THE EFFIGIES.

Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,

And the fire-fly's glance through the dark'ning shades
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall

Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?

The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!
Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill

To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still-
I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell
They come with a breath from .he fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high-away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there!--down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,

With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer air,

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I gọ

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play-
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way!
Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

"Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen
Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zahlt keine Nachwelt."-Gocthe.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;

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The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glance
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place were leaders sate
Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was pour'd
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;

Surely these things were all thine own-
So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm'd knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd;
What was thy tale ?-O gentle mate

Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo'd a bright and burning star
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did Lame take heed

Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours
Through many a lonely day

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirits far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-
These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine!-long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught-
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

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Prayer at the cross in fervor pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim given-
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

"Look now abroad-another race has fill'd

Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes,

And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;

The land is full of harvests and green meads.”—Bryant.

THE breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear ;

They shook the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea:

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!

The ocean cagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd-
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:

Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trode.

They have left unstained, what there they found-
Freedom to worship God.

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever;-it may be a sound

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may woundStriking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.'

Childe Harold

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no more ;
Is not this all a mystery ?-Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts and whither tends their way

The sudden images of vanish'd things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Fones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;
A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar-
A flower scent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plantive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown,
Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear-

These are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,

In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus?-'tis mystery all'

?

THE DEPARTED.

Darkly we move we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think

Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made--
Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!
Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined?-
So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

THE DEPARTED.

"Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings
The powerful of the earth-the wise-the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre."—Bryant.

AND shrink ye from the way

To the spirit's distant shore ?—

Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array
Are thither gone before.

The warrior kings, whose banner

Flew far as eagles fly,

They are gone where swords avail them not,

From the feast of victory.

And the seers who sat of yore

By orient palm or wave,

They have pass'd with all their starry lore-
Can ye still fear the grave?

We fear! we fear!-the sunshine

Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not of the buried kings,

Nor the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink!-the bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burn

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise,
For the land whence none return.

And the beautiful, whose record

Is the verse that cannot die,

They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng
Of the earth's departed flowers,
VOL. II.-15

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