No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall
Than from thy chalice flows;
Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores, Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled

Starry with spangles washed from golden

ores,

Nor glassy stream Blandusia's fountain pours,
Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair
Braids her loose-flowing hair,

Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose
Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine

snows.

Here shall the traveler stay his weary feet
To seek thy calm retreat;

Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper

rest;

bring;

wing,

No faltering minstrel strain his throat to sing! These hallowed echoes who shall dare to claim,

Whose tuneless voice would shame, Whose jangling chords with jarring notes would wrong

The nymphs that heard the Swan of Avon's song?

What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured eyes!

What ghosts made real arise!

Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the The dead return-they breathe

west,

Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest,
Matron and maid shall chat the cares away
That brooded o'er the day,

again,

Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train, Fresh from the springs of Shakspere's quickening brain!

While flocking round them troops of children The stream that slakes the soul's diviner

meet,

And all the arches ring with laughter sweet.

Here shall the steed his patient life who spends

In toil that never ends,

Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain,

thirst

Here found the sunbeams first;

Rich with his fame, not less shall memory prize

The gracious gift that humbler wants supplies.

Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing O'er the wide waters reached the hand that

rein

Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane;
Nor the poor brute that shares his master's
lot-

Find his small needs forgot-
Truest of humble, long enduring friends,
Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care
defends!

gave

To all this bounteous wave,

With health and strength and joyous beauty fraught;

Blest be the generous pledge of friendship, brought

From the far home of brother's love, unbought!

Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, enrolled

Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall With storied shrines of old,

(Suggested by a proposition, on the part of the New York Historical Society, that a new poetical name should be given to the United States.)

That when its echoes through the land are rung,

Her children's breasts may warm to liberty! My country! in the van of nations thou

Art called to raise Truth's lovely banner high;

'Tis fit a noble title grace thy brow,

Born of thy race, beneath thy matchless sky;

And Alps and Apennines resign their fame, When thrills the world's deep heart with Alleghania's name.

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

These were thy charms, sweet village! Sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;

These were thy charms; but all thy charms are fled;

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with-
drawn;

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green.
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring Amidst thy desert walks the lap-wing flies,

swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering bloom delayed;

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could
please,

How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighbor-
ing hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the
shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play!
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending, as the old surveyed,
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round;

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful maiden's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks

reprove;

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering
wall;

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's
hand,

Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has
made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its

man;

For him light labor spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no

more;

His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn where scattered hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,
And every want to luxury allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom.
Those calm desires that asked but little room.
Those healthful sports that graced the peace-
ful scene,

Lived in each look and brightened all the
green,