JAMES WILLIAM MILLER.*

TO A SHOWER.

THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
By fits it plashing falls

On twangling leaf and dimpling pool—
How sweet its warning calls!
They know it-all the bosomy vales,
High slopes, and verdant meads;
The queenly elms and princely oaks
Bow down their grateful heads.

The withering grass, and fading flowers,
And drooping shrubs look gay;
The bubbly brook, with gladlier song,
Hies on its endless way;

All things of earth-the grateful things!
Put on their robes of cheer,

They hear the sound of the warning burst,

And know the rain is near.

It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain!
I drink its cooler breath;

It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers,
And roses' fragrant death;

It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lily pale,
The beds where violets die,

And it bears their life on its living wings-
I feel it wandering by.

And yet it comes! the lightning's flash
Hath torn the lowering cloud,
With a distant roar, and a nearer crash,
Out bursts the thunder loud.

It comes with the rush of a god's descent
On the hush'd and trembling earth,

To visit the shrines of the hallow'd groves
Where a poet's soul had birth.

With a rush, as of a thousand steeds,
Is the mighty god's descent;
Beneath the weight of his passing tread,
The conscious groves are bent.
His heavy tread-it is lighter now-
And yet it passeth on;

And now it is up, with a sudden lift-
The pleasant rain hath gone.

The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
It hath passed above the earth,
I see the smile of the opening cloud,
Like the parted lips of mirth.
The golden joy is spreading wide
Along the blushing west,

And the happy earth gives back her smiles,
Like the glow of a grateful breast.

As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart,
That knoweth all its need,

So came the good of the pleasant rain,
O'er hill and verdant mead.

It shall breathe this truth on the human ear,
In hall and cotter's home,

That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven, The pleasant rain hath come.

* J. W. MILLER was a native of Boston, and at one period connected with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of "The Yankee." I believe he died in 1826.

WILLIAM B. WALTER.*

TO AN INFANT.

AND art thou here, sweet boy, among
The crowds that come this world to throng!
The loveliest dream of waking life!
Hope of the bosom's secret strife!
Emblem of all the heart can love!
Vision of all that's bright above!
Pledge, promise of remember'd years!
Seal of pure souls, yet bought with tears!
Hail! child of love!-I linger yet
Around thy couch, where slumber sweet
Hangs on thine eyelids' living shroud;
And thoughts and dreamings thickly crowd
Upon the mind like gleams of light
Which sweep along the darksome night,
Lurid and strange, all fearful sent

In flashings o'er the firmament!

O! wake not from that tranquil sleep!
Too soon 'twill break, and thou shalt weep;
Such is thy destiny and doom,

O'er this long past and long to come;
Earth's mockery, guilt, and nameless woe;
The pangs which thou canst only know;
All crowded in a little span,
The being of the creature Man!
Ah! little deemest thou, my child,
The way of life is dark and wild;
Its sunshine, but a light whose play
Serves but to dazzle and betray;
Weary and long-its end, the tomb,
Where darkness spreads her wings of gloom!
That resting-place of things which live,
The goal of all that earth can give!
It may be that the dreams of fame,
Proud Glory's plume, the warrior's name,
Shall lure thee to the field of blood;
There, like a god, war's fiery flood
May bear thee on! while far above,
Thy crimson banners proudly move,
Like the red clouds which skirt the sun,
When the fierce tempest-day is done!
Or lead thee to a cloister'd cell,
Where Learning's votaries lonely dwell;
The midnight lamp and brow of care;
The frozen heart that mocks despair;
Consumption's fires to burn thy cheek;
The brain that throbs, but will not break;
The travail of the soul, to gain

A name, and die-alas! in vain!

Thou reckest not, sweet slumberer, there,
Of this world's crimes; of many a snare
To catch the soul; of pleasures wild,
Friends false-foes dark-and hearts beguiled;
Of Passion's ministers who sway,
With iron sceptre, all who stray;

* WILLIAM B. WALTER was born in Boston, in 18-, and was educated at Bowdoin College. He wrote "Sukey, a poem," in the style of "Don Juan," "Visions of Romance," and some other metrical compositions, which were popular in their time. He died in 18

Of broken hearts-still loving on,
When all is lost, and changed, and gone!
What is it that thou wilt not prove?
Power, Wealth, Dominion, Grandeur, Love-
All the soul's idols in their turn!

And find each false, yet wildly burn
To grasp at all-and love the cheat;
Smile, when the ravening vultures eat
Into thy very bosom's core,

And drink up that which is not gore!

Thy tears shalt flow, and thou shalt weep
As he has wept who eyes thy sleep,
But weeps no more-his heart is cold,
Warp'd, sicken'd, sear'd, with woes untold.
And be it so! the clouds which roll
Dark, heavy o'er my troubled soul,
Bring with them lightnings which illume,
To shroud the mind in deeper gloom!
But no! dear boy, my earnest prayer
Shall call on Heaven to bless thee here!
Long mayst thou live to love thy kind-
Brave, generous, of a lofty mind!
Thy father live again in thee,
Thy mother long her virtues see
Brightly reflected forth in thine-
Her solace in life's sad decline.

Sleep on! sleep on! but, O my soul,
This is not slumber's soft contro' !
Boy!-boy! awake-that strugling cry
So faint and low-that agony!
The long, sunk, heavy gasp and groan!
And O, that desolate, last moan!-
My God! the infant spirit's gone!
Are there no tears?-dark-dark-alone!
'Tis past! farewell! I little thought
The mockeries which my fancy wrought,
From fate's dark book were rudely torn!-
That clouds would darken o'er thy morn!
That death's stern hand would sweep away
The flower just springing to the day!
But wounded hearts must still bleed on!
Enough, enough-GOD'S WILL BE DONE!

JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.*

TO PNEUMA.

TEMPESTS their furious course may sweep
Swiftly o'er the troubled deep,
Darkness may lend her gloomy aid,
And wrap the groaning world in shade;
But man can show a darker hour,
And bend beneath a stronger power;-
There is a tempest of the soul,
A gloom where wilder billows roll!
The howling wilderness may spread
Its pathless deserts, parch'd and dread,
Where not a blade of herbage blooms,
Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes;

* Mr. EASTBURN was associated with ROBERT C. SANDS in writing "Yamoyden." See page 243.

Where silence, death, and horror reign,
Uncheck'd, across the wide domain;—
There is a desert of the mind
More hopeless, dreary, undefined!
There Sorrow, moody Discontent,
And gnawing Care are wildly blent;
There Horror hangs her darkest clouds,
And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds;
A sickly ray is cast around,

Where naught but dreariness is found;
A feeling that may not be told,
Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold.

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;
The ocean, lash'd to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity

To passion's dark and boundless sea.
There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest,
When storms are warring in the breast;
There is no moment of repose
In bosoms lash'd by hidden woes;
The scorpion sting the fury rears,
And every trembling fibre tears;
The vulture preys with bloody beak
Upon the heart that can but break!

You've left the nursery to but little purpose,
If you believe a wolf could ever speak,
Though in the time of Æsop, or before.
-Was't not a wolf, then? I have read the story
A hundred times; and heard it told: nay, told it
Myself, to my younger sisters, when we've shrank
Together in the sheets, from very terror,
And, with protecting arms, each round the other,
E'en sobb'd ourselves to sleep. But I remember,
I saw the story acted on the stage,
Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates,
With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely,
And so it was a robber, not a wolf,
That met poor little Riding Hood i' the wood?
-Nor wolf nor robber, child: this nursery tale
Contains a hidden moral.

J. K. MITCHELL.*

THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE.

O! FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
"Tis as green and as wide and as wild as the sea:
O'er its soft silken bosom the summer winds glide,
And wave the wild grass in its billowy pride.
The city's a prison too narrow for thee-
Then away to the prairies so boundless and free:
Where the sight is not check'd till the prairie and
skies,

In harmony blending, commingle their dyes.
The fawns in the meadow-fields fearlessly play--
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away!
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near,
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer.
Let England exult in her dogs and her chase--
O! what's a king's park to this limitless space!
No fences to leap and no thickets to turn,
No owners to injure, no furrows to spurn.
But, softly as thine on the carpeted hall,
Is heard the light foot of the courser to fall;
And close-matted grass no impression receives,
As ironless hoofs bound aloft from the leaves.
O, fly to the prairie! the eagle is there:
He gracefully wheels in the cloud-speckled air;
And, timidly hiding her delicate young,
The prairic-hen hushes her beautiful song.
O, fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me!
The vine and the prairie-rose blossom for thee;
And, hailing the moon in the prairie-propp'd sky,
The mocking-bird echoes the katydid's cry.
Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their steeds,
The free prairie-hunter no shepherd-boy needs;
The bison, like clouds, overshadow the place,
And the wild, spotted coursers invite to the chase.
The farmer may boast of his grass and his grain-
He sows them in labour, and reaps them in pain;
But here the deep soil no exertion requires,
Enrich'd by the ashes, and clear'd by the fires.
The woodman delights in his trees and his shade;
But see! there's no sun on the cheek of his maid;
His flowers are faded, his blossoms are pale,
And mildew is riding his vapourous gale.
Then fly to the prairie! in wonder there gaze,
As sweeps o'er the grass the magnificent blaze,
The land is o'erwhelm'd in an ocean of light,
Whose flame-surges break in the breeze of the night.
Sublime from the north comes the wind in his wrath,
And scatters the reeds in his desolate path;
Or, loaded with incense, steals in from the west,
As bees from the prairie-rose fly to their nest.
O, fly to the prairie! for freedom is there!
Love lights not that home with the torch of despair!

Doctor MITCHELL, Professor of the Practice of Medicine in the Jefferson Medical College, at Philadelphia, is a native of Shepherdstown, in Virginia. He was educated at one of the universities of Scotland, and studied his profession in Philadelphia. In 1839, he published a volume, entitled "Indecision, and other Poems."

No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny, No gossips to slander, no neighbour to pry.

But, struggling not there the heart's impulse to hide, Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock side, And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring, Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colour'd wing.

HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT.*

GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before; For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrow less track, For they know that their mates are expecting them

back.

Each bird, and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the source of the light; I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night; I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves; And will take a new Manito-such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes; I shall wash from my face every cloud-colour'd stain; Red-red shall, alone, on my visage remain! I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow; By night and by day I will follow the foe; Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor

snows;

His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin when heaven was

black:

I heard not their coming, I knew not their track; But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engender'd beyond the big seas: My wife and my children,-O, spare me the tale!For who is there left that is kin to GEEHALE?

*Author of "Algic Researches," "Expedition to Itasca Lake," "Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega," etc. See notice of his works in "Prose Writers of America'

REVEREND WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.*

THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OF THE SABBATH SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK, CELEBRATING TOGETHER THE 4TH OF JULY, 1839.

O, SIGHT sublime! O, sight of fear!
The shadowing of infinity!
Numbers, whose murmur rises here

Like whisperings of the mighty sea!
Ye bring strange visions to my gaze;

Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims; The sea of glass, the throne of days, Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns. Ye rend the air with grateful songs

For freedom by old warriors won: O, for the battle which your throngs May wage and win through DAVID'S SON! Wealth of young beauty! that now blooms Before me like a world of flowers; High expectation! that assumes The hue of life's serenest hours; Are ye decaying? Must these forms, So agile, fair, and brightly gay, Hidden in dust, be given to worms

And everlasting night, the prey?

Are ye immortal? Will this mass

Of life, be life, undying still,
When all these sentient thousands pass

To where corruption works its will? Thought! that takes hold of heaven and hell, Be in each teacher's heart to-day!

So shall eternity be well

With these, when time has fled away.

TO THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA.

"LEAP forth to the careering seas," O, ship of lofty name!

And toss upon thy native breeze

The stars and stripes of fame!
And bear thy thunders o'er the deep
Where vaunting navies ride!
Thou hast a nation's gems to keep--
Her honour and her pride!
O! holy is the covenant made

With thee and us to-day;
None from the compact shrinks afraid,
No traitor utters nay!

We pledge our fervent love, and thou
Thy glorious ribs of oak,
Alive with men who cannot bow
To kings, nor kiss the yoke!

Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea,
Which deeds of hell deform;

And look! her hands are spread to thee
Where Afric's robbers swarm.

The Rev. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, on the 29th of October, 1794, and he died near Boston, in June, 1849. He was a voluminous writer of religious poetry. His later works are Poetry of the Heart,' 'Poetry of Life,' 'Sacred and Miscellaneous Poems,' &c.

Go! lie upon the Ægean's breast,
Where sparkle emerald isles-
Go! seek the lawless Suliote's nest,
And spoil his cruel wiles.

And keep, where sail the merchant ships,
Stern watch on their highway,
And promptly, through thine iron lips,
When urged, our tribute pay;
Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power,
Wherever tyrants bind,

In pride of their own little hour,

A freeborn, noble mind.

Spread out those ample wings of thine!While crime doth govern men, "Tis fit such bulwark of the brine

Should leave the shores of PENN;
For hid within thy giant strength

Are germs of welcome peace,
And such as thou, shall cause at length
Man's feverish strife to cease.
From every vale, from every crag,

Word of thy beauty's past,
And joy we that our country's flag
Streams from thy towering mast—
Assured that in thy prowess, thou

For her wilt win renown,

Whose sons can die, but know not how To strike that pennon down.

JAMES NACK.*

SPRING IS COMING.

SPRING is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are chirping, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escaped from winter's keeping.
In delighted freedom rushing,
Dance along in music gushing,
Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd,
Smile in animation gladden'd;
All is beauty, all is mirth,
All is glory upon earth.

Shout we then with Nature's voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Spring is coming, come, my brother,
Let us rove with one another,
To our well-remember'd wild-wood,
Flourishing in nature's childhood;
Where a thousand flowers are springing,
And a thousand birds are singing;
Where the golden sunbeams quiver
On the verdure-girdled river;
Let our youth of feeling out,
To the youth of nature shout,
While the waves repeat our voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Mr. NACK is deaf and dumb, and has been so from his childhood; yet his poetical writings, in almost every variety of measure, are distinguished for more than com mon melody of versification. A volume of his poems, with a memoir by PROSPER M. WETMORE, was published in New York, in 1836.