BRONX.

BY JOSEPH R. DRAKE.

I SAT me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends, who linger while they sever;
Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow

Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,

Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches ́lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beech was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,
Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their

eyes

The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around,
The bluefinch carol'd in the still retreat;

The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground

Where lichens make a carpet for his feet;

unheeded.

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle
Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

BRONX.

There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses,
White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies flaunting
Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden

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Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,

Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,

The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?
Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands,
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?
Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A face more pleasant than the face of men.
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see

A well-remember'd form in each old tree,

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

22

MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

BY JOHN H. BRYANT.

THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale,

With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure born of gentler showers.

'Twas there my young existence was begun, My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done,

I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height-the sweetest of the day.

There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home,

In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labours of the day.

And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathering in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze,
I wander'd till the starlight on the stream
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.

THE FREE MIND.

Ah! happy days, too happy to return,

Fled on the wings of youth's departed years,
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,

The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears;
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay,
A twilight of the brightness pass'd away.

My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still;
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure, and autumnal dyes;

The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.

THE FREE MIND.

BY W. L. GARRISON,

HIGH walls and huge the body may confine,
And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze,
And massive bolts may baffle his design,

And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways:
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control!
No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose;
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole,

And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes!
It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale
It wanders, plucking honey'd fruits and flowers;
It visits home, to hear the fireside tale,

Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours.
"Tis up before the sun, roaming afar,
And, in its watches, wearies every star!

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THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER

OF JAIRUS.

BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain

Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance,
Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast,
Like the dead marble, white and motionless.
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips,
And as it stirr'd with the awakening wind,
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes,
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily
She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there—
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd
Into his face until her sight grew dim

With the fast-falling tears, and, with a sigh
Of tremulous weakness, murmuring his name,
She gently drew his hands upon her lips,
And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk
Upon his knees, and in the drapery

Of the rich curtains buried up his face-
And when the twilight fell, the silken folds

Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held
Had ceased its pressure, and he could not hear
In the dead, utter silence, that a breath
Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave
To his nice touch no pulse, and at her mouth

He held the lightest curl that on her neck