II. 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells. 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 
I04 THE BELLS. 
 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells — ■ 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune. 
 In -a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire. 
 And a resolute endeavour 
 Now — now to sit or never, 
 
THF. 111:1, 1, S. 
 
 Ry tlie side of the [jale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 AVhat a tale their terror tells 
 ( )f Des))air ! 
 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar 
 What a horror they outpour 
 tin the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 ^'et the ear it fully knows, 
 
106 THE BELLS. 
 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — 
 Of the bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamour and the clangour of the bells ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 
 Iron bells I 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
 In the silence of the night. 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone. 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 
 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 
THE BELLS. I07 
 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls, 
 A pjean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells ! 
 And he dances and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the paean of the bells — 
 Of the bells i 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 To the tolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 

 5-X- 
 
 A FOREST NOOK 
 
 ALFRED n. STREET. 
 
 A NOOK witliin the forest ; ON'erhead 
 
 The liranclies arch, and sha)ie a |ileasant Ijowei- 
 
A FOREST NOOK. lOp 
 
 Breaking white cloud, blue sky and sunshine bright, 
 
 Into pure ivory and sapphire spots. 
 
 And flecks of gold j a soft cool emerald tint 
 
 Colours the air, as though the delicate leaves 
 
 Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls 
 
 And what a gorgeous roof carved by the hand 
 
 Of glorious Nature ! Here the spruce thrusts in 
 
 Its bristling plume, tipp'd with its pale green points ; 
 
 The scallop'd beech leaf, and the birch's cut 
 
 Into fine ragged edges, interlace : 
 
 While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts 
 
 Its snowy chalices half-brimmed with dew. 
 
 As though to hoard it for the haunting elves 
 
 The moonlight calls to this their festal hall. 
 
 A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes the earth. 
 
 Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays 
 
 Its fluted wreath beaded beneath with drops 
 
 Of richest brown ; the wild-rose spreads its breast 
 
 Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir 
 
 Has dropped its dark, long cone. 
 
 The scorching glare 
 Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt 
 For summer's radiant things ; the butterfly 
 Fluttering within and resting on some flower, 
 Fans his rich velvet form ; the toiling bee 
 Shoots by, with sounding hum and mist-like wings ; 
 The robin perches on the bending spray 
 With shrill, quick chirp ; and like a flake of fire 
 The redbird seeks the shelter of the leaves. 
 And now and then a flutter overhead 
 In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing 
 Coming and going, yet concealed from sight. 
 A shrill, loud outcry — on yon highest bough 
 
lO A FOREST NOOK. 
 
 Sits the gray squirrel, in his burlesque wrath 
 
 Stamping and chattering fiercely : now he drops 
 
 A hoarded nut, then at my smiling gaze 
 
 Buries himself within the foliage. 
 
 The insect tribe are here ; the ant toils on 
 
 With its white burthen ; in its netted web 
 
 Gray glistening o'er the bush, the spider lurks, 
 
 A close-crouched ball, out-darting as a hum 
 
 Tells its trapped prey, and looping quick its threads, 
 
 Chains into helplessness the buzzing wings. 
 
 The wood-tick taps its tiny muffled drum 
 
 To the shrill cricket-fife, and swelling loud. 
 
 The grasshopper its swelling bugle winds. 
 
 Those breaths of Nature, the light fluttering airs. 
 
 Like gentle respirations, come and go. 
 
 Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf. 
 
 Displaying its white lining underneath. 
 
 And sprinkle from the tree-tops golden rain 
 
 Of sunshine on the velvet sward below. 
 
 Such nooks as this are common in the woods ; 
 
 And all these sights and sounds the commonest 
 
 In Nature when she wears her summer prime. 
 
 Yet by them pass not lightly : to the wise 
 
 They tell the beauty and the harmony 
 
 Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made. 
 
 That His familiar earth and sky are full 
 
 Of His ineffable power and majesty ; 
 
 That in the humble objects, seen too oft 
 
 To be regarded, is such wondrous grace. 
 
 The art of man is vain to imitate ; 
 
 That the low flower our careless foot treads down 
 
 Is a rich shrine of incense delicate, 
 
 And radiant beauty, and that God hath formed 
 
LABOUR. 1 1 
 
 All, from the cloud-wreathed mountain to the grain 
 Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up, 
 With deepest forethought and severest care. 
 And thus these noteless lovely things are types 
 Of His perfection and divinity. 
 
 LABOUR. 
 
 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 Labour is rest — from the sorrows that greet us ; 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
 Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us. 
 
 Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. 
 Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow. 
 Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow ; 
 Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow ! 
 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 
 
 Labour is health ! Lo the husbandman reaping. 
 How through his veins goes the life current leaping ; 
 How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, 
 
 Free as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. 
 Labour is wealth — in the sea the pearl groweth. 
 Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth, 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth. 
 
 Temple and statue the marble block hides. 
 
112 LABOUR. 
 
 Droop not, the' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee ! 
 Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; 
 Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee. 
 
 Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
 Work — for some good be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherish some flower be it ever so lowly ; 
 Labour ! — all labour is noble and holy ; 
 
 Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 
 
 Pause not to dream of the future before us ; 
 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us : 
 
 Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 
 
 Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! 
 Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
 More and more richly the Rose-heart keeps glowing. 
 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 " Labour is worship !" — the robin is singing, 
 " Labour is worship !" — the wild bee is ringing, 
 Listen ! that eloquent whisper up-springing, 
 
 Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. 
 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 
 From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower, 
 From the small insect the rich coral bower. 
 
 Only man in the plan shrinks from his part. 
 
 Labour is life ! — 't is the still water faileth ; 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth • 
 Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ! 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
 
WEST POINT. 
 
 Labour is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; 
 Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
 Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; 
 
 Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune ' 
 
 WEST POINT. 
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCK.ER]\IAN. 
 
 Wild umbrage far around me clings 
 To breezy knoll and hushed ravine, 
 
 And o'er each rocky headland flings 
 Its mantle of refreshing green. 
 
 The echoes that so boldly rung 
 
 When cannon flashed from steep to steep, 
 And Freedom's airy challenge flung. 
 
 In each romantic valley sleep. 
 
 His counsels here our chieftain breathed. 
 Here roved his mild, undaunted eye, 
 
 When yon lone fort with thickets wreathed, 
 Held captive Britain's gallant spy. 
 
114 
 
 WEST POINT. 
 
 Fit home to rear a nation's youth, 
 Ly self-control to nerve the will, 
 
 
 Through knowledge gain expansive truth. 
 And with high aims life's circle fill. 
 
WEST POINT. 115 
 
 How grateful is the sudden change 
 
 From arid pavements to the grass, 
 From narrow streets that thousands range, 
 
 To meadows where June's zephyrs pass ! 
 
 Beneath the chffs the river steals 
 In darksome eddies to the shore. 
 
 But midway every sail reveals 
 Reflected on its crystal floor. 
 
 In tranquil mood the cattle walk 
 Along the verdant marge to feed, 
 
 While poised upon the mullein stalk 
 The chirping red-bird pecks the seed. 
 
 Low murmurs in the foliage bred. 
 The clear horizon's azure line. 
 
 Fresh turf elastic to the tread. 
 And leafy canopies are thine. 
 
 White fleecy clouds move slowly by. 
 How cool their shadows fall to-day ! 
 
 A moment on the hills they lie. 
 And then like spirits glide away. 
 
 Amid the herbage, yesternight 
 
 His web the cunning spider threw. 
 
 And now, as sparkling diamonds bright. 
 It glistens with the pendent dew. 
 
H6 WEST POINT. 
 
 Gay butterflies dart on and sink 
 O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea, 
 
 And from the clover's globe of pink 
 Contented hums the downy bee. 
 
 In all his varied beauty glows 
 
 Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart, 
 As it were fain to teach repose, 
 
 And lofty confidence impart. 
 
 How vivid to my fancy now 
 
 Uprise the forms that life redeem ! 
 
 The ardent eye, the open brow, 
 And tender smile beside me seem. 
 
 For Nature's presence gathers back 
 
 The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer; 
 
 And as her holy steps we track, 
 
 Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's tear. 
 
jja^ t ^ 
 
 HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND 
 KNOCKETH. 
 
 \K-mrK Cl.F.\KI.\Mi 'iiXF 
 
 In the silent midnight watches. 
 
 Eist, — th\- liosrini door ! 
 How it knocketh— knoeketh— knocketli, 
 
 Knockcth e\-erniore 1 
 
Il8 HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND KNOCKETH. 
 
 Say not 'tis thy pulse is beating : 
 
 'Tis thy heart of sin; 
 'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth— 
 
 " Rise, and let me in." 
 
 Death comes on with reckless footsteps. 
 
 To the hall and hut : 
 Think you, Death will tarry, knocking, 
 
 Where the door is shut 1 
 Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth — 
 
 But the door is fast ; 
 Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth ; 
 
 Death breaks in at last ! 
 
 Then, 'tis time to stand entreating 
 
 Christ to let thee in ; 
 At the gate of heaven beating. 
 
 Wailing for thy sin. 
 Nay, — alas, thou guilty creature ! 
 
 Hast thou then forgot ? 
 Jesus waited -long to know thee. 
 
 Now He knows thee not. 
 
THE SINGING LKAVES. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 IA;\rF.S RUSSKIX LOWELL. 
 
 " What fairings will ye that I bring ? " 
 Said the king to his daughters three ; 
 
 " For I to Vanity Fair am bound, 
 Now say what shall they be ? " 
 
 Then up and spake the eldest daughter, 
 
 The lady tall and grand, 
 " Ye shall bring to me the diamonds great, 
 
 And gold rings for my hand." 
 
 Thereafter spake the second daughter. 
 That was both white and red, 
 
THE SINGING LEAVES. 
 
 " For me bring silk tliat will stand alone, 
 And a gold comb for my head." 
 
 Then lowly spake the least daughter, 
 That was whiter than thistle-down, 
 
 And among the gold of her blithesome hair 
 Dim shone the golden crown. 
 
 " There came a bird at sunrise 
 And sang 'neath my bower-eaves, 
 
 And sent the sweet dream that bade me 
 To ask for the Singing Leaves." 
 
 The vein of his forehead reddened 
 
 In a ridge of angry scorn, 
 " Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, 
 
 And chosen as ye were born. 
 
 " But thou, like a thing of peasant blood. 
 That is happy binding the sheaves ! " 
 
 Then he saw her dead mother in her face, 
 And said, "Thou shalt have thy Leaves." 
 
 II. 
 
 He bade farewell to the elder twain, 
 And touched his lips to their cheek. 
 
 But 't was thrice he kissed the Princess Anne, 
 And looked back and did not speak. 
 
 And he has ridden three days and nights, 
 Till he carhe to Vanity Fair ; 
 
THE SINGING LEAVES. 
 
 And easy it was to buy gems and gold, 
 But no Singing Leaves were there. 
 
 Then deep in the greenwood rode he, 
 
 And asked of every tree : 
 " Oh, if ye have ever a singing leaf, 
 
 I pray you to give it me !" 
 
 But the trees all kept their counsel ; 
 
 They said neither yea nor nay ; 
 Only there sighed from the pine-tops 
 
 A music of seas far away. 
 
 Only the aspen pattered 
 
 With a sound like growing rain, 
 That fell ever fast and faster. 
 
 Then faltered to silence again, 
 
 " Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page, 
 That would win both hose and shoon. 
 
 And will bring to me these Singing Leaves, 
 If they grow 'neath sun or moon 1 " 
 
 Then lightly turned him Walter, the page, 
 
 By the stirrup as he ran, 
 " Now pledge to me the truesome word 
 
 Of a knight and gentleman, 
 
 " That you will give me the first, first thing 
 
 You meet at your castle-gate ; 
 And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, 
 
 Or mine be the traitor's fate ! " 
 
 The king's head dropped on his bosom 
 A moment as it might be — 
 p 
 
THE SINGING LEAVES. 
 
 Twill be my hound, he thought, and he said, 
 " I pledge my word to thee.'' 
 
 Then Walter took from next his heart 
 
 A packet small and thin ; 
 " And give you this to the Princess Anne — 
 
 The Singing Leaves are therein." 
 
 As the king rode in, o'er the loud draw-bridge 
 
 A maiden to me.et him ran ; 
 And, "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried 
 
 Together, the Princess Anne. 
 
 " Lo, here thy Singing Leaves," quoth he ; 
 
 " And wo, but they cost me dear ! " 
 She took the packet, and her smile 
 
 Deepened down beneath the tear. 
 
 It deepened down to her very heart, 
 
 And then flushed back again, 
 And lighted her tears as the sudden sun 
 
 Transfigures the summer rain. 
 
 And the first leaf, when she opened it, 
 
 Sang, " I am Walter, the page, 
 And the songs I sing 'neath thy window 
 
 Are all my heritage ' " 
 
 And the second leaf sang, "But in the land 
 
 That is neither on earth or sea, 
 My harp and I are lords of more 
 
 Than thrice this kingdom's fee ! " 
 
THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 1 23 
 
 And the third leaf sang, " Be mine ! be mine ! " 
 
 And still it sang, " Be mine ! " 
 Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter. 
 
 And said, " I am thine, thine, thine ! " 
 
 At the first leaf she grew pale enough. 
 
 At the second she turned aside. 
 At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed 
 
 With a rose's red heart's tide. 
 
 " Good counsel gave the bird," she said : 
 
 " I have my wish thrice o'er ; 
 For they sing to my very heart," she said, 
 
 "And it sings with them evermore." 
 
 -si!5 
 
 THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 Fair dweller by the dusty way — 
 Bright saint within a mossy shrine. 
 
 The tribute of a heart to-day 
 AVeary and worn is thine. 
 
 The earliest blossoms of the year, 
 The sweet-brier and the violet, 
 
124 
 
 llir; WAYSIDE SPRINt;. 
 
 he ]iiijus hand of Spring has here 
 Upon tli\- aUar set. 
 
 And not alone to thee is given 
 
 The homage of the pilgrim's knee- 
 
THE WAYSIDE SPRING. I25 
 
 But oft the sweetest birds of heaven 
 Glide down and sing to thee. 
 
 Here daily from his beechen cell 
 The hermit squirrel steals to drink, 
 
 And flocks which cluster to their bell 
 Recline along thy brink. 
 
 And here the waggoner blocks his wheels, 
 To quaff the cool and generous boon ; 
 
 Here, from the sultry harvest fields 
 The reapers rest at noon. 
 
 And oft tlie beggar marked with tan, 
 In rusty garments grey with dust, 
 
 Here sits and dips his little can, 
 And breaks his scanty crust ; 
 
 And, lulled beside thy whispering stream. 
 
 Oft drops to slumber unawares. 
 And sees the angel of his dream 
 
 Upon celestial stairs. 
 
 Dear dweller by the dusty way, 
 Thou saint within a mossy shrine. 
 
 The tribute of a heart to-day 
 Weary and worn is thine ! 
 
126 
 
 HASSAN TO HIS MARE, 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Come, my beauty ! come, my desert darling ! 
 
 On my shoulder lay thy glossy head ! 
 Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, 
 
 Here 's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. 
 
 Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty ! 
 
 And thou know'st my water-skin is free : 
 Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, 
 
 And my strength and safety lie in thee. 
 
 Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses ! 
 
 Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye : 
 Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle — 
 
 Thou art proud he owns thee : so am I. 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses. 
 Prancing with their diamond-studded reins ; 
 
 They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness 
 When they course with thee the desert-plains ! 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his famous horses. 
 Let him bring his golden swords to me — 
 
 Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem ; 
 He would offer them in vain for thee. 
 
HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 1 27 
 
 We have seen Damascus, O my beauty ! 
 
 And the splendor of the Pashas there ; 
 What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not 
 
 Take them for a handful of thy hair ! 
 
 Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, 
 And, because I've none, he pities me : 
 
 What care I if he should have a thousand, 
 Fairer than the morning 1 I have thee. 
 
 He will find his passion growing cooler 
 Should her glance on other suitors fall : 
 
 Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling, 
 Fail to answer at thy master's call. 
 
 By and by some snow-white Nedjid stallion 
 Shall to thee his spring-time ardor bring ; 
 
 And a foal, the fairest of the Desert, 
 
 To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. 
 
 Then, when Khaled shows to me his children, 
 I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine ; 
 
 Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me. 
 With thy glossy neck laid close to mine. 
 
 R. CLAY, PillNTEK, B H EAD STKEKT HILL. 
 

 
 
 m>'.'