I look behind, I look before, Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made; But I have heard, to heart of sin, THE HUNTER. By Professor WILSON. HIGH life of a hunter! he meets on the hill When the clear depth of noontide, with glittering motion, When the earth and the heavens, in union profound, Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound. As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close, As wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told; O'er the mountains a thousand plumed hunters are borne, And he starts from his dream at the sound of the horn. TO THE WINDS. We found the following in a newspaper, with the name of ALICE CAREY appended to it. Who she is, we know not, but there is a touch of truest poetry in these stanzas. TALK to my heart, oh Winds! With you a new delight, Give me your soft embrace, THE MEETING IN THE LANE. By MARY JANE SAWYER. WE were to meet at sunset down the lane, As paled the last red cloud in heaven, she came And my lip trembled, for her thoughts I knew; And this fair Summer's night brought to its close The long, sweet story of our love; the thought Was joy, yet sadness dashed it as it rose. 'Twas sad to feel our pleasant meetings o'er, Though came no more the grief that bade us part; Ah, me! the love of that fond, gentle heart! We met in silence, and a moment's space Each stood with downcast eyes; the time had been Our joy had flooded forth in words, but now It seem'd beyond all language-calm—serene— It was an earnest of what life would be, The placid feeling that inspired each breast, I took her hand,-I drew her to my side, "Dear love"!-her raised eyes, tearful, spoke the rest. CARES. A quaint poem by Lord BACON. THE world's a bubble, and the life of man In his conception wretched, from the womb, Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years, Who then to frail mortality shall trust, Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest, Courts are but only superficial schools The rural parts are turn'd into a den And where's a city from all vice so free, Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head. Those that live single take it for a curse, Some would have children, those that have them moan, What is it then to have or have no wife, Our own affections still at home to please To cross the sea to any foreign soil Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, What then remains but that we still should cry LIFE. From The Old Man's Counsel, by W. C. BRYANT, the American poet. SLOW pass our days In childhood, and the hours of light are long As if I sat within a helpless bark, By swiftly running waters hurried on To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks, Bare sands, and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts ODE TO THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, The school-boy wandering through the wood, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! |