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REVEREND CHARLES W. EVEREST.*
As the witching cadence fell
Wild within our bower of love, Angel bands might prove the spell,
Bending from the courts above ! Minstrel, chant once more the air,
Soft as spring's departing breath: She who sang its numbers there
Slumbers as the bride of Death! Minstrel, chide thou not my tears
Thou hast waked a mournful theme; Memory roves the slumbering years,
Like some dear, forgotten dream: Day will come, with joy and gladness
Cares once more will fling their blight; Chide not, then, my spirit's sadness
Minstrel, let me weep to-night!
GEORGE W. PATTEN.*
TO S. T. P.
How blest the farmer's simple life!
How pure the joy it yields ! Far from the world's tempestuous strife,
Free, mid the scented fields !
O'er the far hills away,
To greet the welcoming day.
And blithe the skylark's song, Pleased, to his toil the farmer goes,
With cheerful steps along. While noon broods o'er the sultry sky,
And sunbeams fierce are cast, Where the cool streamlet wanders by,
He shares his sweet repast.
Along the darkening plain,
To warn the listening train.
Their eager pathway press;
And claim their sire's caress.
And Heaven with praise is blest,
On slumber's couch of rest!
Nor cares, with carking din: Without, his dogs will guard from harm,
And all is peace within.
To win a worthless prize,
Where true contentment lies !
Thou painted, gilded thing! Hie to the free-born farmer's side,
And learn to be a king!
Shadows and clouds are o'er me;
Thou art not here, my bride!
Which bear me from thy side;
Dim sets the weary day;
To smile the storm away.
I strike the measured stave,
To charm the wandering wave.
Along the fading main !
Restore that smile again?"
Thy gentle form I trace;
I gaze upon thy face;
Thy hand is on my brow;
Beneath the ploughing prow!
O'er ocean speed away!
The burden of my lay:
With passion's murmur'd word,
Him of the lute and sword.
With tongue of lisping tale,
I left soft shrouded
The smile I may not see,
A father's kiss for me.
MINSTREL, SING THAT SONG AGAIN.
Plaintive in its solemn flow;
Loved and cherish'd long ago:
Rises through the vista dim-
At the day's departing hymn!
Stars were spangling all the sky:
Floating in its fragrance by ;
One, with voice like music's own,
To the soft lute's silvery tone. or Meriden, Connecticut. Author of " Babylon," &c.
MICAH P. FLINT.*
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON..
LINES ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.
TIE FREE MIND.
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. "T is up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star!
TIE ARMIES OF THE EVE.
Ox vonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
There is a little infant laid.
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
Around the little stranger's grave,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
In all their solemn cadence sweep,
How we whose hearts had hail'd her birth, Ere three antumnal suns had set,
Consign'd her to her mother earth!
We heap'd the soft mould on her breast; And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell
Upon her lonely place of rest.
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
There is no stone, with graven lie,
In one almost too good to die. We needed no such uscless trace To point us to her resting-place. She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
But, midst the tears of April showers,
His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers,
Yet yearly is her grave-turf dressid,
In annual wreaths, across her breast,
Not in the golden morning
Shall faded forms return, For languidly and dimly then
The lights of memory burn:
Its sunny light and smile,
The wondering spirit wile :
Their radiant way on high, And gentle winds are whispering back
The music of the sky; 0, then those starry millions
Their streaming banners weave, To marshal on their wildering way
The Armies of the Eve: The dim and shadowy armies
Of our cinquiet dreams, Whose footsteps brush the feathery fern
And print the sleeping streams. We meet them in the calmness
Of high and holier clines; We greet them with the blessed names
Of old and happier times.
Above the sleeping dust,
Of our undying trust.
In beauteous ranks they roam, To guide us to the dreamy rest
Of our eternal home.
MICAL P. FLINT was a son of the late Reverend TIMOTHY FLINT Ile wins the author of a volume en. titled “The Hunter, and other Poems,'' and of many brief pieces in the magazines.
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, author of a volume of “ Poems," published in 1915, at Bosion. The soninei quoted above was writien during his despotic imprison. ment for the expression of opin:01s.
+ Mr. ('IRRY was formerly associated with Mr. Gil LAGHER in the editorstrip of “The Hesperiin," at Cincinnati.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISHI.*
And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads
Alike to their wishes found him.
Pour Tom! poor Tom !
He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough,
Where the low-toned winds are creeping,
While the eyes of the night are weeping.
Poor Tom ! In a corner obscure and alone,
Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
Now I love, though I used to fear it; And Alice lies under the stone.
And I linger oft mid its tombs alone, Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,
For a strange charm draws me near it.
Poor Tom ! poor Tom !
All the links of our love to sever!
[gaze, The chain that it snaps forever. And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you
Poor Tom ! poor Tom ! Has followed the olden din.
In the old churchyard we have wandered oft, Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
Lost in gentle and friendly musing; At the edge of the pathless wood,
And his eye was light, and his words were soft, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Soul with soul, as we roved, infusing. Which nigh by the door-step stood ?
Poor Tom! poor Tom ! The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Buit,
And we wonderd then, if, when we were men, The tree you would seek in vain ;
Aught in life could our fond thoughts smother; And where once the lords of the forest waved, But alas! again—we dream'd not when Grow grass and the golden grain.
Death should tear us from each other. And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
Poor Tom ! With the master so cruel and grim,
On the very spot where the stone now stands, And the shaded nook in the running brook,
We have sat in the shade of the willow, Where the children went to swim ?
With a life-warm clasp of each other's hands, Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, And this breast has been his pillow. The spring of the brook is dry,
Poor Tom ! poor Tom! And of all the boys that were schoolmates then, Now poor Tom lies cold in the churchyard old, There are only you and I.
And his place may be filled by others; There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, But he still lives here with a firmer hold,
They have changed from the old to the new; For our souls were twined like brothers, But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,
Puor Tom ! There never was change you.
There's a new stone now in the old churchyard, Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it; Since first we were friends-yet I hail
Alas! for the youth by the fates ill-starr'd, Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it: Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.
Poor Tom! poor Tom !
In his early day to be pluck'd away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray POOR TOM.
Beam'd out on the road before him.
Pour Tom !
TO MY SHADOW.
Shadow, just like the thin regard of men,
Constant and close to friends, while fortune's bright,
You leave me in the dark, but come again
And stick to me as long as there is light!
Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done, Beam'd out on the road before him.
You've never stepped between me and the sun; Poor Tom !
But ready still to back me I have found you, All the joy that love and affection sheds,
Although, indeed, you ’re fond of changing sides ; Seem'd to fling golden hope around him,
And, while I never yet could get around you, * Mr. ENGLISH, of Philadelphia, is best known as an ori
Where'er I walk, my Shadow with me glides ! ginal, forcible, and sometimes humorous, writer of prose. That you should leave me in the dark, is meet | The late M. C. FIELD, of New Orleans, was a frequent
Enough, there being one thing to remarkcontributor to the southern journals under the signature of
Light calls you forth, yet, lying at my feet, ** PHAZMA.” He died at sea, on a voyage to Boston, for the benefit of his health, November 15, 1811, aged thirty-two years.
I'm keeping you forever in the dark !
Tuese lovely shores! how lone and still
A hundred years ago,
The waters dash'd below:
Where never sail was furl'd,
Which was itself a world.
Where, closing in the view,
Darts round a frail canoe.-
His prow is westward set
World-seeking bark, MARQUETTE!
Where rise the waves, and sink, At their strange coming, with shrill scream,
Starts from the sandy brink ;
Floats o'er on level wing,
With arrow on the string.
And all the rocky coast
An empire's noble boast.
To cultured vale and hill;
An empire's numbers fill.
Below, as o'er its ocean breadth
The air's light currents run,
Is glancing in the sun.
Meets the far forest line,
This kingdom-all is mine.
Waters that ever roll,
Their offerings to my soul.
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Pillar'd and roof'd with green. My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
My festal lamps are stars.
My star-watch'd couch I press,
I am companionless.
The hill, the tree, the stream,
Come gently to my dream.
While slumbers every tree
Seems nearer unto me.
Like the embracing air ;
My heart is hush'd in prayer.
JOHN M. HARNEY, M. D.*
ON A FRIEND.
The silent wilderness for me!
Where never sound is heard, Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot,
And the fitting wing of bird, Or its low and interrupted note,
And the deer's quick, crackling tread, And the swaying of the forest boughs,
As the wind moves overhead. Alone, (how glorious to be free !)
My good dog at my side, My rifle hanging in my arm,
I range the forests wide. And now the regal buffalo
Across the plains I chase ;
The beaver's lurking place.
And (solitude profound!)
Within the horizon's bound.
Devout, yet cheerful; pious, not austere;
Mr. PEABODY is an Unitarian clergyman. He is a native of New Hampshire, and has resided several years in the western states.
Doctor Harney, I believe, was a native of Kentucky. His principal poetical work, “ Crystalina, a Fairy Tale," was published in New York in 1816. He was the author of several other poeins, the best known of which is “The Fever Dream."
B. B. THATCHER.*
THE BIRD OF THE BASTILE.f
Sing, sing !-I might have knelt
And pray'd; I might have felt
I might have press'd to this
Cold bosom, in my bliss, Each long-lost form that ancient hearth beside;
O heaven! I might have heard,
From living lips, one word, Thou mother of my childhood,—and have died.
Nay, nay, 'tis sweet to weep,
Ere yet in death I sleep;
And the world wakes around;
It breaks the madness bound, While I have dream'd, these ages, on my brain.
And sweet it is to love
Even this gentle dove,
Ah! leave me not the gloom
Of my eternal tomb
My bird !—Thou shalt go free;
And come, O come to me Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows;
So shall I learn, at least,
One other year hath ceased,
Come to my breast, thou lone
And weary bird !-one tone of the rare music of my childhood !-dear
Is that strange sound to me;
Dear is the memory
Again, yet once again,
0 minstrel of the main ! Lo! festal face and form familiar throng
Unto my waking eye;
And voices of the sky Sing from these walls of death unwonted song.
Nay, cease not—I would call,
Thus, from the silent hall
Beam on me yet once more,
Ye blessed eyes of yore,
Ah! cease not-phantoms fair
Fill thick the dungeon's air;
Again upon that spot,
Which ne'er hath been forgot In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!
There, on each noon-bright hill,
By fount and flashing rill, Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade;
There gleam'd the sunset's fire,
On the tall taper spire,
Sing, sing!—I do not dream
It is my own blue stream,
I know it by the hedge
Of rose-trees at its edge,
There, there, mid clustering leaves,
Glimmer my father's eaves,
I know them by the moss,
[wreath. Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray
Sing, sing!-I am not mad-
[now;May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but
WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.*
THE ARCHED STREAM
It went within my inmost heart,
The overhanging Arch to see,
Of my internal harmony.
Pleased with the measure of its flow,
It made a song of mirth below.
And sear and dry the fringing grass,
That out of Autumn's bosom pass. And over it the heavy road,
Where creaks the wain with burden'd cheer, But gaily f:oin this low abode
Leapt out the merry brook so clear. Then Nature said: My child, to thee,
From the gray arch shall beauty flow, Thou art a pleasant thing to me,
And freely in my meadows go. Thy verse shall gush thus freely on,
Some poet yet may sit thereby, And cheer binnself within the sun
My life has kindled in thine eye.
* BENJAMIN B. THATCHER, author of "Indian Biogra. phy," "Indian Traits,” and numerous contributions to our periodical literature, died in Boston on the 14th of July, 1910, in the thirty-second year of his age. He was a native of Maine, and was educated at Bowdoin College, in that state.
+ One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned from his youth, and was said to be occasionally insane in consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper told me) but that of a beautiful tamed bird. or what name or clime it was, I know not--only that he called it fondly, his dore, and seemed never hippy but when it sang to him.-MS. of a Tour through France.
* Mr. CHANNING is a nephew of the late Dr. W. E CHANNING. He published a volume of l'oems in 1813, and another in 1817.