And see reviving Spring, and Summer's gloom, And high above the mountain's crest of snow, Grew black, as fell the shadows of the night, Hard by yon giant elm, whose branches spread And can I e'er forget that hallowed spot, Whence springs a charm that may not be forgot; Where, in a grove of elm and sycamore, The pastor show'd his hospitable door, And kindness shone so constantly to bless That sweet abode of peace and happiness? The oaken bucket-where I stoop'd to drink The crystal water, trembling at the brink, Which through the solid rock in coldness flow'd, While creaked the ponderous lever with its load; The dairy-where so many moments flew, With half the dainties of the soil in view; [care, Where the broad pans spread out the milkmaid's To feed the busy churn that labour'd there; The garden-where such neatness met the eye, A stranger could not pass unheeding by ; The orchard-and the yellow-mantled fields, Each in its turn some dear remembrance yields. Ye who can mingle with the glittering crowd, Where Mammon struts in rival splendour proud; Who pass your days in heartless fashion's round, And bow with hatred, where ye fear to wound; Away! no flatterer's voice, nor coward's sneer, Can find a welcome, or an altar here. But ye who look beyond the common ken, Self-unexalted when ye judge of men, Who, conscious of defects, can hurry by Faults that lay claim upon your charity; Who feel that thrilling vision of the soul When silence hung upon the Sabbath's smile, And noiseless footsteps paced the sacred aisle, When hearts united woke the suppliant lay, And happy faces bless'd the holy day; O, Nature! could thy worshipper have own'd Sweet hour of holy rest, to mortals given, Lo! where yon cottage whitens through the green, The loveliest feature of a matchless scene; Beside yon grassless mound, a mourner kneels, [seal'd Turn there your eyes, ye cold, malignant crew, Whose vile ambition dims your reason's view, Ye faithless ones, who preach religion vain, And, childlike, chase the phantoms of your brain; Think not to crush the heart whose truth has Its confidence in heavenly love reveal'd. Let not the atheist deem that Fate decrees The lot of man to misery or ease, While to the contrite spirit faith is given, To find a hope on earth, a rest in heaven. Unrivall'd Nashaway! where the willows throw Their frosted beauty on thy path below, Beneath the verdant drapery of the trees, Luxuriant Fancy woos the sighing breeze. The redbreast singing where the fruit-tree weaves Its silken canopy of mulb'ry leaves; Enamell'd fields of green, where herding kine I turn where, glancing down, the eye surveys Grasps the glad soil where freemen plant their feet; No ruin'd castle here with ivy waves, She owes her mountain-breath of Liberty; A patriot mask, to compass what they dare, But thou shalt rend the virtuous-seeming guise, ANNE BOLEYN. I WEEP While gazing on thy modest face, SUNRISE, FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON. THE laughing hours have chased away the night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem :And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, Attendant on the day-the mountain-tops Have lit their beacons, and the vales below Send up a welcoming;-no song of birds, Warbling to charm the air with melody, Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks! The sunshine and the shade of poetry. I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, Temple of Nature! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued; Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer-now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light, Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending, Questions the eye with ever-varying forms. The sun comes up! away the shadows fling From the broad hills-and, hurrying to the west, Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down, Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light Dances along with their perennial flow. And there is beauty in yon river's path, The glad Connecticut! I know her well, By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms: At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills, Sportfully hiding-then again with glee Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves, And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes and woods, And all that hold the faculty entranced, Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air, And sleep in the deep quietude of joy. There is an awful stillness in this place, A Presence, that forbids to break the spell, Till the heart pour its agony in tears. But I must drink the vision while it lasts; For even now the curling vapours rise, Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace These towering summits-bidding me away;But often shall my heart turn back again, Thou glorious eminence! and when oppress'd, And aching with the coldness of the world, Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee. SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, At morn, I know where she rested at night, At noon she hies to a cool retreat, At eve she hangs o'er the western sky She hovers around us at twilight hour, LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. YES! still I love thee:-Time, who sets The heart he could not bow;Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas! that little knows How love may sometimes last; The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose, Can never touch a leaf that blows, Though seeming to the sight; I would not have thy married heart That bind me so to thee; No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, Like dew upon the roses wild, I would not have thee know, The stream that seems to thee so still, Enough! that in delicious dreams Enough, that when the morning beams, I feel my eyelids wet! Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall To meet thee,--and to love,- I would not shrink from aught below, EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE." I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell, To hive among the treasures they have wrought; Around that hermit-home of quietude, The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude, But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew. Around the door the honeysuckle climbed, And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood, That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink. The green earth heaved her giant waves around, EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. [Born, 1804. Died, 1830.] EDMUND DORR GRIFFIN was born in the celebrated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on the tenth day of September, 1804. During his infancy his parents removed to New York, but on account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was educated, until he was twelve years old, at various schools in the country. He entered Columbia College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the highest rank in the successive classes. During this period most of his Latin and English poems were composed. He was admitted to deacon's orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY. "Deh! fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte."-FILICAIA. WOULD that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading soon, E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone, Infused in music, now constrains the soul With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. And now with passionate throbs that spurn conWould that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean! after spending two years in the active discharge of the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, England, and Scotland, and returned to New York in the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an associate professor in Columbia College, but resigned the office after a few months, in consequence of ill health, and closed a life of successful devotion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on the first day of September, in the same year. His travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous writings were published in two large octavo volumes, in 1831. Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, No memory of the brave, of what has been? Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence: Shades of departed heroes, rise again! Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence! O, Italy! my country, fare thee well! For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me dwell, The fathers of my mind? whose fame impress'd E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest, Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams? Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost: Too early lost, alas! when once so dear; I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, And urge the feet forbid to linger here. But must I rove by Arno's current clear, And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, And wander on the mount, now waste and drear, Where CESAR's palace in its glory stood; And see again Parthenope's loved bay, And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay That floats by night through Venice-never Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar [more? It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee. Fare-fare thee well once more. I love thee not DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS. THOUGH old in cunning, as in years, And sportive like a boy, and wild; Is added more than childhood's power; And you perchance may rue the hour That saw you join his seeming play. He quick is anger'd, and as quick His short-lived passion's over past, Like summer lightnings, flashing thick, But flying ere a bolt is cast. I've seen, myself, as 't were together, Now joy, now grief assume its place, Shedding a sort of April weather, Sunshine and rain upon his face. His curling hair floats on the wind, Like Fortune's, long and thick before, And rich and bright as golden ore: Like hers, his head is bald behind. His ruddy face is strangely bright, But sometimes steals a thrilling glance And sometimes looks with eye askance; But seldom ventures he to gaze With looks direct and open eye; His tongue, that seems to have left just then And forms his lisping infant strain In words scarce utter'd, half-complete; Yet, wafted on a winged sigh, And led by Flattery, gentle guide, Unseen into the heart they fly, Its coldness melt, and tame its pride. His ruddy lips are always dress'd, But, once admitted as a guest, That lowly port and look distress'd— Then insolent assumes his reign, Displays his captious, high-bred airs, His causeless pets and jealous fears, His fickle fancy and unquiet brain. EMBLEMS. YON rose, that bows her graceful head to hail And giving stores of perfume in return― Though fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide; Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride. Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high, Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes, And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky, Daring the thunder that its height provokes, And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh, From noonday heats to guard the weary flocksThough strong he seem, must dread the bursting And e'en the malice of the feeble worm. [storm, The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, And sends her silvery beam serenely down, Or on the clear waves, clearer far than theySeems purity itself; but if again We look, and closely, we perceive a stain. On which our passions and our hopes dilate: To aid his virtue or to stamp his shame: Where shall he fix a soul thus form'd and given? Fix it on GoD, and it shall rise to Heaven. TO A LADY. LIKE target for the arrow's aim, Like snow beneath the sunny heats, Like wax before the glowing flame, Like cloud before the wind that fleets, I am 'tis love that made me so, And, lady, still thou sayst me no. The wound's inflicted by thine eyes, The mortal wound to hope and me, Which naught, alas, can cicatrize, Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind, That make me such; ah, then be kind! My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite; Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense, My wishes-ne'er did passion light A flame more pure or more intense. Love all these arms at once employs, And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys. |