The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,— Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?
Alas! the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye?
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill repers,
To aching eyes each landscape
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers
Were barren as this moorland hill.
In peasant life he might have known
As fair a face, as sweet a tone:
But village notes could ne'er supply
That rich and varied melody;
And ne'er in cottage maid was seen
The easy dignity of mien,
Claiming respect, yet waiving state,
That marks the daughters of the great.
Oh what a pure and sacred thing
Is beauty, curtain'd from the sight
Of the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye-
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity.
Will you hear what I can say
Briefly of my Julia?
Black and rolling is her eye,
Double chinn'd and forehead high;
Lips she has all ruby red,
Cheeks like cream enclareted,
And a nose that is the grace
And proscenium of her face;
So that we may guess by these
The other parts will richly please.
a! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd,
that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom, when betray'd,
e felt it-deeply felt-and stood
s if the tale had frozen his blood:
So mazed and motionless was he,
ike one whom sudden spells enchant,
Or some mute marble habitant
Of the still halls of Ishmonie.
WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S
COMMON-PLACE BOOK.
Here is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free :
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet hath been,
Oh! it would be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!
You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your ringlets, and kiss time away;
By love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love when I the least express
Small gifts find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound :
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know
That chiding streams betray small depth below;
So when love speechless is, it doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such
Who speaks but little, 'cause I love so much.
HERRICK.
Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious love;
How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labours light!
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more!
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!
AFTER THE CAMANCHES.
arly spirited poem is taken from the August number of rican Monthly, where it appears anonymously.
SADDLE! saddle! saddle!
Mount, mount, and away! Over the dim green prairie, Straight on the track of day; Spare not spur for mercy, Hurry with shout and thong, Fiery and tough is the mustang, The prairie is wide and long.
Saddle! saddle! saddle!
Redden spur and thong,
Ride like the mad tornado,
The track is lonely and long.
Spare not horse nor rider,
Fly for the stolen bride!
Bring her home on the crupper,
A scalp on either side.
THE RESTORATION.
By LYDIA A. CALDWELL.
MORE pale than in her coffin-robe,
The lady lies apart;
Her white palms folded close above
The silence in her heart.
You might suppose her sweet death-smile Betoken'd life instead,
If such as she did ever smile
Till after they were dead.
The same white star, whose waning light
Foretells the laggard morn,
Rose o'er her mother's dying couch
The night her child was born.
Amid her deathly pain she look'd
Up through her window-bars,
And sought her baby's horoscope
Among the prophet stars.
The prophet stars were pitiful-
They hid within the skies;
And kept their secret until death
Had closed the mother's eyes.
The fatal stars were pitiful,
But not the coming years;
They took the maiden's woman-trust,
And left her woman's tears.
|