A bird that is first to worship the sun, When he gallops in flame-'till the cloud tides run Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air! With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair Above where the silvery flashing is seen— The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green, And soft spongy moss, where the fairies have been, Over valley and rock !—over mountain and wood Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush- Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower: AMBITION. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, And panted at the drum's deep roll; And held my breath, when-flaming high I saw our starry banners fly, As challenging the haughty sky, They went like battle o'er my soul : For I was so ambitious then, I stood and saw the morning light, A standard swaying far and free; Where nations warr'd for liberty. I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep: And shouted to the eaglet soaring ; And hung me from a rocking steep, When all but spirits were asleep; And oh, my very soul would leap To hear the gallant waters roaring; For every sound and shape of strife To me, was but the breath of life. But, I am strangely alter'd now— I love no more the bugle voice— The rushing wave-the plunging prowThe mountain with his clouded browThe thunder when his blue skies bow, And all the sons of God rejoiceI love to dream of tears and sighs, And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes. HENRY PICKERING. I THOUGHT IT SLEPT. FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed: then, softly clasp'd its hand, But mine it would not clasp. What should I do? "Wake, brother, wake!" I then impatient cried. 66 Open thine eyes, and look on me again !" He would not hear my voice. All pale beside My weeping mother sat, “and gazed and look'd I eager ask'd: She answer'd but with tears. Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look Were cast-now on the babe once more were fix'd- And throbbing heart, she clasp'd me in her arms, My dearest boy! thy brother does not sleep; He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more TO THE FRINGILLA MELODIA.† Joy fills the vale, With joy ecstatic quivers every wing, As floats thy note upon the genial gale, The violet Awakens at thy song, and peers from out Remain'd in doubt * From this little tale of unaffected childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. It was exhibited during the last season, at the National Academy in that city. +The song-sparrow. |