And seek the idle world, to hate and fear and fight. There their song peals along, deep-toned and free: Thou art the same, eternal sea! The earth hath many shapes and forms, Or bright with autumn's golden store; And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore. I see thy heaving waters roll, As summer twilight, soft and calm, And loud the craggy beach howls back their savage song. Terrible art thou in thy wrath,- When the strong winds, upon their path, Ay, 'tis indeed a glorious sight I see thy laughing waves embrace And, as the bright blue waters play, [as they. Feel that my thoughts, my life, perchance, are vain This is thy lesson, mighty sea! Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom; Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume: Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, Native land, native land-home far away! "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" Dim grew the forest-path: onward they trod; Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in GoD! Gray men and blooming maids, high rose their song; Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along: "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the blast; Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they past! Green be their mossy graves! ours be their fame, While their song peals along, ever the same: Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" 66 THE LYRE AND SWORD. THE freeman's glittering sword be blest,- This stirs the heart like living fire: But when his fingers sweep the chords, Like mountain-eagles to their prey! The freeman's heart and nerves his hand; For the bright soil that gave him birth, The home of all he loves on earth, For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls, He waves on high his sword of fire,For this, amidst his country's halls Forever strikes the freeman's lyre! His burning heart he may not lend To serve a doting despot's sway,A suppliant knee he will not bend, Before these things of "brass and clay :" When wrong and ruin call to war, He knows the summons from afar; On high his glittering sword he waves, And myriads feel the freeman's fire, While he, around their fathers' graves, Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre! JOHN H. BRYANT. [Born, 1807.] JOHN HOWARD BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in rural occupations, and in attending the district and other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, when he began to study the Latin language, with a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, he wrote the first poem of which he retained any copy. This was entitled "My Native Village," and first appeared in the "United States Review and Literary Gazette," a periodical published simultaneously at New York and Boston, of which his brother, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, was one of the editors. It is included in the present collection. After this he gave up the idea of a university education, and placed himself for a while at the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superintendance of Professor EATON. He subsequently applied himself to the study of the mathematical and natural sciences, under different instructors, and in his intervals of leisure produced several poems, which were published in the gazettes. In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illinois; and in September of the next year went to Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public lands not yet ordered to be sold by the govern ment. When the lands came into the market, he purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine groves of that country. He was married in 1833. He accepted soon afterward two or three public offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bureau county; but afterward resigned them, and devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and part in Illinois. They have the same general characteristics as those of his brother. He is a lover of nature, and describes minutely and effectively. To him the wind and the streams are ever musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, and his writings show him to be a man of refined taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind stored with the best learning. THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL. Ir was a wintry scene, The hills were whiten'd o'er, And the chill north winds were blowing keen Gone was the wood-bird's lay, And the voice of the stream has pass'd away And the low sun coldly smiled They raised it gently up, And grief was in each eye, When they laid his cold corpse low Weeping, they pass'd away, With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest-stone. When the winter storms were gone And o'er him giant trees When these were overspread These woods are perish'd now, Two centuries are flown Since they laid his cold corpse low, And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown And they who laid him there, Their memory remains, And ever shall remain, More lasting than the aged fanes A RECOLLECTION. HERE tread aside, where the descending brook Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream, And all the summer long, on silver feet, Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out A mellow murmur on the quiet air. Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade Set, like a nest amid embowering trees, Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring, Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil, Lived, in my early days, an humble pair, A mother and her daughter. She, the dame, Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten. Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame, And bow'd with time and toil; the lines of care Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day I've met her by the skirt of this old wood, Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself, Haply, the history of her better days. I knew that history once, from youth to age:- Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death Fit place is this for so much loveliness To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine, Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave; The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time, Sigh to the winds; the robin takes his perch Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate; The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June, And hangs above her in the winter days Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near; The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white, Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found, Around the head-stone carefully entwined, Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom. For two years past I've miss'd them; doubtless one Who held this dust most precious, placed them there, And, sorrowing in secret many a year, At last hath left the earth to be with her. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. 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 climb'd 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 autunın 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. 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, And he saw the city's walls, And kings' and prophets' tomb, And mighty arches, and vaulted halls, And the temple's lofty dome. He look'd on the river's flood, And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms that stood Upon Judea's hills. He saw on heights and plains Creatures of every race: But a mighty thrill ran through his veins And his virgin sight beheld The ruddy glow of even, And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd And woman's voice before Had cheer'd his gloomy night, But to see the angel form she wore Made deeper the delight. And his heart, at daylight's close, For the bright world where he trod, And when the yellow morning rose, Gave speechless thanks to GoD. SONNET. THERE is a magic in the moon's mild ray,What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high,That charms the pang of earth-born grief away I raise my eye to the blue depths above, And worship Him whose power, pervading space, Holds those bright orbs at pea in his embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest hings in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has mark'd my Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye. [brow, O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life-shine soft, and long abide. SONNET. "TIs Autumn, and my steps have led me far That dream-like glory of the painted wood; The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good. JONATHAN LAWRENCE. [Born, 1807. Died, 1833.] FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them. He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833. | The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments to use his own language "Stolen from hours I should have tied he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the man. THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT. MANY a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a wild and wandering dream, Oft, when the south wind's dancing free The frolic Spring as she wantons by; To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Then can I hear the earth rejoice, That sings of its glad festivity; Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, The secret transports of the soul; Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky, And spring, and love, I hurry back; And almost make me gay and bright. |