As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,
With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,
Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,
And, as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame:
Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;
These simple truths went down from sire to son,-
To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame,
And craven warrior's infamy, to shun,—
And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.
From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,
When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,
The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,
Came, ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.
Few years have passed, and all their forests' pride
From shores and hills has vanished, with the race,
Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,
Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,
a each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place
And many a gloomy tale tradition yet
Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet
To people scenes where still their names remain ;
And so began our young, delighted strain,
That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave,
And bid their martial hosts arise again,
Where Narragansett's tides roll by their grave,
And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave.
Friend of my youth! with thee began my song,
And o'er thy bier its latest accents die;
Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,-
Though not to me the muse averse deny,
Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry,-
Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er;
And he who loved with thee his notes to try,
But for thy sake such idlesse would deplore,-
And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.
But no! the freshness of that past shall still
Sacred to memory's holiest musings be;
When through the ideal fields of song, at will,
He roved, and gathered chaplets wild with thee;
When, reckless of the world, alone and free,
Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way,
That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea;
Their white apparel and their streamers gay,
Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;—
And downward, far, reflected in the clear
Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;
So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,
And silently obey the noiseless breeze;-
Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,
They part for distant ports. The gales benign,
Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,
To its own harbor sure, where each divine
And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.
Muses of Helicon! melodious race
Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyne!
Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,
And drives each scowling form of grief away!
Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay
Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove;
Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way
Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove,
That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above!
Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zone
Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane;
Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known
The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain ;-
Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain,
On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,
Whose honored hand took not your gift in vain.
Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,—
Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.
"That line I learned not in the old sad song."--Charles Lamb.
THROW up the window! 'Tis a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind seems liquid-it o'ersteals
My bosom and my brow so bathingly.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music; and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank
- Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt
Its delicate touch; and 'tis a kindlier thing
Than music, or a feast, or medicine.
I had awoke from an unpleasant dream,
And light was welcome to me. I looked out
To feel the common air, and when the breath
Of the delicious morning met my brow,
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun
Shone on familiar objects, it was like
The feeling of the captive who comes forth
From darkness to the cheerful light of day.
Oh! could we wake from sorrow; were it all
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside
Like an untimely garment with the morn;
Could the long fever of the heart be cooled
By a sweet breath from nature; or the gloom
Of a bereaved affection pass away
With looking on the lively tint of flowers-
How lightly were the spirit reconciled
To make this beautiful, bright world its home!
The Restoration of Israel.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.
MOUNTAINS of Israel, rear on high
Your summits, crowned with verdure new,
And spread your branches to the sky,
Refulgent with celestial dew.
O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow,
And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile,
And far reflect the lovely glow
Where ocean's waves incessant toil
See where the scattered tribes return;
Their slavery is burst at length,
And purer flames to Jesus burn,
And Zion girds on her new strength:
New cities bloom along the plain,
New temples to Jehovah rise,
The kindling voice of praise again
Pours its sweet anthems to the skies.
The fruitful fields again are blest,
And yellow harvests smile around;
Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest,
Where peace and innocence are found.
The bloody sacrifice no more
Shall smoke upon the altars high,-
But ardent hearts, from hill to shore,
Send grateful incense to the sky!
The jubilee of man is near,
When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign;
He comes to wipe the mourner's tear,
And cleanse the heart from sin and pain.
Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise
The king that ransomed you from wo:
Nations, the hymn of triumph raise,
And bid the song of rapture flow!
The buried Love.-RUFUS DAWES.
"I have often thought that flowers were the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious truths."-The Rebels.
SHE sleeps the quiet sleep of death,
The maid who lies below,
And these are angel-missioned flowers,
That o'er the green turf grow.
And they are sent to warn the fair,
How transient is their bloom;
See, how they bend their tender forms,
And weep upon her tomb.
The blush upon her living cheek
Had shamed the morning skies;
And diamond light is not more bright
Than were her youthful eyes.
To see her on a summer's day,
Gave love a lighter wing;
And happy thoughts would crowd the heart,
And gush from many a spring.
I know the language of the flowers,
And love to hear them grieve,-
When crimsoning to the eye of morn,
Or drooping to the eve.
I listened when the star of love
Shone through the blue serene,
When twilight held her silent wake,
Beneath the crested queen.
They told of her whose spirit come
To breathe upon their leaves;
And can I choose but love the breath
That once was Genevieve's?
She's gone where sorrows may not come,
Where pain may never be;
But she, who lives an angel still,
May sometimes think of me.
Though gone, alas! her blushing smile,
Who sleeps in sweet repose,
I joy to find its mimic grace
Still living in the rose.
Then when I love the modest flower,
And cherish it with tears,
It minds me of my fleeting time,
Yet chases all my fears.
And when my hour of rest shall be,
I will not weep my doom;
So angel-missioned flowers may come
And gather round my tomb!
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