' 4 °^ l\\ 4 °^ >bV* vO •y sP ■ THE DIOSMA, PERENNIAL 'BY MISS H. F. GOULD. "The Poet is a poem, which but few Can read, to understand ! His mind, a book Of nature's lore, is shadowed, — like a brook That rolls through leafy woods, — by thoughts that strew Dim phantoms o'er his track ; and visions new Spring momently before him, as if shook By spiritual wings upon his heart ! " BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 1851. fK Qx^ cx>?1 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, BY H. F. GOULD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. PREFACE. The delicate aromatic flowering-shrub, DlOSMA, may be said, both literally and metaphorically, to have been in high odor with the ancients in Greece and Rome. They made it sacred, used it in their temples, and named it after their supreme divinity. The typical allusion intended, in thus adopting the name of such a perennial, will be obvious, I hope, in the character and qualities of the poems. Those here from my own pen are, in part, now in print for the first time, and in part, selections from my volumes of such as were deemed most acceptable to the reader. Those by other writers are of foreign origin, as far as can be ascertained from the " fugitive form in which they were found, and discovered to be of such worth, that I thought it desirable to have them embodied in a conve- nient manual. If, in doing this, I have trespassed on the rights of any American author, I hope the sin of ignorance will be winked at ; while my aim has been to make a pleasant and wholesome presen- tation to those who may choose a flower, as well for its intrinsic virtues, as for its outward beauty. Newburyport, Mass., ) xi p p AT . TT . August, 1850. 5 H> F ' GoLLD - CONTENTS. Why don't He come ? 13^ Ode, 17^ The Three Guests, 21 Hope, 25 The Poor Man's Hymn, ........ 29 Shadows of Memory, 32 The Fountain's Depths, 35 Bridal Serenade, 37 The Maiden from Afar, 39 Music, 41 v' A Child fallen Asleep amid its Sports, 49 Song of Dreams, 51 Home, 55 Trees for the Pilgrim's "Wreath, 59 6 CONTENTS. Song of Hope, 61 The Solitary Man, 63 Vesper Hour, 68 The Rising Eagle 70 The Sleeping Child, 73 Thought and Deed, 76 The Weeper Demented, 78 A Long While Ago, 80 Weep not for Her, 84 The Dying Child, . 87 The Playthings, 89 The Mother's Dream, 90 Maiden of the Sunny Brow, 95 Safe Counsel, 97 The Dying Exile, 99 Music of the Crickets, 102 Home where the Heart is, . f 106 The Nights, 108 The Mother's Jewel, 110 The Siller Pen, 113 Old Friends Together, 116 The Hidden Name, 118 Lost Friends, 120 The Death-Bed, 121 The Almond Tree, 122 CONTENTS. / Meetings Here, 124 To a Sick Child, 126 Meetings and Partings, 129 A Name in the Sand, . . . 131 Time, .133 The Ship is Ready, 135 The Unforgotten, 138 The Sentenced, 140 A Happy Life, 144 The Other Day, 146 The Sabbath, 150 The Miniature, 153 The Conqueror, 156 TheMonrner, 159 Beauty, 161 Light, 163 The Unconscious Orphan, 165 'Twas Yesterday, 167 Forest Music, 170 The Source of Truth, 172 The Little One's Prayer, 173 The Jasmine-Tree, 175 The Child's Way to Heaven, 177 Warning from the G old-Mine, 180 The Tomb of Blucher, 182 8 CONTENTS. Time's Portrait, 184 A Lover's Ballad, 187 Frost, the Winter-Sprite, 189 The Green Moss, 191 A Cheap, but Precious Treasure, 193 Spring Meditations, 196 Nature more than Science, . 198 The Midnight Mail, 200 Song of the Bells, 203 The Early Primrose, 205 Be Kind to Each Other, 207 The Midnight Rain, 209 The Land which no Mortal may know, 211 Burns, 213 Passages in Life, 215 The Widow and Her Child, 217 The Aspen-Tree, . ." 219 Song over a Child, 221 The Song of Time, ... 223 The Infant Baptist, 225 A Voice from the Wine-Press, 228 The Christian Mariner, . 231 Procrastination, 234 Religion's Name Perverted, 236 The Lonely Heart, 238 CONTEXTS. 9 Death, 241 Speaking Roses, 244 Burning the Letters, 246 The Moon upon the Spire, 249 Good-Night, 252 The Little Foot, 254 Love Strong in Death, 257 The Trunk from Sea, .260 Winter Lightning, 263 The Dying Storm 265 The Fountain of Marah, 267 Fame, 269 Written in a Churchyard, 271 The Wandering Wind, 273 Is there an Unbeliever, 275 A Dream of Music, 277 Evening, * .... 279 The Sleeping Slave, 281 Dirge, 283 The Storm in the Forest, 286 THE DIOSMA THE DIOSMA. WHY DON'T HE COME? The ship has anchored in the bay ; They've dropped her weary wings; and some Have manned the boat, and come away; But where is he, — why don't he come? Among the crowd with busy feet, My eye seeks one it cannot find: While others haste their friends to greet, Why, why is he so long behind? 14 THE DIOSMA. Because he bade me dry my cheek, I dried it, when he went from us ; I smiled with lips that could not speak ! And now, how can he linger thus ? I've felt a brother's parting kiss Each moment since he turned from me, To lose it only in the bliss Of meeting him, — where can he be ? I've reared the rose he bade me rear; I've learned the song he bade me learn And nursed the bird, that he might hear Us sing to him at his return. I've braided many a lovely flower His dear, dear picture to inwreathe, While doating fancy, hour by hour, Has seen it smile, and made it breathe. I wonder if the flight of time Has made the likeness now untrue ; And if the sea and foreign clime Have touched him with a darker hue. THE DIOSMA. 15 For I have watched, until the sun Has made my longing vision dim; But cannot catch a glimpse of one Among the crowd, that looks like him. How slowly do the moments waste, While thus he stays ! Where can he be ? My heart leaps forth, — haste, brother, haste ! It leaps to meet and welcome thee ! " Thou lonely one ! the mournful tale That tells why he comes not, will make Thy heart to bleed, thy cheek turn pale ! Death finds no tie too strong to break ! " The bird will wait its master long, And ask his morning gift in vain ; Ye both must now forget the song Of joy, for sorrow's plaintive strain. " The face, whose shade thy tender hand Has wreathed with flowers, is changed ! — but sea, Nor sun, nor air of foreign land Hath wrought the change ; for where is he ? 16 THE DIOSMA. "Where! — oh! the solemn deep, that took His form, as, with their sad farewell, His brethren gave the last, last look, And lowered him down; — that deep must tell. " But ocean cannot tell the whole : — The part that death can never chill, Nor floods dissolve, — the living soul, Is happy, bright, and blooming still! " And nobler songs than ever sound In mortal voices, greet his ear, Where sweeter, fairer flowers are found, Than all he left to wither here. " This, this is why he does not come, Whom thy fond eye has sought so long! Wait : — when thy days have filled their sum, Thou'lt find him in an angel throng." H. F. GOULD. THE DIOSMA. 17 ODE. FOR THE SECOND CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF THE SETTLEMENT OF A NEW-ENGLAND TOWN. The wilderness was deep and drear, And mind a savage wild : Chaotic darkness brooded here O'er man, the forest-child. The Spirit, by our fathers, moved Upon the face of Night ; When dawned the Day, that since hath proved Two hundred years of light. Then did a new creation glow With Order's primal rays ; While here the sons of God below First sang Jehovah's praise 2 18 T HE DI SMA. The desert opened like a flower Unfolding to the sun ; And great the work for every hour, Two hundred years have done ! The earth, beneath the genial sway Of Culture's wand, unsealed The wealth that in her lay, — Her quickening powers revealed. But richer, — purer, — unconfined To time or earthly sphere, The spirit-gems, the wealth of mind "With lineal birthright here. Behold the civil beauty shed In wide display around ; — The fields with summer's bounty spread, And hills with harvests crowned! While finite eye must fail to trace The shining marks of soul, That, dating this its starting-place, Has fixed in Heaven the goal! THE DIOSMA. 19 To-day upon the spot we stand, Where kneeled our sires of yore, Imploring blessing for the land, When they should be no more. To this they bore the ark of God, And left it to their heirs ; — They left our priest the budding rod That blossoms now and bears. And, while in yonder quiet graves Their hallowed ashes rest, Their children, moving as the waves, Still guard the dear bequest. And lo ! in joyous bands we come, Our votive wreaths to twine, As brethren to a father-home, Round Memory's hallowed shrine. We come their honored names to bless, Their story to prolong, Who startled here the wilderness With Zion's pealing song ; — 20 THE DIOSMA. While bending o'er the battlement Of Heaven, they now behold The spot whereto their footsteps bent In earthly days of old. To that illustrious ancestry We'll sing aloud our claim, While marching to eternity In their Redeemer's name. Two hundred years of gospel-beams, Diffusing joy and peace, Have here been poured in swelling streams Of glory ne'er to cease ! H. F. GOULD. August 2d, 1850. THE D 10 SMA. 21 THE THREE GUESTS. The world was dark, and comfortless, and chill, The haunt of sordid care, and hideous ill ; Till three bright guests, beyond all utterance bright, Trod the dull orb, and woke it into light. First, Beauty came, from soft Idalian bowers, Nursed with the stealthy dew of summer flowers : She came, with faltering step and downcast eye ; She came, with mantling blush and melting sigh; She came, with brow of sway, and glance of flame, Or coy, or tender, or triumphant, — came. In each mood various, as in each supreme, She scattered conquest from her rosy beam, — Subdued alike the needy heirs of toil, The lords of luxury, — the sons of spoil ; — Each sterner passion in its turn controlled, — The thirst of empire, and the lust of gold; 22 THE DIOSMA. And saw before her bow the wise, — the brave ; — Csesar her suppliant, — Solomon her slave ! Next bounded forth young Poesy: — her hair In golden tresses floated to the air ; Her roving eye a wayward lustre shed, But lofty Thought sat throned on her head. Calm as a seraph, — sportive as a child, She trod the rocky beach, or heathy wild. On Ilion's mound her earliest laurel gr^w Rich with the freshness of immortal dew : She nursed 'mid Attic rills her tragic vein. By smooth Colonus, and iEgina's main ; To softer raptures, thrilled the lyre awhile, With love-taught Sappho in her Lesbian isle ; Urged o'er Olympia's course the foaming steed ; In Doric valleys tuned the past'ral reed ; Pealed the high harp on Mincio's sedgy tide ; Breathed the soft lute on Arno's vine-clad side ; Nor yet withheld some notes from Britian's clime, Nor all unworthy of her elder time. THE DIOSMA. 23 And still where'er the vocal strain arose, 'Mid torrid fervors, or eternal snows, Through every large variety of man, — Savage or sage, — the soft infection ran. Before the magic of her chorded shell, The captive's chain, the tyrant's madness, fell ; And Nature's jarring discord paused to hear The borrowed language of a higher sphere. I turned again : — the minstrel's fire was spent ! I gazed around: — the lover's heart was rent! Neglect, and penury, and change, and death, Spared not the glowing form or gifted breath : But quenched, in one stern blight of cold decay, Love's purple gleam, and Fancy's meteor ray ! Where are ye, solaces of human kind? I looked, — and Piety remained behind. Upon her radiant cheek, and brow serene, No fevered throb, — no fitful flush was seen : 'Mid every changing tide of various life, — The gaudy sunshine, or the stormy strife, 24 THE DIOSMA. She calmly shook from her resplendent veil The puny drivings of each passing gale ; Gave to the earth her transient smile or sigh : Her undetached communion, to the sky. Yet, while she longed for that celestial sphere Without a limit, and without a tear, Still her bright presence, with reflected glow Diffused her own serenity below, — The conscious presage of an endless rest, The nether heaven of a pardoned breast. LORD MORPETH. THE DIOSMA. 25 HOPE. Again, again she comes ! — methinks I hear Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings ! My heart goes forth to meet her, — with a tear, And welcome sends, from all its broken strings ! It was not thus, — not thus we met of yore, When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky To greet her ; and the joyous song she bore Was scarce less tuneful than its glad reply. The wings are fettered to the weight of years, And grief has spoiled the music with her tears ! She comes ! — I know her by her starry eyes, I know her by the rainbow in her hair, — Her vesture of the light of summer skies ; But gone the girdle that she used to wear Of summer roses ; and the sandal-flowers, That hung, enamored, round her fairy feet, 26 THE DIOSMA. When, in her youth, she haunted earthly bowers : And culled from all their beautiful and sweet : — No more she mocks me with the voice of mirth ; Xor offers now, the garlands of the earth ! Come back ! come back ! thou hast been absent long Oh ! welcome back, the sibyl of my soul ! Who comes, and comes again, with pleading strong, To offer to the heart her mystic scroll : Though every year she wears a sadder look, And sings a sadder song ; and, every year, Some further leaves are torn from out her book, And fewer what she brings, and far more dear. As once she came, oh ! might she come again, With all her perished volumes offered then ! But come ! — thy coming is a gladness yet, — Light from the present o'er the future cast, That makes the present bright, — but, oh ! regret Is present sorrow, while it mourns the past, And memory speaks, as speaks the curfew bell, To tell the daylight of the heart is done, — THE DIOSMA. 27 Come like the seer of old, and with thy spell, Put back the shadow of that setting sun On my soul's dial ; and with new-born light, Hush the wild tolling of that voice of night ! Bright Spirit, come ! — the mystic rod is thine, That shows the hidden fountains of the breast ; And turns, with point unerring, to divine The places where its buried treasures rest, — It* hoards of thought and feeling : — at that spell, Methinks I feel its long-lost wealth revealed, — And ancient springs within my spirit well, That grief had choked, and ruins had concealed, — And sweetly spreading, where their waters play, The tints and freshness of its early day. She comes ! she comes ! her voice is in mine ear, — Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings for ever, — Whose streams of song sweet thoughts awake to hear, Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river ! o And if she sings more solemn music now, And bears another harp than erst she bore, — 28 THE DIOSIA. And if around her form no longer glow Those earthly flowers, that in her youth she wore, — That look is holier, and that song more sweet, And Heaven's bright flowers, — the stars ! — are at her feet. T. K. HERVEY. THE DIOSMA. 29 THE POOR MAN'S HYMN, Why, for a hoard of gold, should I Like yonder squallid miser fare : Or for the purple vestments sigh, That sting the monarch's soul with care ? Can the mean pittance of their gems, Their stately ships that ride the sea, Their sceptres, or their diadems, Add, or take aught away from me f These are my wants, — a simple scroll, My food, my raiment, and my hearth ; Where, with the chosen of my soul, I proudly rise above the earth ! There are my riches, — in the vales. The hill-sides too are gemmed with gold And whispering angels on the gales, Bring all that's needful 'to my fold. 30 THE DIOSMA. This is my fold, — the heart within, Where answering smiles that meet my own, Are gifts I need not thirst to win, And won, are worthier than a throne ! The miser is a drudge, — a slave, Who never can his task fulfil ! He nobly free, who does not crave To weave a living web of ill ! Not while the azure sky is bright, And sparkling whither may I turn, While all the earth is robed in light From rays that heaven-reflected burn; Not while these flowers perpetual spring Beneath the dew-drop and the sun, Would I exchange with haughtiest king, Or ask the crown that crime has won! Nay ! for enough, is all I care To delve or sorrow as I go ; And I would always hope to share That little with the loved below. THE DIOSMA. 31 Kings to the dust their heads must bow, When life ebbs out, ? mid grief and pain, — I tear no jewels from my brow, Nor weep to meet mine own again ! c. D. STUART. 32 THE DIOSMA. SHADOWS OF MEMORY, I shut my eyes, when I would summon all From Memory's hall ; The friends I've lost with time, — and* each event Of life misspent ; I summon all before me with shut eyes, And inward sight that outward gaze defies. The images of Memory, — are they bright In this strange light? Or do they cast around my mental room A shadowy gloom? Or do, by fits, the faces of the dead A sunshine o'er my lonely musing shed? Not all in gloom, — not all in colors dim Their shadows swim THE DIOSMA. 33 Beside me, — but with loveliness that looks Like stars on brooks, As though they warmed the waters cool and bright, By the pure fervency of their pale light: Faces arise before me, — never more On earth's sad shore To beam with life ; and yet I see them near, And feel no fear : I look upon them, and within their eyes Behold such tenderness as never dies ! Yet death is there ! And sudden falls a gloom, As o'er a tomb The cypress droops, and drooping, drops cold dew ! And then, anew, The spirit sinks within me, — and the day Declines beneath the night's coming clouds of grey! And thus, by turns, are shadows fair and dark, From Memory's ark, 3 34 THEDIOSMA. Summoned before me ; but while Hope weaves bright Raiment of light About my soul, all Nature, too, shines fair, Peace all around, and Beauty everywhere. CALDER CAMPBELL. THE DIOSMA. 35 THE FOUNTAIN'S DEPTHS. The fountain's depths were dim and chill, Though summer shined upon the plain, Though gaily sang the tinkling rill, And softly chimed the distant main. The blossoms springing by its side, Shed down their hues upon its wave ; Yet still its ever-gushing tide Was calm and voiceless as the grave. The autumn wind went whistling by, The dead leaves whirling far and wide ; Yet, still no voice of sympathy From those untroubled depths replied. The upper waters might be stirred ; The fringing grass and rushes, thrill ; But from its heart no sound was heard, — Its source was all serene and still. THE DIOSMA. But when there came a quiet night, And winds were sleeping in their caves, The placid stars, with holy light, Shone down upon its inmost waves. Then fell there, from the cloudless skies Unto its depths so coldly clear, The light of those immortal eyes That gladden Heaven's pure atmosphere. And by a silent under-spring, The gentle waters ebb away, To where the leaping streamlets fling A thousand sparkles to the day. May not the fountain's depths impart Some image of the hidden worth Of an unworldly, peaceful heart, Thus lit from heaven, thus gladdening earth! M. A. BROWNE. THE DIOSMA. 37 BRIDAL SERENADE BY A MODERN WELCH HARPER. Wilt thou not waken, Bride of May, While flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime ? listen, — and learn from my roundelay, How all Life's pilot-boats sailed, one day, A match with Time ! Love sat on a lotus-leaf afloat, And saw old Time in his loaded boat: Slowly he crossed Life's narrow tide ; Whilst Love sat clapping his w r ings, and cried, " Who will pass Time ? " Patience came first, but soon was gone, With helm and sail, to help Time on! Care and Grief could not lend an oar; And Prudence said, (while she staid on shore,) " I wait for Time ! " 38 THE DIOSMA. Hope filled with flowers her cork-tree bark, And lighted its helm with a glow-worm spark : Then, Love, when he saw her boat fly past, Said, "Lingering Time will soon be passed, — Hope outspeeds Time ! " Wit went nearest old Time to pass, With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass : A feathery dart from his store he drew, And shouted, while far and swift it flew, "Oh, Mirth kills Time!" His gossamer sails he spread with speed ; But Time has wings, when Time has need ! Swiftly he crossed Life's narrow tide, And only Memory staid, to chide Unpitying Time. Wake, and listen, then, Bride of May ! Listen, and heed thy minstrel's lay : Still for thee some bright hours stay ; For it was a hand like thine, they say, Gave wings to Time. anonymous. THE DI OSIA THE MAIDEN FROM AFAR. Once, in a vale, each infant year, When earliest larks first carol free, To humble shepherds would appear A wondrous maiden fair to see. Not born within that lowly place, — From whence she wandered, none could tell ; Her parting footsteps left no trace, When once the maiden sighed farewell. And blessed was her presence there, — Each heart, expanding, grew more gay ; Yet something loftier still than fair Kept man's familiar looks away. From fairy gardens, known to none, She brought mysterious fruits and flowers, — The things of some serener sun, — Some Nature more benign than ours. 40 THEDIOSMA. With each, her gifts the maiden shared; To some the fruits, the flowers to some : Alike the young, the aged fared ; Each bore a blessing back to home. Though every guest was welcome there, Yet some the maiden held more dear; And culled her rarest sweets, whene'er She saw two hearts that loved, draw near. FROM THE GERMAN OP SCHILLER. THEDIOSMA. 41 MUSIC. Music? A blessed angel! She was born Within the palace of the King of kings, — A favorite near his throne. In that glad child Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits pne ; And her, the heir to everlasting life ! When his bright hosts would give him highest praise, They send her forward with her dulcet voice, To pour their holy rapture in his ear. When the young earth to being started forth, Music lay sleeping in a bower of Heaven : A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed With living waters; and the sparkling cup For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink. While o'er her brow a tender halo shone, Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear, The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips 42 THE DIOSMA. The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them. Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye ; But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went, At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast, And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep, With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings, Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre, To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed Of the sweet uses she might make of it To numbers yet untried. "When, suddenly, A shout of joy from all the sons of God, Rang through His courts : and then the thrilling call, " Wake ! sister Music, wake, and hail with us A new-created sphere ! " She woke ! She rose ; She moved among the morning stars, and gave The birth-song of a world. Our infant globe, With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed, Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon, THE DIOSMA. 43 Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays : Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here ; And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade, Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower. As earth, on every side, shone fair to Heaven, Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained, Music, from her celestial walks looked down, And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills, Sing through the silent forests, — in the vales, — Beside the silver waters pour her sounds ; And multiply her numbers by the rocks ! She longed to give it voice to speak to God ; And, being told of her blest minstrelsy, Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised, And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight. Made viewless by the circumambient air, And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, As down she hastened to the shining sphere, The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. At her electric touch, young Nature smiled, 44 THE DIOSMA. And kindled into rapture ; then broke forth With thousand, thousand songs. The green turf woke ; The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore, The busy bee upon his honied flower; Osier and reed became iEolian lyres ; Trees bore sweet minstrels ; while rock, hill, and dell Sang to each other in a joyous round. Man, that mysterious instrument of God, When the warm soul of new-descended power Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice, Chanting, " Jehovah ! " Since that blessed hour, While still her home is Heaven, Music has ne'er This darkened world forsaken. She delights, Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace, To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart ; And lends her wings to waft it to the skies. She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face ; Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye ; Tames wild Despair ; brings Hope a brighter bloom ; Lulls Hate to rest ; Love's ruffled bosom smooths ; THE DIOSMA. 45 Pours honey into many a bitter cup ; And often gives the black and heavy hour A downy breast and pinions tipped with light. She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates, Making that sad one half forget their use. With holy spell she binds the exile's heart, And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds. Kings are her lovers, — cottagers her loves : The hero and the pilgrim walk with her. Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy, And from the pillow of the dying saint, When a glad spirit borrows her light wings To practice for the skies, ere it unfolds Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay. True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure, Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet For purity like hers ; and made to bear Unhallowed burdens ; or, to join in rites To terpitude in fellest places held. Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailed O'er all things staining, still defies a stain ; And is at night withdrawn, and girded up, 46 THE DIOSMA. Warm and untarnished for the morning skies, — She comes unsullied from her baser walks ; Sighs at the darkness, guilt and woe of earth ; Breathes Zion's air ; and, warmed with heavenly fire. Mounts to her glorious home ! ■ 'Twas she, who bore The first grand offering of the free, on high, When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea, The 'franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod, And paeans gave to their Deliverer there. She cheered the wanderers on ; and when they crossed Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe, Still she was with them; and her single breath Laid the proud Paynim's city-walls in dust ! In native light, she walked Judea's hills, And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower Before the Sun of righteousness arose. % The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips, Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess, To lift the heart's pure gift from her's to Heaven. When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand Put close, but gently, to his gloomy breast, THE DIOSMA. 47 Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still, Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept. And since, her countless thousands she has brought To Heaven's mild kingdom, happy captives led, By those sweet glowing strings of David's lyre. But, oh ! her richest, dearest notes to man, In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured, When He, whose brightness is the light of Heaven, To earth descending for a mortal's form, Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark, That moved through * space, and o'er the infant hung, He summoned Music to attend him here, Announcing peace below ! He called her, too, To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine Her mantle round him, and his few, grieved friends: To join their mournful spirits with the hymn, Ere to the Mount of Olives he went out So sorrowful. And now, his blessed word, A sacred pledge, is left to dying man, That at his second coming in his power, 48 THE DIOSMA. Music shall still be with him ; and her voice Sound through the tombs, and wake the dead to life ! Then will her mission out of Heaven be o'er; Her end achieved ; her parents found again ; Her place for ever near the throne of God. H. F. GOULD. THE LIOSMA. 49 A CHILD FALLEN ASLEEP AMID ITS SPORTS Wearied with pleasure ! Oh, how deep Such slumber seems to be, Thou fairy creature ! I could weep, As thus I gaze on thee : — Ay, weep, and with most bitter tears, Wrung from the spirit's core, To think that in a few short years Thou'lt sleep that sleep no more. Wearied with pleasure ! What a sound To greet a world- worn ear ! Can we, who tread life's giddy round, Sleep like the cherub here ? Alas ! for us, joy's brightest hours All fever as they fly, And leave a blight, — as sun-struck flowers Of too much glory die. 50 THE DIOSMA. Wearied with pleasure ! Does the wing Of angels fan thy brow? Sweet child, do birds about thee sing, And blossoms round thee blow ? Is thy calm sleep with gladness rife? Do stars above thee shine? Oh, I would give whole years of life, To dream such dreams as thine ! MISS PARDOE. THEDIOSMA. 51 SONG OF DREAMS. In the the rosy glow of the evening cloud; In the twilight's gloom ; In the sultry noon, when the flowers are bowed, And the streams are dumb ; In the morning's beam, when the faint stars die On the brightening flood of the azure sky, We come ! Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears, Dark'ners of smiles, bright'ners of tears, We come ! We come where the babe on its mother's breast Lies in slumber deep; We flit by the maiden's couch of rest, And o'er her sleep We float, like the honey-laden bees, On the soft, warm breath of the languid breeze ; 52 THE DIOSMA. And sweep Hues more beautiful than we bring From her lip and cheek, for each wandering wing To keep. We linger about the lover's bower, Hovering mute ; When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, And lists for the foot That falls so lightly on the grass, We scarely can hear its echo pass ; And we put In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned, And hang sweet voices and tones around His lute. We sit by the miser's treasure-chest, And near his bed ; And we watch his anxious heart's unrest; And in mockery tread, With a seeming heavy step about; And laugh, when we hear his frightened shout THE DIOSMA. 53 Of dread, Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold did reign, To his hoards, to claim it back again, Have sped. But a sunnier scene, and a brighter sky, To-day are ours ; We have seen a youthful poet lie By a fountain's showers, With his upturned eyes, and his dreamy look, Reading the April sky's sweet book Writ by the hours ; And thinking those glorious thoughts that grow Untutored up in life's freshest glow, Like flowers. We will catch the richest and brightest hue Of the rainbow's rim, And the purest cloud that amidst the blue Of Heaven doth swim, — The clearest star-beam that shall be In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea 54 THE DIOSMA. Grows dim; And a spirit of love about them breathe, And twine them all in a magic wreath For Him! M. A. BROWNE. THE DIOSMA. 55 HOME. Home is not the land of our birth, Or the land of our dwelling ; though either should lie Where the suns and the showers of blest Campany's sky Pour joy on the jubilant earth. Home is not the hearth where we reign; Though the ceiling of cedar from porphyry walls Ascend o'er the tesselate floor of our halls, And round spread the princely domain. In the hut, in the tent, it may be ; 'Mid the sands of the line, or the snows of the pole : Or, driven by the night-howling hurricane, roll Far, far, o'er the surge of the sea ! It is found, and found only, with one ; The loving and trusting, — the trusted and loved ; Tho' by mountain and flood from our presence removed. — Sea, continent, climate, or zone. 56 THE DIOSMA. It is whither, 'mid pleasure, we turn, With the thought, how the best of our pleasures are void, By the dear distant angel of Home unenjoyed, For whose presence all else we would spurn. It is where, amid anguish and grief, All calm on the pallet of straw we can lie ; Since Love's ready hand is still near, to supply, — Oh, call it not coldly, — relief! It is where our success we proclaim "With a joy, yea, a pride, which no vanity knows; For we speak but to kindle the smile that bestows All beauty and lustre on Fame. 'Tis the refuge from calumny, care, Vexation, and failure ; 'tis where we can pour Each thought in a heart which to Death can restore Vitality, — hope to despair ; — Where, when friends of the hour disapprove; And join with the selfish, the base, and unkind, Our words and our actions unfailingly find One gentle interpreter, — Love ; — THE BIOSMA. 57 Where the prayer rises warm for our weal, When we wander afar; where the heart's deepest thought, In love and in trembling, all free and untaught, To the dear distant pilgrim will steal ; — Where the welcome springs blithe at our name : The gladsome salute, and the eager caress ; Where each wish is forestalled ere the lip can express, — Perchance, ere the fancy can frame. But is there such a place to be found? Ah, no! if none else be the home of the heart, How many all homeless shall live and depart, Though opulent, titled, and crowned! There is, if we seek Him aright ; There is One we may fearlessly love and believe ; Who will not, who can not forsake or deceive ; And whose love is the type of His might. Without His glad presence, the best That earth can bestow, is insipid and poor ; With Him, on the bed of affliction, secure In His love and protection we rest. 58 THE DIOSMA. To Him our poor deeds we may bring ; Imperfect and sullied, He smiles at them still : To Him we may flee for redress in each ill, And, unharmed, in adversity cling. He advocates, seeks, and relieves, From our home when our erring affections would stray ; He welcomes with blessings our homeward-found way, Above all the heart asks or conceives. Then, lonely one, lift up thine eye ! Though from earth's passing homes by ingratitude driven, No human malevolence bars thee from Heaven ! Look up ! for thy Home is on high ! REV. H. THOMPSON. THE DIOSMA. 59 TREES FOR THE PILGRIM'S WREATH. Knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope ; and hope maketh not ashamed. Romans, v., 3-5. Tribulation, if by loss, Or by thorny gain, the cross, Thou art not a barren tree, — Seeds of Patience drop from thee. Patience, bitter from thy root, Upward, till we reach the fruit, Thou hast golden grains to sow, Whence Experience full shall grow. Broad Experience, rank and dark; Thick in leaves, and rough in bark; Through thy dubious shade we grope, Till we grasp the bough of Hope ! 60 THE DIOSMA. Hope, we're not ashamed, with thee Showered by drops from Calvary, — When thy branches shoot and bloom Through a Saviour's broken tomb. Trees, whereof the Pilgrim weaves, For his crown, the mingled leaves, Wreaths of you are rich and bright ; Earth's the shade, and Heaven's the light. H. F. GOULD. THE DI SM A. 61 SONG OF HOPE. There is a hope, a radiant hope, That warms the heart of youth ; And bids it deem this vale of tears A Paradise of truth. It tells of firm, devoted love That knows not how to change ; Of faithful and enduring friends, Who grow not cold and strange ; Of sunny days and starry nights On life's untroubled sea: Such was the first delusive hope That cast a spell o'er me. There is a hope, more dazzling still, That glads our riper years : With stirring, busy images The eager mind it cheers. 62 THE DIOSMA. It tells of scenes of courtly state, And sounds of silvery praise, — The coronal of flashing gems, — The wreath of envied bays. Amid earth's great and gifted ones It bids us proudly be : Such was the second cheating hope That cast a spell o'er me. There is a hope divine and pure, — A hope that never dies ! It dwells upon a glorious land, Beyond the vaulted skies ; And bids us lift our chastened thoughts Earth's vanities above : It aids us to support the loss Of human faith and love ; It tells us of a future life With spirits blest and free : Such is my last, best hope, Lord! A hope that rests on Thee. MRS. ABDY. THE BIOS MA . 63 THE SOLITARY MAN. He had not sought the joy sublime, Nor made the goodly pearl secure, That will defy the power of time, And through eternity endure. And yet, he needed them ; for all His fondly-cherished hopes had fled ; And peace to him was past recall, — He lived, while those he loved were dead ! His spirit bowed not in his grief For balm, before his Father's throne : From sympathy he shunned relief, And moved in crowds, but felt alone. He bent his footsteps to the tomb, A sad and solitary man; And there, 'mid silence, death, and gloom, To kindred dust his plaint began : — 64 THE BIOSMi. " I stand, while all around me lie Composed in slumber long and deep : Where darkness sits on every eye, 'Tis mine alone to wake and weep ! Amid the hearts that once would leap In welcome of my coming feet, I feel my lonely life-stream creep ; For not another breast will beat. "The arms that spread so quick to twine Around me, now no more I fill : i The hand, once fondly locked in mine, Is here beside me, cold and still. I sigh, I feel, I think alone ; For not a dream is passing here. — 'Tis all oblivion! and my groan Unheeded falls on every ear. "And have the ties affection wove So close, so tender, ended thus ? Does nature form our souls for love To sport with, and to torture us? THE DIOSMA, 65 I long this weary load of life To lay aside, and be at rest, — To end at once the pain and strife That slowly now consume my breast. " But earth ! earth ! earth ! it is not so That I may yet thy part dismiss ; And forth to other scenes I go, With all my soul confined to this ! For, when the busy world shall claim That I amid its throngs appear, I shall be there in form and name, While all beside will linger here. " I now must join the noisy crowd, To hold their pleasures light as air ; Yet, not like one whom grief has bowed, Or sorrow marked, will I be there. The world's rude hand I would not trust Too near my bosom's bleeding strings ; For these, beloved and hallowed dust ! 'Twixt God and us are sacred things. 5 66 THE DIOSMA. " Its careless eye shall never see The wounds it has no balm to heal : Its look of pity, turned on me, I would not, — could not bear to feel. Before it I will wear a smile, To veil the void it can not fill ; Though deep within my breast the while I feel the arrow rankling still. " The light of mirth may then be found Upon my lip, but there alone : My voice may even mock its sound, To drown my weeping spirit's moan. But what's the heartless world to me, Since ye, my loved ones, slumber here? I stand on earth, a blighted tree, With winter round me all the year ! " " Thou barren tree ! " a voice then said, And to his soul : " with leaves and flowers I've clothed thee M r ell ; and o'er thee shed The richest gifts of sun and showers ! THE DIOSMA. 67 And now, if I should cut thee down, For giving back no fruit to me, To lie beneath my withering frown, It were not rest and peace for thee ! "An earthly, dark, and sterile heart Yields not the fruits of faith and love, That should, for thine immortal part, Be ripened here, and stored above. Frail man! thy Maker's hand is kind In each severe and chastening blow: The gold that is for Heaven refined, It tries and polishes below ! " H. F. GOULD. 68 THE DIOSMA VESPER HOUR. When vesper hour, with stilly spell, Shall lead thee to her hermit cell, Chasing from round thy path away The varied visions of the day; When no vain dreams thy thoughts may share, No lonely hope, no earth-born care ; What time thou bend'st the suppliant knee, And pour'st thy fervent soul in prayer, Think of me, — pray for me, — for me ! Too garish glows the golden day, — Blend not my memory with its ray, The tissue of its hopes and fears, Its promises of other years, — But when the chastened hour is come, That bids my fancy cease to roam; THE DIOSMA, 69 And when thy soul, from trammels free, Is soaring to the spirit's home, Think of me, — pray for me, — for me ! ANONYMOUS. 70 THE DIOSMA THE RISING EAGLE. My bird, the struggle's over ! Thy wings at length unfurled, Will bear thee, noble rover! Through yon blue airy world. Thy fearless breast has shaken Earth's dew and dust away; Thine eye its aim has taken; Its mark the orb of day. Up, up ! the faster leaving Thy rocky nest below, A fresher strength receiving, The lighter shalt thou go. The clouds that now hang o'er thee Thou soon shalt over-sweep, Where all is bright before thee, To swim the upper deep. THE DIOSMi. 71 Through seas of ether sailing, Thou lofty, valiant one ! The breath of morn inhaling, Thy course is to the sun! The strife was all in lifting Thy breast from earth, at first, — The poising, and the shifting, To balance, was the worst. And so with us ; — 'tis spreading Our pinions for the skies, That keeps us low, and dreading The first essay to rise. 'Tis rousing up, and getting Our balance, that we shun: With thousand ties besetting, We shrink from breaking one. But when we've fairly started, And cleared from all below, How free and buoyant-hearted, On eagle-wings we go ! 72 THE DIOSMA. And as our bosoms kindle With pure and holy love, How all below will dwindle, And all grow bright above ! The world that we are leaving Looks little in our sight, While, clouds and shadows cleaving, We seek the Source of Light! Rise, timid soul, and casting Aside thy doubt and fear, Mount up, where all is lasting ; For all is dying here ! Then, as an eagle training Her tender young to fly, A Hand, that's all-sustaining, Will lift thee to the sky. While higher, higher soaring, Thou' It feel thy cares are drowned, Where Heaven's bright Sun is pouring A flood of glory round ! h. f. gould. THE DIOSMA THE SLEEPING CHILD. A brook went dancing on its way, From bank to valley leaping ; And by its sunny margin lay A lovely infant sleeping. The murmur of the purling stream Broke not the spell that bound him, Like music breathing in his dream A lullaby around him. It is a lovely sight, to view, Within this world of sorrow, One spot which still retains the hue That earth from Heaven may borrow ! And such was this, — a scene so fair, Arrayed in summer brightness, And one pure being resting there, — One soul of radiant whiteness I 74 THE DIOSMA. 'What happy dreams, fair child, are given To cast their sunshine o'er thee? What cord unites that soul to Heaven? What visions glide before thee? — For wandering smiles of cloudless mirth O'er thy glad features beaming, Say, not a thought, — a form of earth Alloys thine hour of dreaming. Mayhap, afar on viewless wings Thy sinless spirit soaring, Now hears the burst from golden strings Where angels are adoring; And with the pure heliacal throng, Around their Maker praising, Thy joyous heart may join the song Ten thousand tongues are raising ! Sleep, lovely babe! — for time's cold touch Will make these visions wither ; — Youth, and the dreams that charm so much, Shall fade and fly together. THE DIOSMA. 75 Then, sleep, — while sleep is pure and mild, Ere earthly ties grow stronger, When thou shalt be no more a child, And dream of Heaven no longer. LEIGH HUNT. 76 THE DI0SM1. THOUGHT AND DEED. Full many a light thought man may cherish, Full many an idle deed may do ; Yet not a deed or thought shall perish, — Not one but he shall bless or rue. When by the wind the tree is shaken, There's not a bough or leaf can fall, But of its falling heed is taken By One who sees, and governs all. The tree may fall, and be forgotten, And buried in the earth remain ; Yet, from its juices rank and rotten, Springs vegetating life again. The world is with creation teeming, And nothing ever wholly dies ; And things that are destroyed in seeming, In other shapes and forms arise. THE DIOSMA. 77 And nature still unfolds the tissue, Of works unseen, by spirit wrought ; And not a work but hath its issue With blessings or with evil fraught. Thou now may'st seem to leave behind thee All memory of the sinful past ; Yet, oh ! be sure, thy sin shall find thee, And thou shalt know its fruits at last. ANONYMOUS. 78 THE DIOSMA THE WEEPER DEMENTED. Saw ye the mourner, reclining Where the damp earth was her bed, Where the young ivy-vines twining, Mantled the house of the dead? Heard ye the voice of the weeper Rise with the herald of day, Calling aloud to the sleeper, — Bidding him hasten away ? Felt ye her wild notes of sorrow Thrilling the bosom to pain? Dark is the wanderer's morrow, — Soon she'll be sleeping again. Dim is her life's glimmering taper ; Fast is she sinking to rest ! Soon will the chill evening vapor Gather, unfelt, o'er her breast. THE DIOSMA. 79 Grief hath so keenly been wearing String after string from her heart, Death's icy finger is bearing On the last thread that can part ! Earth's bitter cup she hath tasted Never replenished shall be ; Time's rapid sand-grains are wasted, — Joy ! for her spirit is free ! She who so lately was weeping, Stricken, bewildered, and lorn, Now is all peacefully sleeping, — Clouds cannot darken her morn ! O'er her sweet rose-tree and myrtle, When the dreai^ cypress had grown, She was the poor moaning turtle, Now to the balsam-tree flown. H. F. GOULD. 80 THEDIOSMA. A LONG WHILE AGO. Still hangeth down the old accustomed willow, Hiding the silver underneath each leaf; So droops the long hair from some maiden pillow, When midnight heareth her else silent grief. There floats the water-lily, like a sovereign, Whose lovely empire is a fairy world ; The purple dragon-fly above it hovering, As when its fragile ivory uncurled, A long while ago. I hear the bees, in sleepy music winging From the wild thyme where they have passed the noon ; There is the blackbird in the hawthorn singing, Stirring the white spray with the same sweet tune ; Fragrant the tansy breathing in the meadow, As the west wind bends down the long green grass, Now dark, now golden, as the fleeting shadow THE DI SMA . 81 Of the light clouds, as they were wont to pass A long while ago. There are the roses which they used to gather To bind a fair young brow, no longer fair ; — Ah ! art thou mocking us, thou summer weather, To be so sunny, with the loved one ? — where ? 'Tis not her voice, — 'tis not her step, — that lingers In lone familiar sweetness on the wind ! The bee, the bird, are now the only singers ; — Where is the music soft with theirs combined A long while ago ? As the lorn flowers that in her pale hand perished, Is she who only hath a memory here ! She was so much a part of us, so cherished, — So young, — that even love forgot to fear. Now is her image paramount, — it reigneth With a sad strength that time may not subdue ; And memory a mournful triumph gaineth, As the cold looks we cast around, renew A long while ago. 6 82 THE DIOSMA. Tliou lovely garden ! where the summer covers The tree with green leaves, and the ground with flowers Darkly they pass ; — around thy beauty hovers The past, — the grave of our once happy hours. It is too sad, to gaze upon the seeming Of nature's changeless loveliness, and feel That, with the sunshine round, the heart is dreaming Darkly o'er wounds inflicted, not to heal, A long while ago. Ah, visit not the scenes where youth and childhood Passed years that deepened as those years went by! Shadows will darken in the careless wild wood, — There will be tears upon the tranquil sky. Memoirs, like phantoms, haunt me while I wander Beneath the drooping boughs of each old tree : I grow too sad, as mournfully I ponder Things that are not, and yet that used to be, A long while ago. Worn out, the heart seems, like a ruined altar ! Where are the friends, — - and where the faith of vore ? THE DIOSMA. 83 My eyes grow dim with tears, — my footsteps falter, — Thinking of those whom I can love no more. We change, and others change, while recollection Fain would renew what it can but recall : Dark are life's dreams, and weary its affection, And cold its hopes, — and yet I felt them all, A long while ago. MISS LAXDOX. 84 THEDIOSMA WEEP NOT FOR HER Weep not for her ; — her span is like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright ; like flowers that know not what it is to die, — Like long-linked shadeless months of polar light, - Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, While echo answers from the flowery brake : Weep not for her. Weep not for her ; — she died in early youth, Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues ; — When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth, And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant dew Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze. Her wine of life was not run to the lees : Weep not for her. THE DIOSMA. 85 Weep not for her ; — by fleet or slow decay, It never grieved her tender heart, to mark The playmates of her childhood wane away, Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, She passed, as 'twere, on smiles from earth to Heaven ! Weep not for her. Weep not for her ; — it was not hers to feel The mis'ries that corrode amassing years, — 'Gainst years of baffled bliss the heart to steel ; — To wander, sad, down age's vale of tears, As whirl the withered leaves from friendship's tree, And on life's wintry earth alone to be : Weep not for her. Weep not for her ; — she is an angel now, And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise ; All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, — Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes ! Victorious over death to her appear The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year: Weep not for her. 86 THE DIOSMA, Weep not for her ; — her memory is the shrine Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers ; Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, — Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, — Rich as the rainbow with its hues of light, — Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : Weep not for her. Weep not for her ; — there is no cause of woe ! But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, And from earth's low defilements hold thee back ; So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate, and lead thee on ! Weep not for her. D. M. MOIR. THEDIOSMA. 87 THE DYING CHILD Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping ; Let me repose upon thy bosom seek ; But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping, Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek. Here it is cold ; the tempest raveth madly ; But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright : I see the angel children smiling gladly, When from my weary eyes I shut the light. Mother, one steals beside me now ! and, listen ; Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord ? See how his white wings beautifully glisten ! Surely those wings were given him by our Lord ! Green, gold, and red are floating all around me ; They are the flowers the angel scattereth : Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me ? Or, Mother, are they given alone in death ? 88 THE DI08MA. Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going ? Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine ? Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing : I will, dear Mother, will be always thine ! Do not sigh thus, — it marreth my reposing ; And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee ! Oh, I am tired, — my weary eyes are closing ; Look, Mother, look ! the angel kisseth me ! FROM THE DANISH OF ANDERSON. THE DIOSMA. 39 THE PLAYTHINGS. Oh ! Mother, here's the very top That brother used to spin, — The vase with seeds I've seen him drop To call our robin in, — The line that held his pretty kite, His bow, his cup and ball, — The slate on which he learned to write, His feather, cap and all ! My dear, I'd put the things away, Just where they were before : Go, Anna, take him out to play ; And shut the closet door. Sweet innocent ! he little thinks, The slightest thought expressed, Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks Within a mother's breast, h. f. gould. 90 THE DIOSMA THE MOTHER'S DREAM And I will give him the morning star. Rev., ii., 28. Methotjght once more to my wishful eye My beautiful boy had come : My sorrow was gone ; my cheek was dry ; And gladness around my home. I saw the form of my dear, lost child ! All kindled with life he came ; And spake in his own sweet voice, and smiled. As soon as I called his name. The raiment he wore looked heavenly white, As the feathery snow comes down ; And warm, as it glowed in the softened light That fell from his dazzling crown. THE DI0S1EA. 91 His eye was bright with, a joy serene, His cheek, with a deathless bloom, That only the eye of my soul hath seen When looking beyond the tomb. The odors of flowers from that fair land, Where we deem that our blest ones are, Seemed borne in his skirts; and his soft right hand Was holding a radiant star. His feet, unshod, looked tender and fair As the lily's opening bell, Half veiled in a glory-cloud, as there Around him in folds it fell. I asked him how he was clothed anew, — Who circled his head with light, — And whence he returned to meet my view, So calm and heavenly bright. I asked him where he had been so long Away from his mother's care, — Again to sing me his infant song, And to kneel by my side in prayer. 02 THE DIOSMA. He said, " Sweet mother, the song I sing Is not for an earthly ear : I touch the harp with a golden string, For the hosts of Heaven to hear! " It was but a gently-fleeting breath That severed thy child from thee ! The fearful shadow, in time called Death, Hath ministered life to me. " My voice in an angel choir I lift ; And high are the notes we raise : I hold the sign of a priceless gift, And the Giver, who hath our praise. '"The bright and the Morning Star' is he, Who bringeth eternal day ! And, mother, he giveth himself to thee, To lighten thine earthly way. " The race is short to a peaceful goal, And He is never afar, Who saith of the wise, untiring soul, I will give him the Morning Star ! THE DI0SM1. 93 " Thy measure of care for me was filled, And pure to its crystal top ; For Faith, with a steady eye, distilled And numbered every drop. " While thou wast teaching my lips to move, And my heart to rise, in prayer, I learned the way to a world above : — The home of thy child is there ! " The secret prayers thou didst make for me, Which only our God hath known, Have risen like incense fresh and free, And gathered about His throne. " My robe was filled with their perfume sweet, To shed upon this world's air, As I knelt with joy at my Saviour's feet, For the glorious crown I wear. " In that bright, beautiful world of ours The water of life I drink : Behold my feet, as they've pressed the flowers That grow by the fountain's brink ! 04 THEDIOSMA. k • No thorn is hidden to wound me there ; There's nothing of chill, or blight, Or sighing, to trouble the balmy air ; — No sorrow, — no pain, — no night ! " '"No 'parting'}'''' I asked, with a burst of joy; And the lovely illusion broke ; The rapture had banished my angel boy, — To a shadowy void I spoke. But, oh ! that Star of the morn still beams, A light to direct my feet Where, when I have done with my earthly dreams, The mother and child may meet ! H. F. GOULD. THE DIOSMA. MAIDEN OF THE SUNNY B R W . Maiden of the sunny brow, Dost thou never sigh : Hast thou no dark hour, when flow Tear-drops from thine eye ? Heart, that never harbored guile ; Life, the home of beauty's smile ; Calm content, and thoughts that twine, Ever green, round feeling's shrine, — Maiden, they are thine ! Sunshine lights the forest bower, Passing soon away ; Yet, without its sister shower, What would be the ray ? Brighter, touched by chastening tears, Beam the young heart's hopes and fears 98 THE DIOSMA. Sorrow Avears a charm divine, Gladness owns a holier shrine, — Maiden, they are thine ! HENRY BRANDRETH. THE DIOSMA SAFE COUNSEL. Follow that fervor, oh, devoted spirit, Wherewith thy Saviour's goodness fires thy breast! Go where it draws, and when it calls, oh, hear it ! It is thy Shepherd's voice, and leads to rest. In this, thy new devotedness of feeling, Suspicion, envy, anger, have no claim; Sure hope is highest happiness revealing, With peace, and gentleness, and purest fame. For in thy holy and thy happy sadness, If tears or sighs are sometimes sown by thee. In the pure regions of immortal gladness, Sweet and eternal shall thy harvest be. 98 THE DIOSMA. Leave them to say, — " This people's meditation Is vain and idle ! " — sit with ear and eye .Steadfast on Christ, in child-like dedication, Oh, thou inhabitant of Bethany ! FROM THE ITALIAN" OF LORENZO DE' MEDICI. THE DIOSMA. 99 THE DYING EXILE. Who will stand, when I shall pillow In the earth this aching head, Pensive, by the drooping willow, O'er my cold and lowly bed? There will be no pensive mother, Aged sire, nor constant friend ; — There will be no sister, brother, O'er my lonely grave to bend ! Strangers then will heedless bear me Where the stranger's dust may lie : Yet the tribute none will spare me Of a tear, while thus I die. They behold my life-string sever At the conqueror's final blow ; But the heart that's breaking, — never They its inward pangs shall know ! 1 00 THE DIOSMA. Come, ye whispering winds of heaven, Take my sighs, — my long adieu To the country whence I'm driven, — To the friends to whom I'm true ! Let them know I've ceased to languish ; Tell them I am freed from pain, — That my bosom swelled with anguish, Till its cords all snapt in twain. Say, my last regrets were centered, — All my fondness, lingered there, — Till a blissful home I entered Free from banishment and care : Say, my glad, unburdened spirit Soared in triumph at the last ; — That a country I inherit Worth all sighs and sorrows past. Faith, and Hope, your strength is doubling ! Soon the land will be possessed " Where the wicked cease from troubling, Ajid the weary are at rest." THE DIOSMA. 101 Death the mortal veil is rending, Lone, in foreign clods to lie ; Angels sweet the while descending, Come to waft me home on high ! H. F. GOULD, 102 THE DIOSMA. MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS. I cannot to the city go, Where all in sound and sight Declares that Nature does not know Or do a thing aright ! To granite-wall, and tower, and dome My heart could never cling ; Its simple strings are tied to home, — To where the crickets sing. I'm certain I was never made To run a city race, Along a human palisade, That's ever shifting place. The bustle, fashion, art, and show, Were each a weary thing ; Amid them, I should sigh to go And hear the cricket sing. THE DIOSMA. 103 If there, I might no longer be Myself, as now I seem, But lose my own identity, And walk as in a dream ; — Or else, with din and crowd oppressed, I'd wish for sparrow's wing, To fly away, and be at rest, Where, free, the crickets sing. The fire-fly, rising from the grass, A living, winged light, I would not give for all the gas That spoils their city sight. Not all the pomp and etiquette Of citizen, or king, Can make my rustic heart forget The song the crickets sing. I find in hall and gallery, Their figures tame and faint, To my wild bird, and brook, and tree, Without a touch of paint. 104 THE DIOSMA. And from the finest instrument Of pipe, or key, or string, I'd turn away, and feel content To hear the cricket sing. Oh ! who could paint the placid moon, That's beaming through the bough Of yon old elm, or play the tune That sounds beneath it now ? Not all the silver of the mine, Nor human power, could bring Another moon like her to shine, Or make a cricket sing. I know that, when the crickets trill Their plaintive strains by night, They tell us that, from vale and hill, The summer takes her flight. And were there no renewing Power, 'Twould be a mournful thing, To think of fading leaf and flower, And hear the crickets sins;. THE DIOSMA. 105 But, why should change with sadness dim Our eye, when thought can range Through time and space, and fly to Him, Who is without a change ? For He, who meted out the year, Will give another spring : He rolls at once the shining sphere, And makes the cricket sing. And, when another autumn strips The summer-leaves away, — If cold and silent be the lips That breathed and moved to-day, — The time I've passed with Nature's God Will prove no spirit-sting ; And I adore him from the sod Whereon the crickets sing. H. F. GOULD. 106 THE DIOSMA. HOME WHERE THE HEART IS 'Tis home where'er the heart is, — Where'er its loved ones dwell, In cities, or in cottages, Thronged haunts, or mossy dell ! The heart's a rover ever; And thus on wave and wild, The maiden with her lover walks, — The mother with her child. T'is bright where'er the heart is ; Its fairy spells can bring Fresh fountains to the wilderness, And to the desert, spring. There are green isles in each ocean, O'er which affection glides ; And a haven on each distant shore, When Love's the star that guides. THE DIO SMA . 107 'Tis free where'er the heart is ! Nor chains, nor dungeon dim, May check the mind's aspirings, — • The spirit's pealing hymn! The heart gives life its beauty, Its glory, and its power ; — 'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream, — Soft dew upon its flower ! ANONYMOUS. 108 THE DIOSIA. THE NIGHTS. Oh ! the summer night ' Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne ; While the sweet winds load her With garlands of odor, From the bud of the rose o'erblown ! But the autumn night Has a piercing sight, And a step both strong and free ; And a voice for wonder, Like wrath of the thunder, When he shouts to the stormy sea ! And the winter night Is all cold and white : THE DI O SMA, 109 And she singeth a song of pain ; Till the wild bee hummeth And warm spring cometh, When she dies in a dream of rain ! Oh, the night, the night ! 'Tis a lovely sight, Whatever the clime or time ; For sorrow then soareth, And the lover out-ponreth His soul in a star-bright rhyme. It bringeth a sleep To the forests deep, The forest-bird to its nest ; — To Care, bright hours And dreams of flowers ; And that balm to the weary, — rest. BARKY CORNWALL. 110 THE DIO SMA. THE MOTHER'S JEWEL. Jewel most precious the mother to deck, Clinging so fast by the chain on my neck, Locking thy little white fingers, to hold Closer, and closer, the circlets of gold, — Stronger than these are the links that confine Near my fond bosom this treasure of mine ! Gift from thy Maker, so pure and so dear, Almost I hold thee with trembling and fear ! Whence is this gladness so holy and new, Felt as I clasp thee, or have thee in view? What is the noose that slips over my mind, Drawing it back, if I leave thee behind? Soft is the bondage, but strong is the knot, Oh ! when the mother her babe has forgot, Ceasing from joy in so sacred a trust, Dark should her eye be, and closed for the dust. THE DIOSMA. Ill Spirit immortal, with light from above, Over this new-opened fountain of love, Forth from my heart as it gushes so free, Sparkling, and playing, and leaping to thee, Painting the rainbow of hopes till they seem Brighter than reason, — too true for a dream ! What shall I call thee? My glory? My sun? These cannot name thee, thou Beautiful One ! Brilliant ! celestial ! so priceless in worth, How shall I keep thee unspotted from earth? How shall I save thee from ruin by crime, Dimmed not by sorrow, untarnished by time ? Where, from the thief and the robber who stray Over life's path, shall I hide thee away ? Fair is the setting, but richer the gem, Oh ! thou'lt be coveted, — sought for by them ! I must devote thee to One who is pure, Touched by whose brightness, thine own will be sure ; Borne in His bosom, no vapor can dim, Nothing can win, or can pluck thee from Him ; 112 THE DIOSMA. Seamless and holy the garment he folds Over his jewels, that closely he holds. Hence, unto Him be my little one given ! Yea, " for of such is the kingdom of Heaven ! " H. F. GOULD. THE DI SMA. 113 THE SILLER PEN IMITATION OF THE SCOTTISH. I tell you what ! 'twixt frien' an' frien', I dinna like the siller pen; An' sin' my reason ye wad ken, Tho' odd, enough, I'll gie it. It is too perfect, — ilka part It does, is wi' sic care an' art, There's nae a particle o' heart Or feelin' gangin wi' it! 'Tis nae the siller I despise; For poortith loud an' daily cries; An', if I had but mair supplies, I'd then feel a' the better. 8 114 THE DI O SMA. But, tho' 'twad truly glad my een To see its bright an' cheerfu' sheen, My purse's hollow sides between, Ise shun it in the letter! I wad na see the new-born thought Laid on the sheet, sae stiff an' straught, As if 'twere dead, an' cauld; an' brought Before me for interment. I like the gracefu', yieldin' nib, To gang sae careless an' sae glib, An' shoot my fancies, like a squib, Just while they're in the ferment! An', whiles (ye've, aiblins, felt the pain), I wait upon the tardy brain For something I can ne'er obtain, An' foundered a' thegither; I like, if I can do nae mair, To hae the quill to scrape an' pare, An' find the faut o' dullness there, In honest Goosie's feather. THE DIOSMA. 115 For nature's laws maun be obeyed, An' this is ane she strictly laid On ilka saul she ever made, Down frae our earliest mither : " Be sel' your first an' greatest care, — Frae a' reproach the darlin' spare ; An' ony blame, that she should bear, Pit off upon anither ! " Had nature ta'en a second thought, A better precept she had taught ; An' guid instead o' evil wrought By those the power possessin' ! For, sel' had been pit out o' sight, The love o' ithers brought to light: In short, the wrang had a' been right, An' man to man a blessin' ! H. F. GOULD. 116 THE DIOSMA. OLD FRIENDS TOGETHER. Oh ! time is sweet, when roses meet, With Spring's sweet breath around them ; And sweet the cost, when hearts are lost, If those we love have found them. And sweet the mind, tha* still can find A star in darkest weather; But nought can be so sweet to see As old friends met together ! Those days of old, when youth was bold, And Time stole wings to speed it ; And youth ne'er knew how fast Time flew, Or knowing, did not heed it ! — Though grey each brow that meets us now, For age brings wintry weather; Yet, nought can be so sweet to see As old friends met together! THE DI SMA. 117 The few long known, whom years have shown With hearts that friendship blesses ; A hand to cheer, perchance, a tear, To soothe a friend's distresses; — Who helped and tried, still side by side, A friend to face hard weather ; — Oh, thus may we yet joy to see And meet old friends together! C. SWAIN. 118 THE DIOSKA. THE HIDDEN NAME. She loved, — but her bosom had buried the dart ; And there, while she strove to conceal it, Its point had engraven his Name on her heart Too deep for her lips to reveal it. She wept, — but the world knew it not ; for her eye Of joy's playful sunlight would borrow A few dazzling beams, when another was by, To drink up the dew-drops of sorrow. She grieved, — and in secret the sigh would release, That long in her breast had been stifled : She pined, — and in solitude mourned for the peace Whereof her young heart had been rifled. She languished, — she faded, — she silently fell ! And now in the tomb she is lying ; "While none that looked on could the malady tell, — The flower in its beauty was dying ! THE DIO SMA. 119 But told was the secret on many a leaf, When cold lay the hand that conveyed it, In lines that were broken and blotted by grief, Where Death, a pale spoiler ! betrayed it. And yet, not a trace of the Name could be found! Where darkness and silence brood over it, The sacred engraving is hid in the ground, Locked up in the bosom that bore it ! H. F. GOULD. 120 THE DI SMA. LOST FRIENDS. Voice after voice hath died away, i Once in my dwelling heard ; Sweet household name by name hath changed To grief's forbidden word. From dreams of night on each I call, — Each of the far-removed ; And waken to my own wild cry, — " Where are ye, my beloved ? " Ye left me, and earth's flowers grew filled With records of the past; And stars poured down another light Than o'er my youth was cast. The skylark sings not as he sung When ye were at my side ; And mournful sounds are in the wind, Unheard before ye died. peter e:iek. THE DIOSMA. 121 THE DEATH-BED. We watched her breathing through the night, - Her breathing soft and low, — As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, To eke her being out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had Another morn than ours. t. hood. 122 THE DIOSMA THE ALMOND TREE. Behold yon light and blooming sprays That grace Spring's early scene ! That tree was once, tradition says, A fair young Thracian Queen ! Daily her lover's bark to view, She sought the ocean- side ; And, deeming him at length untrue, In sad distraction, died. He came, — he knelt, with streaming eyes, Where, by the gods' decree, His loved one was transformed in guise, And clasped the leafless tree. Amazement ! from the branches shoot Rich flowers of vivid bloom, Speaking a language sweet, though mute, — Forgiveness from the tomb ! THE DIOSMA. 123 I love these old and plaintive tales, Yet need no aid from song, To show how woman's faith prevails O'er woman's sense of wrong ; — How she will cling to Hope's frail tie, Till Hope's last spark be spent, — Willing to suffer, droop, and die, — Do all things, — but resent. And gloomy yews and cypress trees Would roseate blossoms bear, If injured ones, by signs like these, Could pardon now declare : — Earth's sullen and uncultured parts With flowers, bright flowers, would wave, Telling the love of gentle hearts Endures beyond the grave. MRS. ABDY. 124 THE DIO SMA, MEETINGS HERE. What are meetings, here, but partings ? What are extacies, but smartings ? Unions what, but separations ? What attachments, but vexations? Every smile but brings a tear, Love its ache, and hope its fear : All that's sweet must bitter prove ; All we hold most dear, remove ! Foes may harm us ; but the dearest, Ever, here, are the severest : Sorrows wound us ; but we borrow From delight the keenest sorrow ! 'Tis to love our farewells owe All their emphasis of woe ; — Most it charms that most annoys ; Joys are griefs, and griefs are joys! THE DIOSMA. 125 Heavenward rise ! — 'tis Heaven, in kindness, Mars our bliss, to heal our blindness ; — Hope from vanity to sever ; — Offering joys that bloom for ever, In that amaranthine clime, Fair above the tears of time, Where nor fears nor hopes intrude, Lost in pure beatitude ! ANONYMOUS. 126 THE DIO SMA TO A SICK CHILD. Hope breathes at last from out thee, My little patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; And almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness, — Thy thanks to all that aid, — Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid, — ■ Thy little trembling hand, That wipes thy quiet tears, — These, these are things that may demand Sad memories for years ! THE DIO SMA . 127 Sorrows I've had, — severe ones, I will not think of now ; And calmly, 'midst my dear ones, Have wasted with dry brow. But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear thy gentleness : My tears are in thy bed. Ah ! first-born of thy mother, When life and hope were new ; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father, too ; My light, where'er I go ; My bird, when prison-bound ; My hand-in-hand companion, — no ! My prayers shall hold thee round ! To say, — "He has departed ! — His face, — his voice, — is gone ; " To feel impatient-hearted; Yet feel we must bear on ; — 128 THE DI O SMA. All ! I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it shall not be so. Yet still he's fixed and sleeping ! This silence, too, the while, — Its very hush and creeping Seems whispering us a smile : — Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here." LEIGH HUNT. THEDIOSMA. 129 MEETINGS AND PARTINGS. For ever, like the sea-weed tost Upon the restless wave, The footprints of our path are lost, Until we reach the grave ; — For ever on, without repose, Weak wanderers through life's press Of hasty joys, and hasty woes, And lengthened weariness. Now here, now there, our steps abide ; Then something spurs us on: A few short hours bear back the tide, • We came, and we are gone ! But still, upon our pilgrimage, We pause awhile, and lo ! In some fresh ties our hopes engage, Which make it sad to go : — 130 THE DIOSHA. Leave portions of the heart behind, In every resting-place, And in the broken fragments find But added sorrow's trace : — Some new acquaintance changed too soon To friends we fear to lose : We never can our hearts attune, But some rent chord ensues ! Ah ! every farewell wafts away Some music from our lives ; Until, at last, in our decay, Scarce one sweet note survives. Yet, who would yield such soft regret, Indifference cold to prove, — Or say, " Alas ! that e'er we met ! " Of those we leave and love ? " No! — rather bless the transient joy, Though sad its parting be ; And feel nor time, nor space destroy The links of Memory ! f. g. ross. THE D10SMA, 131 A NAME IN THE SAND. Alone I walked the ocean strand; A pearly shell was in my hand ; I stooped, and wrote upon the sand My name, — the year, — the day. As onward from the spot I passed, One lingering look behind I cast ; A wave came rolling high and fast, And washed my lines away. And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me ! - A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place, Where I have trod the sandy shore Of Time, — and been to be no more ; ■ Of me, — my day, — the name I bore, To leave nor track nor trace. 132 THE DIOSMA. And yet, with Him who counts the sands, And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands, Inscribed against my name, — Of all this mortal part has wrought, — Of all this thinking soul has thought, And from these fleeting moments caught, For glory, or for shame ! H. F. GOULD. THE DIOSMA. 133 TIME. Time speeds away, — away, — away ! Another hour, — another day, — Another month, — another year, — Drop from us like the leaflets sere : Drop like the life-blood from our hearts ; The rose-bloom from our cheek departs ; The tresses from our temples fall ; The eye grows dim, and strange to all. Time speeds away, — away, — away ! Like torrent in a stormy day, He undermines the stately tower, Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower; And sweeps from our distracted breast The friends that loved, the friends that blessed And leaves us weeping on the shore To which they can return no more. 134 THE DI OSMA. Time speeds away, — away, — away ! No eagle through the skies of day ; No wind along the hills can flee So swiftly, or so smooth, as he : Like fiery steed, from stage to stage, He bears us on, from youth to age ; Then plunges in the shoreless sea Of fathomless eternity. KNOX. THE BIO«MA. 135 THE SHIP IS READY. Fare thee well ! the ship is ready, And the breeze is fresh and steady ; Hands are fast the anchor weighing, — High in air the streamer's playing, — Spread the sails, — the wares are swelling Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling : Fare thee well ! and when at sea Think on those that sigh for thee. When from home and land receding, And from hearts that ache to bleeding, Think of those behind, who love thee, While the sun is bright above thee ! Then, as down to ocean glancing, In the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To the eyes that wake for thee ! 136 THE DIOSMA. When thy lonely night-watch keeping, - All below thee, still and sleeping, — As the needle points the quarter O'er the wide and trackless water, Let thy vigils ever find thee Mindful of the friends behind thee ; Let thy bosom's magnet be Turned to those who wake for thee ! When, with slow and gentle motion, Heaves the bosom of the ocean, — While in peace thy bark is riding, As the silver moon is gliding O'er the sky with tranquil splendor, Where the starry hosts attend her, — Let the brightest visions be Country, home, and friends, to thee ! When the tempest hovers o'er thee, — Danger, wreck, and death before thee, - While the sword of fire is gleaming, — Wild the winds, — the torrent streaming, THE DIOSMA. 137 Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, Reach the mercy-seat, to be Met by prayers that rise for thee. 9 Soon may He who holds the thunder Hush the winds, and chain them under; Still the lightnings round thee flashing, Quell the waters o'er thee dashing, Lift the veil that darkens Heaven, Show the bow of promise given, — May that Being ever be Light, and guide, and shield to thee ! When, the land of strangers leaving, Homeward-bound, thy ship is cleaving Surge and billow heaving round her, While the heavens and ocean bound her, — May the winds be tempered to thee, Death and dread no more pursue thee ! May thy friends who wait thee see Joy and peace return with thee ! h. f. gould, 138 THE DTOSMA. THE UNFORGOTTEN. Forgotten thee ! — oh ! if to dream about thee, Until those dreams my very life have been, — If what was happiness be grief without thee, As, without sunshine, dark the fairest scene, — If, other vows and homage still rejected, I turned to bless the memory of thine, — If sudden wreck of joy so long expected Could work no change in this fond heart of mine,' If fancy truth, and truth delusion be, And hatred love, — I have forgotten thee ! If to recall, with fondest recollection, Each hour of intercourse refined and pure, — If to endow thee with each bright perfection, From stranger lips thy praises to secure, — If every look and smile in memory hoarded Steal on my soul with all its former power, — THE DIOSMA. 189 If every tone within my heart recorded Become the music of its after hour, — If none on earth can set my spirit free, And this be nought, — I have forgotten thee ! Forgotten thee ! — methinks thou little knowest Of woman's love, — her faith, her constancy: Man ! man ! aside the priceless gem thou throwest, As 'twere the common freight of life's rough sea. Her heart's rich wealth in fear and trembling given, Once yielded up, can never be withdrawn: The rosy morn of love that lights her heaven, Once overshadowed, has no second dawn : Her life and love can never parted be, — Love is her life, — Have I forgotten thee? MISS ROSS. 140 THE DIOSMA. THE SENTENCED. They say the blessed Spring is here, With all her buds and flowers, — With singing birds, and fountains clear, Soft winds, and sunny hours. They say the earth looks new and bright ; That o'er the azure sky, The very clouds are fringed with light, And gaily floating by. They tell me nature's full of life, And man, of hope and joy; But, ah ! not so my widowed wife, — My more than orphan boy ! For smiling nature cannot give Such innocence as theirs To me ; nor can she bid me live, In answer to their prayers. THE DIO SMA. 141 Beyond my dismal prison-bars The coy night-air steals by ; And but a few pale, trembling stars Will greet my guilty eye. Ere thrice the rising morn shall spread Her mantle o'er the wave, I shall be numbered with the dead, And fill a felon's grave! To thee, alas ! my noble son, I leave a withered name, — A life, for what thy sire hath done, Of bitter, blighting shame ! And thou, to whom I gave a love More pure, and warm, and free, Than e'er I placed on aught above, What do I leave to thee ? A bleeding heart, that cannot make Its throbbing pulses cease; That ever swells, but will not break, — A bosom robbed of peace ! 142 THE DIOSMA. A world all filled with, prison gloom By Memory's cruel power: Thou'lt smell the dungeon in the bloom Of every vernal flower. A pall will hang beside the way, Where'er thy feet may go, Upon the brightest path to lay A shade of death, and woe. I leave thee as a tender vine That felt the tempest rush, And fell, with nought whereon to twine, For every foot to crush ! These cutting thoughts, while yet I live, Will ceaseless anguish bring ; And, in the last, sad moment, give To death a double sting. From them, Heaven ! I turn to thee, The sinner's Friend to seek: If thou hast pard'ning grace for me, O God! my pardon speak. THE DIOSMA. 143 Thy Spirit, in the still, small voice, Oh, send with peace to mine ; And let this trembling soul rejoice In being sealed as thine ! Then, through the world's dark wilderness Be thou my widow's God, — The Father of my fatherless, When I'm beneath the sod ! H. F. GOULD. 144 THE DIOSMA A HAPPY LIFE. BY SIR HENRY WOTTON, BORN 1568, DIED 1640. How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will, — Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, — Untied unto the worldly care Of public fame, or private breath ; — Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice ; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise : Nor rules of state, but rules of good : — THE DIOSMA. 145 Who hath his life from rumors freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great ; — WTio God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day With some religious book or friend ! This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands : And having nothing, yet hath all ! 10 11G THE DI0S1IA THE OTHER DAY. It seems, love, but the other day, That thou and I were young together ; And yet we've trod a toilsome way, And wrestled oft with stormy weather. I see thee in thy spring of years, Ere cheek or curl had known decay ; And there's a music in mine ears, As sweet as heard the other day. Affection, like a rainbow, bends Above the past, to glad my gaze ; And something still of beauty lends To memory's dream of other days. Within my heart there seems to beat That lighter, happier heart of youth, When looks and words were kind and sweet, And love's world seemed a world of truth. THE DIOSMA. 147 Within this inner heart of mine A thousand golden fancies throng, And whispers of a time divine Appeal with half-forgotten tongue. I know, — I feel, 'tis but a, dream, That thou art old and I am grey ; And that, however brief it seem, We are not as the other day : — Not as the other day, when flowers Shook fragrance on our j oyous track ; — When Love could never count the hours, And Hope ne'er dreamed of looking back ; — When, if the world had been our own, We thought how changed should be its state: Then, every cot should be a throne, — The poor as happy as the great ! — When we'd that scheme which love imparts, That chain all interest to bind, — The fellowship of human hearts, The federation of mankind ! 148 THE DIOSMA. And though with us time travels on, Still relics of our youth remain, As certain flowers, when spring is gone, Will in the autumn bloom again. Alas ! 'mid worldly things and men, Love's hard to caution or convince ; And hopes, which were but fables then, Have left us, with their moral, since. The twilight of the memory cheers The soul with many a star sublime ; And still the mists of other years Hang dew-drops on the leaves of Time. For what was then obscure and far, Hath grown more radiant to our eyes ; Although the promised hoped-for star Of social love hath yet to rise. Still foot by foot the world is crossed, — Still onward, though it slow appear: Who knows how small a balance lost Might cast the sun from out its sphere ? THE DIOSMA. 149 All time is lost m littleness ! All time, alas ! if rightly shown, Is but a shadow, more or less, Upon life's lowly dial thrown. The greatest pleasures, greatest grief, Can never bear the test of years : The pleasures vanish, leaf by leaf; The sorrow wastes away in tears. Then, though it seems a trifling space, Since youth, and love, and hope were ours, Yet those who love us most may trace The hand of age amid our flowers. Thus, day by day life's ages grow : The sands which hourly fall and climb, Make centuries, in their ceaseless flow, And cast the destinies of Time. c. SWAIN. 150 THE DIOSMA. THE SABBATH. Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale, But yonder halts the quiet mill ; The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, How motionless and still ! Six days stern Labor shuts the poor From Nature's careless banquet-hall ; The seventh, an angel opes the door, And, smiling, welcomes all ! A Father's tender mercy gave This holy respite to the breast, To breathe the gale, — to watch the wave, And know, the wheel may rest! Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, Thy strength thy master's slave must be ; The seventh, thy limbs escape the chain, And God hath made thee free. THE DI SMA . 151 The fields, that yester morning knew Thy footsteps as their serf, survey ; On thee, as them, descends the dew, The baptism of the day. Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale, But yonder halts the quiet mill ; The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, How motionless and still! So rest, oh, weary heart ! — but, lo ! The church-spire glistening up to Heaven, To warn thee where thy thoughts should go The day thy God hath given! Lone through the landscape's solemn rest The spire its moral points on high ; Oh, Soul, at peace within thy breast, Rise, mingling with the sky ! They tell thee, in their dreaming school, Of power from old Dominion hurled ; When rich and poor, with juster rule, Shall share the altered world. 152 THE DIOSMA. Alas ! since time itself began, That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man, But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least, One bright republic shall be known ; - Man's world awhile hath surely ceased, When God proclaims his own ! Six days may rank divide the poor, Oh, Dives ! from thy banquet-hall ; The seventh, the Father opes the door, And holds his feast for all ! E. L. BULWES. TEE DI08M1. 1-53 THE MINIATURE. Dear image of her lovely face, Who was my bosom's life and light, 'Tis agony thy looks to trace, — 'Tis more, to have thee out of sight ! To see thee, and remember where The fair original is laid, But brings the torture of despair From those sad ruins death has made. To know how this kind angel eye Once beamed on me ; and then to feel How dark the shades that on it lie, — 'Tis to my heart like barbed steel ! I have a lock of silken hair, That once adorned this cloudless brow : Its lustre is not dimmed ; but where, Oh ! where' s the forehead's beauty now i 1,51 THE DlOSMA. I have the precious golden band That round her lily finger shone : The ring is bright ; but how's the hand, — The hand for which I gave my own? I have her pledge of early love, When joy's clear fount was fresh and high : Her gift is near, — her soul above ; But where's her form? — must earth reply: I had a home, — and there I found Delights like those of Paradise. Its name is now a freezing sound ; — When heard it chills my veins to ice ! My wounded spirit grows estranged To all the scenes of life below. The world and I are sadly changed, — I long a higher home to know. My love must linger near the dead, With fondness that can never die ; Till that which loves and mourns hath fled. And dust and dust together lie. THE DIOSMA. 155 On thee, thou dear, but silent thing, I look and doat : oh ! speak to me ! Oh, speak ! — my heart at every string Is wrung, and bleeding over thee ! H. F. GOTJLD. 156 THE DIOSMA THE CONQUEROR. A gallant form is passing by, The plume bends o'er his lordly brow ; A thousand tongues have raised on high His song of triumph now. Young knees are bending on his way, And age makes bare his locks of grey. Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile, White hands have waved the conqueror on And flowers have decked his path the while, By gentle fingers strown. Soft tones have cheered him, and the brow Of beauty beams uncovered now. The bard hath waked the song for him, And poured his boldest numbers forth ; THE DIOSMA. 15' The wine-cup, sparkling to the brim, Adds frenzy to the mirth ; And every tongue, and every eye, Does homage to the passer-by. His gallant steed treads proudly on. His foot falls firmly now, as when, In strife, that iron heel went down Upon the hearts of men ; And, foremost in the ranks of strife, Trod out the last dim spark of life. Dream they of these, — the glad and gay. That bend around the conqueror's path ? The horrors of the conflict-day, — The gloomy field of death, — The ghastly stain, — the cvered head, — The raven stooping o'er the dead ! Dark thoughts, and fearful ! — yet they bring No terror to the triumph-hour, 158 THE DIOSMA. Nor stay the reckless worshipping Of blended crime and power. The fair in form, the mild of mood, Do honor to the man of blood ! Men ! Christians ! pause ! — the air ye breathe Is poisoned by your idol now; And will you turn to him, and wreath Your chaplets round his brow? Nay, — call his darkest deeds sublime, And smile assent to giant crime? Forbid it, Heaven ! — a voice hath gone, In mildness and in meekness forth, Hushing before its silvery tone The stormy things of earth ; And whispering sweetly through the gloom An earnest of the peace to come. ANONYMOUS. THE DIOSMA. 159 THE MOURNER. Oh ! do not strive by lute and lay To charm her settled grief away ; — Seek not, when evening shadows fall, To lead her to the lighted hall ; Think not the scenes of happier years Can soothe her woe, or dry her tears, — Her joy is past, her hopes are fled, Her thoughts are ever with the dead. Ask not in soft and whispered strain If love may win her ear again ; Say not she yet may find on earth A cheerful home, a social hearth ! The heart that genuine love has nursed Can feel no passion save the first; Seek not to woo her, — she is wed, In soul and spirit, to the dead. 160 THE DIO SMA, But when she sorrows for her love, Point to the glorious skies above, And bid her hope henceforth to share Communion with her loved one there ; And she will smile amid her grief, And own the power of true belief A light upon the path to shed Of her whose heart is with the dead. MRS. ABDY. THE DI SMA. 161 BEAUTY. I saw a dew-drop, cool and clear. Dance on a myrtle spray ; Fair colors decked the lucid tear, Like those that gleam, and disappear. When showers and sunbeams play : Sol cast athwart a glance severe, And scorched the pearl away. High, on a slender, polished stem, A fragrant lily grew ; On its pure petals many a gem Glittered, a native diadem Of healthy morning dew : A blast of lingering winter came, And snapt the stem in two ! 11 162 THE DIOSMA. \ Fairer than Morning's early tear, Or Lily's snowy bloom, Shines Beauty in its vernal year, Bright, sparkling, fascinating, clear, Gay, thoughtless of its doom : Death breathes a sudden poison near, And sweeps it to the tomb ! ANONYMOUS. THE DIOSMA. 163 LIGHT. Light is the emblem of the star Of life, which burns within for aye ; Darkness and Death twin-sisters are To dumb Oblivion and Decay. Thus, when the beauty and the bloom Of being are by death effaced, To say " Resurgam ! " o'er the tomb The hieroglyphic torch is placed. Shall, then, that spark, no more renewed, Even in its earthly ashes die? No ! with eternal warmth imbued, It gilds and glows in yonder sky ! "Let there be light!" this was the first Command which God to matter gave ; And, in the moment, radiance burst From o'er the chaos-darkened wave. 164 THE DIOSMA. "Let there be light!" — when heathen gloom Mantled the world's bewildered mind, The Saviour, yielding to the tomb, Shed thence a daylight on the blind. Oh ! Heavenly Father ! hear the prayer Which asks of Thee to guide aright Our steps, to where all things are fair, And angels walk with Thee in light ! D. M. moik. THE DIOSMA. 165 THE UNCONSCIOUS ORPHAN. Mother, I have found a tear In your eye ! How came it here ? More are coming; now they chase One another down your face. How I feel your bosom heave ! i What does make you sob and grieve? Let me wipe your tears away, Or I cannot go to play. Why is father sleeping so ? Put me down, and let me go ; Let me go where I can stand Near enough to reach his hand. Why ! it feels as stiff and cold, As a piece of ice, to hold ! Lift me up to kiss his cheek; Then, perhaps, he'll wake and speak. 166 THE DIOSMi. Mother, oh ! it isn't he, For he will not look at me ! Father hadn't cheeks so white ! See ! the lips are fastened tight ! Father always spoke and smiled, Calling me his " darling child ; " He would give and ask a kiss, When I came ; hut who is this ? If 'tis father, has he done Speaking to his little one ? Will he never, never more Know and love me as before ? Could he hear what we have said? Tell me, — what is being dead? Oh! he doesn't breathe a breath! Mother^ what's the cause of death? H. F. GOULD. THE BIOSMA. 167 'TWAS YESTERDAY. " 'Twas yesterday ! " familiar sound, Heard oft as idle breath; Yet, prophet-like, to all around It spoke of woe and death ! A mourner by the past it stands, In mystic mantle of decay, Shrouds in the night of years its hands, And grasps all life away ! High from the boundless vault of Time The stars of empire veer ; " 'Twas yesterday " they beamed sublime, The mightiest in their sphere ! " 'Twas yesterday " revealed to Fate The rival crowns of centuries flown ; Shewed where a Phantom sat in state Upon the Caesars' throne ! 168 THE DI O SMA. Sceptre and robe were cast aside ! The ghastly bones stood bare; The rust fed on the gaurds of pride, The worm held council there ! Nor answer would the Phantom give, But to our constant prayer replied, — " Thus 'twill be said of all that live, That 'yesterday' they died!" Where are the Grecian conquests now, The triumphs of her lute ? Dust rests on the Homeric brow, Her genius now is mute ! Where are the glorious hearts that fought For freedom in the " Pass of Gore ? " Gone, — where the mightiest names are sought, With "yesterday" of yore ! We hope, — but what we hope the shroud Wraps from our weeping sight; We aim at stars, and clasp the cloud, — Seek day, and find but night ! THE DIOSIA. 169 Ah ! who with Life's dread woes could cope, If 'twere not for that Faith sublime, Which sees the Ararat of Hope Above the floods of Time? What then is "Yesterday?" — a key To wisdom most divine ! It is the hall of Memory, Where Fame's brief trophies shine ! The spiritual home of things, Where Intellect immortal beams ; Which lends to thought its holiest wings, — Inspires the noblest themes ! — A drop that mirrors forth a world, Then mingles with the earth ; A star from Time's vast empire hurled, Slow falling from its birth ; A presence with the sacred past To warn our spirits of delay, Which saith, " Proud man, to-day thou hast, — Use well thy little day ! c. swain. 170 THE DIOSMA FOREST MUSIC. There's a sad loneliness about my heart, — A deep, deep solitude my spirit feels Amid this multitude. The things of art Pall on the senses, — from its pageantry My weary eye turns off; and my ear shrinks From the harsh dissonance that fills the air. My soul is growing sick ! I will away, And gather balm from a sweet forest walk ! There, as the breezes through the branches sweep, Is heard aerial minstrelsy, like harps Untouched, unseen, that in the spirit's ear Pour their soft numbers, till they lull to peace The tumult of the bosom. There's a voice Of music in the rustling of the leaves ; And the green boughs are hung with living lutes, THE DIO SMA. 171 Whose strings will only vibrate to His hand Who made them, while they sound His untaught praise ! The whole wild wood is one vast instrument Of thousand, thousand keys ; and all its notes Come in sweet harmony, while Nature plays To celebrate the presence of her God ! H. F. GOULD. 172 THE DIOSMA. THE SOURCE OF TRUTH. Each fabled fount of comfort dry, Where can I quench my burning thirst? Is not the world one glittering lie ? Do not its swelling bubbles burst? Systems, men, books, and earthly things, Are nothings dressed with painted wings. Lord, thou art true ! and, O, the joy To turn from other words to thine ; — To dig the gold without alloy From Truth's unfathomable mine ; — To escape the tempest's fitful shocks, And anchor 'midst the eternal rocks ! CUNNINGHAM. THE DIOSMA. 173 THE LITTLE ONE'S PRAYER. My daughter, go and pray : — see, night is come ; One golden planet pierces through the gloom; Trembles the misty outline of the hill. Listen! the distant wheels of darkness glide, — All else is hushed ; the tree by the road-side Shakes in the wind its dust-strown branches still. Day is for evil, weariness, and pain : — Let us to prayer ! calm night is come again ; The wind, among the ruined towers so bare, Sighs mournfully; the herds, the flocks, the stream* All suffer, all complain; worn nature seems Longing for peace, for slumber, and for prayer. It is the hour when babes with angels speak ! While we are rushing to our pleasures, weak ^rd infill. — all young children, with bent knees, 174 THE DIOSMA. Eyes raised to Heaven, and small hands folded fai\ Say at the self-same hour the self-same prayer, On our behalf, to Him who all things sees. And then they sleep ; — oh, peaceful, cradle sleep ! Oh, childhood's hallowed prayer ! religion deep Of love, — not fear, — in happiness expressed ! So the young bird, when done its twilight lay Of praise, folds peacefully, at shut of day Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest. FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. THE DIOSMA. 175 THE JASMINE-TREE, IN THE COURT OF HARWORTH CASTLE, ENGLAND. My slight and slender Jasmine-Tree, That bloomest on my border-tower, More dearly art thou loved by me Than all the wealth of fairy bower ! I ask not, while I near thee dwell, Arabia's spice, or Syria's rose ; Thy light festoons more sweetly smell, Thy virgin white more freshly glows. My mild and winsome Jasmine-Tree, That climbest up the dark grey wall, Thy tiny flowerets seem in glee, Like silver spring- drops, down to fall, 176 THE DI SMA. Say, did they from their leaves thus peep, When mailed moss-troopers rode the hill ; When helmed warriors paced the keep, And bugles blew for Belted Will?* My free and feathery Jasmine-Tree, Within the fragrance of thy breath, Yon dungeon grated to its key, — In chains, the captive pined to death ! On border fray, on feudal crime, I dream not while I gaze on thee ; The chieftains of that stern old line Could ne'er have loved a Jasmine-Tree ! LORD MORPETH. ♦Lord William Howard. THE DI SMA. 177 THE CHILD'S WAY TO HEAVEN. " Oh ! I am weary of earth," said the child, As it gazed, with tearful eye, On the snow-white dove it held in its hand, " For whatever I love will die." So, the child came out of its little bower, It came and looked abroad ; And it said, " I am going, this very hour, — I am going to Heaven and God." There was shining light where the sun had set. And red, and purple, too; And it seemed as if earth and heaven had met All round in the distant blue. And the child looked out on the far, far west, And it saw a golden door, Where the evening sun had gone to his rest But a little while before. 12 178 THE DIOSMA, There was one bright streak on a cloud's dark face, As if it had just been riven : Said the child, " I will go to that very place ; For it must be the gate of Heaven ! " So, away it went to follow the sun, But the heavens, they would not stay ; For always the faster it tried to run, They seemed to go farther away. Then the evening shades fell heavily, With night- dews cold and damp ; And each little star on the dark blue sky Lit up its silvery lamp. A light wind wafted the fleecy clouds, And it seemed to the child, that they Were hurrying on to the west, while the stars Were going the other way. And the child called out, when it saw them stray, By the evening breezes driven, "Little stars, you are wandering out of the way! That is not the way to Heaven ! " THE DIOSMA. 179 Then on it went, through the rough waste lands, Where the tangled briars meet, Till the prickles scratched its dimpled hands, And wounded its tender feet. It could not see before it well, And its limbs grew stiff and cold ; And at last it cried; for it could not tell Its way to the open wold. So the child knelt down on the damp green sod, While it said its evening prayer ; And it fell asleep, as it thought of God, "Who was listening to it there. A long, long sleep, — for they found it there, When the sun went down next day; And it looked like an angel, pale and fair, But its cheek was cold as clay ! The sunbeams glanced on the drops of dew That lay on its ringlets bright, And sparkled in every brilliant hue Like a coronet formed of light. E. b. 180 THE D10SMA WARNING FROM THE GOLD-MINE Ye, who rend my bed of earth, Mark me ! from my lowly birth, Ye to light in me will bring What will rise to be your king ! I shall rule with tyrant sway, Till ye rue my natal day : — ■ High and low my power shall own ; For I'll make the world my throne ! And my worshippers shall be Martyrs, dupes, or slaves to me. Love and Friendship, on the way To their idol, they will slay. Conscience, — I ^vill still her cr ; Truth for me shall bleed and oie ! I will prove a chain, to bind Down to earth th' immortal mind ! THE DIOSMA.. 181 Though ye try me by the fire, This will only heat my ire ; Though my form ye oft may change, 'Twill but give me wider range ! For my sake the poor must feel On his face his neighbor's heel : Then, I'll turn ; and taking wing, Leave with avarice but a sting. I will be a spur to crime, — Ye shall sell your peace through time, — And a long eternity Of remorse shall come by me ! Now, I'm here, without defence ; But, if once I'm taken hence, Man shall eat the bitter fruit Springing from a golden root! H. F. GOULD. 182 THE DIOSMA. THE TOMB OF BLUCHER. Ay ! soldier, weep that grave beside, Ay ! fix thy heart's intenser gaze : There sleeps no son of useless pride, There speaks no lie of purchased praise ! When Prussia, in her evil hour, Was crushed, for errors not her own ; When on her rained the iron shower, That wrapt the cot, and wrapt the throne When all was famine, flame, and gore ; When died the noble and the brave ; When courage fled, and hope was o'er, And man's best refuge was the grave ; — Then, he who slumbers at thy feet, Snapped, with one sabre blow, the chain, And, like the lightning's fiery sheet, Unfurled the Prussian's eagle-vane. THE DI OSMA. 183 The Prussian trump was at his lips ; — It sounded like the trump of doom ! Fled, at its blast, the land's eclipse, — Burst, at its blast, the nation's tomb. Then, paled Napoleon's guilty star, Then, France, thy tiger-heart was tame; Then, Europe rose to glorious war, And Blucher was man's guiding flame ! EEOM THE GERMAN. 184 THE DIOSMA. TIME'S PORTRAIT. Time ! — paint me Time ! He hath the snowy hair, The wrinkled brow, the hour-glass, and the scythe ; Trees bending o'er him, but with branches bare ; Wings on his shoulders, — hoary, yet not lithe Like those that seraphs wear; broad pinions, strong And free ; upbearing, yet not hasty ; face To which the mind of worlds seems to belong, Yet not akin to gaiety or grace : — So paint me Time ! And yet, not thus, — not always thus he seems, — The stern destroyer; in a milder form Ofttimes he comes : — paint him 'midst broken dreams, With nothing of the pestilence or storm; No weapon in his hand ; the hand itself Laid on the lordly hall, the lowly cot, The Beauty's roses, and the Miser's pelf; THE DI SMA. 185 And broidered on his robe the word " Forgot ! " So paint me Time ! Yet hath he other seemings. In his hand The sword of Justice, and the poisoned cup Remorse and Conscience drug ; a naming brand ; A chalice the unrighteous shall drink up ! So paint me Time, the Avenger; on his brow A crown of stars, with red and angry light, Searching like eyes the sinner's conscience now, Smiting his spirit with a deadly blight : — So paint me Time ! Another aspect. With a golden key He stands, the Keeper of the mighty Past, The treasure-house of deathless Memory ; — And ever grow its stores more strange and vast ; — Jewels of thought ; dreams half dissolved in air ; Love, hope, and transport, — all the joys of Youth, And sins of Age, are duly garnered there, And registered within the book of Truth : So paint me Time ! 186 THE DIOSMA. And yet once more, and in a lovelier form : — Call him the Perfecter ! — his hand may close The gate whence issues the devouring storm, And yet unfold the petals of the rose ; — And as the Tutor of the human soul, Opening its pathway o'er Life's troubled sea, Unto the shelter of its mighty goal, — The wide-spread portal of Eternity : — Thus paint me Time ! MBS. JAMES GRAY. THE DIO SMA. 187 A LOVER'S BALLAD. She's on my heart, she's in my thoughts, At midnight, morn, and noon ; December's snows behold her there, And there, the rose of June. I never breathe her lovely name, "When wine and mirth go round ; But, oh ! the gentle moonlight air Knows well the silver sound. I care not if a thousand hear, When other maids I praise ; I would not have my brother by, When 'tis on her I gaze. THE DIO SMA. The dew were from the lily gone, The gold had lost its shine, If any but my love herself Could hear me call her mine ! MISS TEWSBURY. THE DIOSMA. 189 FROST, THE WINTER-SPRITE. ADAPTED TO MUSIC, BY THE AUTHOR. The Frost looked forth, on a still, clear night, And whispered, " Now, I shall be out of sight ; So, through the valley, and over the height, I'll silently take my way : I will not go on like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, That make such a bustle and noise in vain; But I'll be as busy as they ! " t He flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest ; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls ; and over the breast Of the quivering lake, he spread A bright coat of mail, that it need not fear The glittering point of many a spear, 190 THE DI O SMA. That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock was rearing its head. He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane like a fairy crept : Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By morning's first light were seen Most beautiful things ! — there were flowers and trees, With bevies of birds, and swarms of light bees ; There were cities, temples, and towers ; and these All pictured in silvery sheen ! But, one thing he did that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard ; and finding there That none had remembered for him to prepare, " Now, just to set them a- thinking, I'll bite their rich basket of fruit," said he, "This burly old pitcher, — I'll burst it in three! And the glass, with the water they've left for me, Shall ' tchick,' to tell them I'm drinking ! " H. F. GOULD THE DI SiTA. 191 THE GREEN MOSS. A delicate thing is the green, green Moss, That clings to the crumbling wall ! Its mother's the damp from the steaming earth, And the air its sire it may call ; For 'tis fed by the breeze with the tiniest dust, And its drink is the eve's soft tears, Till it daintily spreads forth its emerald crust O'er the stone it has clung to for years. It grows, and it lives on the rich man's loss ; And many a tale tells the green, green Moss ! It creeps o'er the tombs of the bold and brave, That crumble to dust alone ; And spreadeth a shroud o'er the poor man's grave, Which not even a friend will own. It silently telleth how pride decays, And how worthless that pride has been ; 192 THE DI SMA. And the ruinous towers of the ancient days It mantles with gorgeous green. Thus, glorying in the great man's loss, It telleth its story, — the green, green Moss. It spreadeth a veil o'er the marshy bed Where forests uprooted rest ; And mildly it raiseth its delicate head On the mouldering princely crest! It covers the cracks in the old church-spire ; It tells how bright life may be, If, when age quenches youth's sparkling fire, The conscience from guilt is free. It riseth, like Hope, from the broken Cross, And a true tale telleth the green, green Moss! LEIGH CLIFFE. THE DIOSMA. 193 A CHEAP, BUT PRECIOUS TREASURE. There's not a cheaper thing on earth, Nor yet one half so dear; — 'Tis better than distinguished birth* Or thousands gained a year. It lends the day a new delight; 'Tis virtue's firmest shield; It adds more beauty to the night Than all the stars can yield. It maketh poverty content, — To sorrow, whispers peace ; A gift it is, that Heaven hath sent For mortals to increase. It meets you with a smile at morn; It lulls you to repose, — A flower for peer and peasant born, — An everlasting rose ! — 13 i^tep tft^fti^ Steffi 1 *pB?^=- J„HE J>JJ0S_¥.A. 19J5 THE DIOSMA. M c C a!? tfe e $?&!* jfellim 4 M JTo ibliss unknown Jo , kings. 10 bliss unknown to kingly C. SWAIN. C. SWAIN. 196 THE DIOSMA. SPRING MEDITATIONS. How light is the bosom ! what projects resolving ! The clouds are dispersed, and the snows are dissolving, While brightly the season of love is revolving; And gladly we welcome the sun. But where the companions who ever were keeping [ing ! The May-morning gambols ? How long they've been sleep- Ah ! see, o'er their couches the stars have been weeping, And gossamer mantles are spun. The season approaches when many will sever, And when it is past, will be gone, and for ever ! — The many will meet, — but all meet again never, Till meeting in silence and gloom. But, which is the form that will then be forsaken? And where are the eyes that will never awaken? Of whom will the final farewell have been taken? And who will be left in the tomb? THE DIOSMA. 197 Then, come to my bosom, ye friends it would cheris 1 Ye may fade, but your semblance there never shall peri Ye may die, but your virtues shall memory cherish. When long to the world ye've been dead. Yes, wreaths of affection, of honor and glory, Unfading, are woven in memory's story; And laurels of virtue and beauty are rory With tears that remembrance hath shed. ANONYMOUS. THE DIO SMA. THE DI OSMA. $m$$ mh ™ ferns*.- fHAYE a thousand, thousand Jays, have a thousand, thousana lays, 6 Compact of myriad, mynad words ; ompact oT myriad, myriaa words ; And so can sing a million ways, — Ana so can sing 5 a million ways, — 6 Jan play at pleasure on .the chord; an play at pleasure on the chords D£ tuned iiarp or iieart ; Of tune a harp or heart f JiTet is .there one sweet song Yet is there one sweet song* J?oy which in vain J sigh and Jong : For which in vain l sigh ana long': f cannot reach .that song, cannot reach that song*, AYith all my minstrel art. With all my minstrel art. A shepherd sits within a dell, A shephera sits within a deny jQ'ercanopied from rain and Jieat : CFercanopiea from rain ana heat f A shallow, ibut pellucid well A snallow, but peilucia well JDoth ever Rubble at ids feet. Doth ever bubble at his feet. JELis .pipe is imt a leaf: His pipe is but a leaff Yet there, above that stream, Yet there, above that stream, .He plays and plays, as in a dream, He plays and plays, as in a dream, T*te «^ lite # tfiM- ^ SHpl? &? * ^ffl^,' iff tofr,' i&aj»#to te teto s?kpte$ /6ti# *? i$bw * iff tfe mtfifm? f&m ffeW &flff lite £&£&?? iff mg?6fy#m arf ms (SS^Wci 1 iff dffl£ «£ te <#«»? f to to &p&t & &> ting? 9m ?&$& &9&R fe jHte^ £ to?? W#e iff MBS £$&,> f&j H i f&ffiti? i tea 1 to ita$fc ite apSte.*^? iSte&fed 1 rf ^6^ fe fey,' 200 THE DIOSMA; THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 'Tis midnight, — all is peace profound ! But lo ! upon the murmuring ground, The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound Of distant wheels is heard! They come, — they pause a moment, — when, Their charge resigned, they start, and then Are gone, and all is hushed again, As not a leaf had stirred. Hast thou a parent far away, A beauteous child to be thy stay In life's decline, — or sisters, they Who shared thine infant glee ? — A brother on a foreign shore? Is he whose breast thy token bore, Or are thy treasures wandering o'er A wide, tumultuous sea? THE DIOSMA. 201 If aught like these, then thou must feel The rattling of that reckless wheel, That brings the bright or boding seal, On every trembling thread, That strings thy heart, till morn appears To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, As line on line is read. Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep, — Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, — Thy brother where thou canst not weep Upon his distant grave ! Thy parents hoary head no more May shed a silver lustre o'er His children grouped, — nor death restore Thy son from out the wave ! Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled, Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled, Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled Her corner of the tomb. $kf #,> tfe e $mw itim & &? $$m M 1 $M?s M&mfy fe tfe e dspp jpr hW oW? fefy o Q 'e e r r tfe Mm tWe e ,> ft*! 1 tfe e jl /o u u # n n <#e e S s a¥e e iMU& fo°r r a a /o°u u n n # Jffl? &Efltig8tf ftffltf #fe r # jftffl? fe r #a* JRP& ^MfeW^ » u u jPo°n n & e *#? $8J& dfegf tfe Mf^?& fed 1 *#/ ^ feW#f M tfe W fer Wit tfe #o° n n |,'-t*e e bWa¥ lo°n n #! ! 204 THE DIOSMA. Slowly o'er the midnight gloom, Hark ! the funeral bell is tolling ! Sable cloak, and hearse, and plume, Toward the village churchyard rolling! Such the record of the bells, Such the song they'll sing to-morrow; Mourning in their music dwells, — In their sweetest note is sorrow ! C. SWAIN. THE DIOSMA. 205 THE EARLY PRIMROSE. Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds, — Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to fight, — Thee, on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In the low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity ; — in some lone walk 2$? WI ^cPsW/ <5Fl?!C e s!i h e e MP h% r tiSSfr $M e e w/ btefM}* tei e iffia* °n n ifei r b¥o^> **? d¥