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And rob him of his sleep for many a night,
Getting thee curses: oh, mischievous Sprite!
Thou Rogue-god Mercury! ever glad to cheat
All gods and men ; with mute and noiseless feet
Going in search of mischief ; now to steal
The fiery spear of Mars, now clog the wheel
Of bright Apollo's car, that it may crawl
Most slowly upward: thou whom wrestlers call,
Whether they strive upon the level green
At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen
Of ancient oak, or at the sacred games
In fierce contest: thou whom each then names
In half-thought prayer, when the quick breath is drawn
For the last struggle: thou whom on the lawn
The victor praises, making unto thee
Offering for his proud honours-let us be

Under thy care :
Oh, winged messenger, hear, hear our prayer!

No. VI.- To Bacchus.
Where art thou, Bacchus ? On the vine-spread hills
Of some rich country, where the red wine fills
The cluster'd grapes-staining thy lips all red
With generous liquor-pouring on thy head
The odorous wine, and ever holding up
Unto the smiling sun thy brimming cup,
And filling it with light ? Or doth thy car,
Under the blaze of the far northern star,
Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around
Are shouting Bacchanals and every sound
Of merry revelry, while distant men
Start at thy noisings? Or in shady glen
Reclinest thou, beneath green ivy leaves,
And idlest off the day, while each Faun weaves
Green garlands for thee, sipping the rich bowl
That thou hast given him-while the loud roll
Of thy all-conquering wheels is heard no more,
And thy strong tigers have lain down before

Thy grape-stain'd feet ?

Oh, Bacchus ! come and meet
Thy worshippers, the while, with merry lore

Of ancient song, thy godhead they do greet !

Oh thou who lovest pleasure ! at whose heart
Rich wine is always felt; who hast a part
In all air-swelling mirth; who in the dance
Of merry maidens join'st, where the glance
Of bright black eyes, or white and twingling feet
Of joyous fair ones, doth thy quick eyes greet
Upon some summer green : Maker of joy
To all care-troubled men! who dost destroy
The piercing pangs of grief; for whom the maids
Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades
Hang up thy image, and with beaming looks
Go dancing round, while shepherds with their crooks
Join the glad company, and pass about,
With merry laugh and many a gleesome shout,
Staining with rich dark grapes each little check
They most do love ; and then, with sudden freak,
Taking the willing hand, and dancing on
About the green mound: Oh, thou merry Son

Of lofty Jove!
Wherever thou dost rove

Among the grape-vines, come, ere day is done,

And let us too thy sunny influence prove!

Where art thou, Conqueror ? before whom fell
The jewell'd kings of Ind, when the strong swell
Of thy great multitudes came on them, and
Thou hadst thy thyrsus in thy red right hand,
Shaking it over them, till every

soul
Grew faint as with wild lightning ; when the roll
Of thy great chariot-wheels was on the neck
Of many a conqueror; when thou didst check
Thy tigers and thy lynxes at the shore
Of the broad ocean, and didst still the roar,
Pouring a sparkling and most pleasant wine
Into its waters; when the dashing brine
Toss'd up new odours, and a pleasant scent
Upon its breath, and many who were spent
With weary sickness, breathed of life anew
When wine-inspired breezes on them blew ;-
Bacchus! who bringest all men to thy feet!
Wine-god! with brow of light, and smiles most sweet!

Make this our earth

A sharer in thy mirth-
Let us rejoice thy wine-dew'd hair to greet,

And chant to thee, who gav'st young Joy his birth.
Come to our ceremony! lo, we rear
An altar of bright turf unto thee here,
And crown it with the vine and pleasant leaf
Of clinging ivy: Come, and drive sad Grief
Far from us I lo, we pour thy turf upon
Full cups of wine, bidding the westering sun
Fill the good air with odour; see, a mist
Is rising from the sun-touch'd wine !-(ah! histl
Alas! 'twas not his cry!)—with all thy train
Of laughing Satyrs, pouring out a strain
Of utmost shrillness on the noisy pipe-
Oh, come!-with eye and lip of beauty, ripe
And wondrous rare-oh! let us hear thy wheels
Coming upon the hills, while twilight steals
Upon us quietly-while the dark night
Is hinder'd from her course by the fierce light
Of thy wild tigers' eyes ;-oh! let us see
The revelry of thy wild company,

With all thy train ;

And, ere night comes again,
We'll pass o'er many a hill and vale with thee,

Raising to thee a loudly-joyous strain.

No. VII.-To SOMNUS.

Oh Thou, the leaden-eyed! with drooping lid
Hanging upon thy sight, and eye half.hid
By matted hair : that, with a constant train
Of empty dreams, all shadowless and vain
As the dim wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave
With poppies at the mouth, which night winds wave,
Sending their breathings downward-on thy bed,

Thine only throne, with darkness overspread,
VOL. XLV, NO. CCLXXXIV,

3 H

And curtains black as are the eyes of night :
Thou, who dost come at time of waning light
And sleep among the woods, where night doth hide
And tremble at the sun, and shadows glide
Among the waving tree-tops ; if now there
Thou sleepest in a current of cool air,
Within some nook, amid thick flowers and moss,
Grey.colour'd as thine eyes, while thy dreams toss

Their fantasies about the silent earth,

In waywardness of mirth— Oh, come! and hear the hymn that we are chanting Amid the star-light through the thick leaves slanting.

Thou lover of the banks of idle streams
O'ershaded by broad oaks, with scatter'd gleams
From the few stars upon them; of the shore
Of the broad sea, with silence hovering o'er;
The great moon hanging out her lamp to gild
The murmuring waves with hues all pure and mild,
Where thou dost lie upon the sounding sands,
While winds come dancing on from southern lands
With dreams upon their backs, and unseen waves
Of odours in their hands : thou, in the caves
Of the star-lighted clouds, on summer eves
Reclining lazily, while Silence leaves
Her influence about thee: in the sea
That liest, hearing the monotony
Of wavers far off above thee, like the wings
Of passing dreams, while the great ocean swings

His bulk above thy sand-supported head

(As chain'd upon his bed Some giant, with an idleness of motion, So swings the still and sleep-enthralled ocean). Thou who dost bless the weary with thy touch, And makest Agony relax his clutch Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart; Pale Disappointment lose her constant smart, And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep Her life away, and gain new cheer in sleep : Thou who dost bless the birds, in every place Where they have sung their songs with wondrous grace Throughout the day, and now, with drooping wing, Amid the leaves receive thy welcoming:Come with thy crowd of dreams, oh thou! to whom All noise is most abhorr'd, and in this gloom, Beneath the shaded brightness of the sky, Where are no sounds but as the winds go by,Here touch our eyes, great Somnus! with thy wandAh! here thou art, with touch most mild and bland,

And we forget our hymn, and sink away ;

And here, until broad day
Come up into the sky, with fire-steeds leaping,
Will we recline, beneath the vine leaves sleeping.

No. VIII.-- To Ceres.

Goddess of bounty! at whose spring-time call,
When on the dewy earth thy first tones fall,

Pierces the ground each young and tender blade,
And wonders at the sun ; each dull grey glade
Is shining with new grass ; from each chill hole,
Where they had lain enchain'd and dull of soul,
The birds come forth, and sing for joy to thee
Among the springing leaves; and, fast and free,
The rivers toss their chains up to the sun,
And through their grassy banks leapingly run
When thou hast touch'd them: thou who ever art
The Goddess of all Beauty : thou whose heart
Is ever in the sunny meads and fields;
To whom the laughing earth looks up and yields
Her waving treasures : thou that in thy car,
With winged dragons, when the morning star
Sheds his cold light, touchest the morning trees.
Until they spread their blossoms to the breeze--

Oh, pour thy light

Of truth and joy upon our souls this night, And grant to us all plenty and good ease !

Oh thou, the Goddess of the rustling Corn!
Thou to whom reapers sing, and on the lawn
Pile up their baskets with the full-ear'd wheat;
While maidens come, with little dancing feet,
And bring thee poppies, weaving thee a crown
Of simple beauty, bending their

heads down
To garland thy full baskets : at whose side,
Among the sheaves of wheat, doth Bacchus ride,
With bright and sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth
All wine-stain'd from the warm and sunny south :
Perhaps one arm about thy neck he twines,
While in his car ye ride among the vines,
And with the other hand he gathers up
The rich full grapes, and holds the glowing cup
Unto thy lips—and then he throws it by,
And crowns thee with bright leaves to shade thine eye,
So it may gaze with richer love and light
Upon his beaming brow: If thy swift flight

Be on some hill

Of vine-hung Thrace-oh, come, while night is still, And greet with heaping arms our gladden'd sight!

Lo! the small stars, above the silver wave,
Come wandering up the sky, and kindly lave
The thin clouds with their light, like floating sparks
Of diamonds in the air ; or spirit barks,
With unseen riders, wheeling in the sky.
Lo! a soft mist of light is rising high,
Like silver shining through a tint of red,
And soon the queened moon her love will shed,
Like pearl-mist, on the earth and on the sea,
Where thou shalt cross to view our mystery.
Lo! we have torches here for thee, and urns,
Where incense with a floating odour burns,
And altars piled with various fruits and flowers,
And ears of corn, gather'd at early hours,
And odours fresh from India, with a heap
Of many-coloured poppies:-- Lol we keep

Our silent watch for thee, sitting before
Thy ready altars, till to our lone shore

Thy chariot wheels
Shall come, while Ocean to the burden reels
And utters to the sky a stifled roar.

Little Rock, State of Arkansas,

August 15th, 1838. Sir,—It is with much doubt, and many misgivings, I have been induced by the entreaties of some friends in Boston to send the accompanying trifles in verse from this remote corner of the Union-beyond the Mississippi.

I would fain believe them worthy a place in your inestimable Maga, which regularly reaches me here, two thousand miles from New York, within six or seven weeks of its publication in Edinburgh, and is duly welcomed as it de

Should you judge them worthy of publication, accept them as a testimonial of respect offered by one, resident in South-western forests, to him whose brilliant talents have endeared him, not only to every English, but to multitudes of American bosoms—equally dear as Christopher North and Professor Wilson.

Most respectfully, Sir,
Your obedient servant,

ALBERT PIKE.

serves.

[These fine Hymns, which entitle their author to take his place in the highest order of his country's poets, reached us only a week or two ago_though Mr Pike's most gratifying letter is dated so far back as last August: and we mention this, that he may not suppose such compositions could have lain unhonoured in our repositories from

autumn to spring. His packet was accompanied by a letter--not less gratifying—from Mr Isaac C. Pray_dated New York, April 20th, 1839—and we hope that, before many weeks have elapsed, the friends, though perhaps then almost as far distant from each other as from us, may accept this, our brotherly salutation, from our side of the Atlantic.C. N.

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.

BY ISAAC C. PRAY, JUN,

WITHIN a dell, one Spring, my boyhood knew

A silver rill, which played through clustering ranks

Of white-leafed flowers that thickly fringed its banks ;
And near I often strayed, entranced, to view
And watch the lovely plants, whose blossoms grew

To fullness, as the day, with genial power,

Diffused its sun-light o'er each modest flower.
I left that home-returned, and once more flew,
While Autumn reigned, back to the cherished place;

The rill was not-nor flower nor plant was there,

But earth instead, veiled by a gloomy air ;
I mourned the changes on sweet Nature's face :-

So hast thou vanished, loved one, and alone
I weep that thou with all thy gifts are gone.

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