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REVEREND CHARLES W. EVEREST.*

AGRICULTURE.

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 !
When morning woos, with roseate hue,

O'er the far hills away,
His footsteps brush the silvery dew,

To greet the welcoming day.
When Sol's first beam in glory glows,

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.
When twilight's gentlest shadows fall

Along the darkening plain,
He lists his faithful watch-dog's call

To warn the listening train.
Down the green lane young hurrying feet

Their eager pathway press;
His loved ones come in joy to greet,

And claim their sire's caress.
Then, when the evening prayer is said,

And Heaven with praise is blest,
How sweet reclines his weary head

On slumber's couch of rest!
Nor deem that fears his dreams alarm,

Nor cares, with carking din: Without, his dogs will guard from harm,

And all is peace within.
Oye, who run in folly's race,

To win a worthless prize,
Learn, from the simple tale we trace,

Where true contentment lies !
Ho! monarch! fush'd with glory's pride!

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!
The billows dash before me

Which bear me from thy side;
On lowering waves benighted,

Dim sets the weary day;
Thou art not here, my plighted,

To smile the storm away.
Where nymphs of ocean slumber,

I strike the measured stave,
With wild and mournful number,

To charm the wandering wave.
Hark to the words of sorrow

Along the fading main !
“ 'Tis night—but will the morrow

Restore that smile again?"
Mid curtain’d dreams descending,

Thy gentle form I trace;
Dimly with shadows blending,

I gaze upon thy face;
Thy voice comes o'er me gladly,

Thy hand is on my brow;
I wakethe wave rolls madly

Beneath the ploughing prow!
Speed on, thou surging billow!

O'er ocean speed away!
And bear unto her pillow

The burden of my lay:
Invest her visions brightly

With passion's murmur'd word,
And bid her bless him nightly-

Him of the lute and sword.
And her, of dreams unclouded,

With tongue of lisping tale,
Whose

eye

I left soft shrouded
'Neath slumber's misty veil,
When morn at length discloses

The smile I may not see,
Bear to her cheek of roses

A father's kiss for me.
A lieutenant in the United States army, formerly of
Rhode Island, le is the author of numerous metrica:
pieces in the periodicals.

MINSTREL, SING THAT SONG AGAIN.
MIESTREL, sing that song again,

Plaintive in its solemn flow;
Memory owns its magic strain,

Loved and cherish'd long ago:
Lo! the past, the mystic past,

Rises through the vista dim-
Just as twilight's shades are cast

At the day's departing hymn!
Minstrel, 't was an eve like this:

Stars were spangling all the sky:
Every zephyr spoke of bliss,

Floating in its fragrance by ;
Then, within our moon-lit bower,

One, with voice like music's own,
Sweetly charm’d the lingering hour,

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.

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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!

OTWAY CURRY,

TIE ARMIES OF THE EVE.

Ox vonder shore, on yonder shore,

Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-arın'd sycamore,

There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear.—A brother weeps.-
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alune,

And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan

Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmur'd at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.
In sounds that seem like sorrow's own,

Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then deepening to an organ tone,

In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.
She came, and pass’d. Can I forget,

How we whose hearts had hail'd her birth, Ere three antumnal suns had set,

Consign'd her to her mother earth!
Joys and their memories pass away;
But griefs are deeper plough'd than they.
We laid her in her narrow cell,

We heap'd the soft mould on her breast; And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell

Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it; may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,

At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,
The rolling waters onward glide.
There is no marble monument,

There is no stone, with graven lie,
To tell of love and virtue blent

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,
The genius of the wild hath strown

His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers,
And cast his robes of vernal bloom
In guardian fondness o'er her tomb.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

Yet yearly is her grave-turf dressid,
And still the summer vines are thrown,

In annual wreaths, across her breast,
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallow'd spot with leaves.

Not in the golden morning

Shall faded forms return, For languidly and dimly then

The lights of memory burn:
Nor when the noon unfoldeth

Its sunny light and smile,
For these unto their bright repose

The wondering spirit wile :
But when the stars are wending

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.
And, marching in the starlight

Above the sleeping dust,
They freshen all the fountain-springs

Of our undying trust.
Around our every pathway,

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.
BEN BOLT.

Pour Tom! poor Tom !
Do n't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ?

He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough,
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,

Where the low-toned winds are creeping,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, As if to bewail so sad a tale,
And trembled with fear at your frown?

While the eyes of the night are weeping.
In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,

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.
Which stood at the foot of the hill,

Poor Tom ! poor Tom !
Together we've lain in the noonday shade, We were early friends--oh, time still tends
And listened to Appleton's mill:

All the links of our love to sever!
The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, And alas! tiine breaks, but never mends,
The rafters have tumbled in,

[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,
MATTHEW C. FIELD.T

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.
THERE's a new stone now in the old churchyard,

Pour Tom !
And a few withered fowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth, by the fates ill-starr'd,

TO MY SHADOW.
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:

Shadow, just like the thin regard of men,
Poor Tom ! poor Tom !
In his early day to be pluck'd away,

Constant and close to friends, while fortune's bright,

You leave me in the dark, but come again
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray

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 !

EPHRAIM PEABODY.*

LAKE ERIE.

Tuese lovely shores! how lone and still

A hundred years ago,
The unbroken forest stood above,

The waters dash'd below:
The waters of a lonely sea,

Where never sail was furl'd,
Embosom'd in a wilderness,

Which was itself a world.
A hundred years! go back; and lo!

Where, closing in the view,
Juts out the shore, with rapid oar

Darts round a frail canoe.-
'T is a white voyager, and see,

His prow is westward set
O'er the calm wave: hail to thy bold,

World-seeking bark, MARQUETTE!
The lonely bird, that picks his food

Where rise the waves, and sink, At their strange coming, with shrill scream,

Starts from the sandy brink ;
The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky,

Floats o'er on level wing,
And the savage from his covert looks,

With arrow on the string.
A hundred years are past and gone,

And all the rocky coast
Is turreted with shining towns,

An empire's noble boast.
And the old wilderness is changed

To cultured vale and hill;
And the circuit of its mountains

An empire's numbers fill.

Below, as o'er its ocean breadth

The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves

Is glancing in the sun.
I look around to where the sky

Meets the far forest line,
And this imperial domain-

This kingdom-all is mine.
This bending heaven, these floating clouds,

Waters that ever roll,
And wilderness of glory, bring

Their offerings to my soul.
My palace, built by Gon's own hand,

The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,

Pillar'd and roof'd with green. My music is the wind that now

Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences,

My festal lamps are stars.
Though when in this, my lonely home,

My star-watch'd couch I press,
I hear no fond "good-night”-think not

I am companionless.
O, no! I see my father's house,

The hill, the tree, the stream,
And the looks and voices of my home

Come gently to my dream.
And in these solitary haunts,

While slumbers every tree
In night and silence, Gop himself

Seems nearer unto me.
I feel His presence in these shades,

Like the embracing air ;
And as my eyelids close in sleep,

My heart is hush'd in prayer.

TIIE BACKWOODSMAN.

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 ;
Now track the mountain stream, to find

The beaver's lurking place.
I stand upon the mountain's top,

And (solitude profound!)
Not even a woodman's smoke curls up

Within the horizon's bound.

Devout, yet cheerful; pious, not austere;
To others lenient, to himself severe;
Though honour'd, modest; diffident, though praised;
The proud he humbled, and the humble raised;
Studious, yet social; though polite, yet plain;
No man more learned, yet no man less vain.
His fame would universal envy move,
But envy's lost in universal love.
That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt,
Yet certain 't is we ne'er have found them out.
If faults he has, (as man, 't is said, must have,)
They are the only faults he ne'er forgave.
I fatter not: absurd to flatter where
Just praise is fulsome, and oflends the ear.

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
Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.

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;
It minds me I have been, and am again,

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,
This breathing thing from all life else apart:

Ah! leave me not the gloom

Of my eternal tomb
To bear alone-alone!-come to my heart,

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,
And the long woe throbs lingering to its close.

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
It brings my soul of many a parted year.

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
Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old :

Beam on me yet once more,

Ye blessed eyes of yore,
Startling life-blood through all my being cold.

Ah! cease not-phantoms fair

Fill thick the dungeon's air;
They wave me from its gloom-I fly-I stand

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,
And windows low, along the upland glade.

Sing, sing!—I do not dream

It is my own blue stream,
Far, far below, amid the balmy vale;-

I know it by the hedge

Of rose-trees at its edge,
Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:

There, there, mid clustering leaves,

Glimmer my father's eaves,
And the worn threshold of my youth beneath ;-

I know them by the moss,
And the old elms that toss

[wreath. Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray

Sing, sing!-I am not mad-
Sing! that the visions glad

[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,
The liquid stream became a part

Of my internal harmony.
So gladly rush'd the full stream through,

Pleased with the measure of its flow,
So burst the gladness on the view,

It made a song of mirth below.
Yet gray were those o'erarching stones,

And sear and dry the fringing grass,
And mournful with remember'd tones

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.

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