Of joy were over him, and he was bless'd That he could sing of treasures he possess'd? Treasures more dear Than gold in ingots, or barbaric piles Of pearls and diamonds, thy most precious smiles! O, ruthless Time, some of those treasures now, Make me grow old Before my years are many-take away To be the slave of some strange, barren lore-- Ah! I implore A boon that cannot be, a blessing flown Unto a realm so distant from my own, That, could I soar On eagle's wings, it still would be afar, As if I strove by flight to reach a star! The future vast Before me lifts majestic steeps on high, Which I must stand upon before I die! For, in the past Love buried lies; and nothing lives but fame THE TIRED HUNTER. REST thee, old hunter! the evening cool Thou art very weary-O, rest thee now! O, give some rest to thy tired feet! There's not a nook in the forest wide Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee; Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before. To hail thy coming ere fall of day;But thou art a score of miles from home, And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome, And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze. Thou must even rest! for thou canst not tread Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows, And a sapphire light over earth is spread, The place where thy wife and babes repose. Rest thee a while-and then journey on Through the wide forest, and over the moor: Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun, And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door! THE DEPARTED. THE departed! the departed! In constant lustre burn, Can never more return! The good, the brave, the beautiful, I look around and feel the awe That solemn voice! it mingles with Each free and careless strain; The thrilling notes of birds, As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles I AM NOT OLD. I AM not old--though years have cast I am not old--though youth has pass'd THE DOVE'S ERRAND. Under cover of the night, Now I bind a perfumed letter Round your neck with silken fetter; Bear it safely, bear it well, Over mountain, lake, and dell. While the darkness is profound In that vale, with dwellings strown, By a lattice, wreathed with flowers To her lips the lines she'll press, And again my dove caress. Mine, yes, mine-O, would that I Could on rapid pinions fly! Then I should not send you, dove, On an errand to my love: For I'd brave the sharpest gale, And along the tempest sail; Caring not for danger near, Hurrying heedless, void of fear, But to hear one tender word, Breathed for me, my happy bird! At the early dawn of day, She will send you on your way, Twining with another fetter Round your neck another letter. Speed ye, then, O, swiftly speed, Like a prisoner newly freed: O'er the mountain, o'er the vale, Homeward, homeward, swiftly sail! Never, never poise a plume, Though beneath you Edens bloom: Never, never think of rest, Till night's shadow turns your breast From pure white to mottled gray, And the stars are round your way,― Love's bright beacons, they will shine, Dove, to show your home and mine! 439 "HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!" How cheery are the mariners- Those lovers of the sea! Their hearts are like its yesty waves, As bounding and as free. They whistle when the storm-bird wheels And sing when deep in foam the ship What care the mariners for gales? The vessel stout will ride it out, With streamers down and canvass furl'd, A silken-tassell'd boat; And some with watchful eyes, That roll along the skies. GoD keep those cheery mariners! To brave the mighty sea! LINES SPOKEN BY A BLIND BOY. THE bird, that never tried his wing, O! may I not as happy dwell The earth was never green to me: I never saw my father's face, To join the ring, to speed the chase, Yet though delightful flew the hours, And though I never long'd to view Now, since I've learn'd to read and write, I live in song, and peace, and joy,- THE ELYSIAN ISLE. "It arose before them, the most beautiful island in the world."-IRVING'S Columbus. Ir was a sweet and pleasant isle As fair as isle could be; It glows as greenly now. Through the gloom of its leafy bowers, I've seen its bird with the crimson wing On the evening waters die. In the starry noon of its brilliant night, that lie And I gather'd the shells that buried were Of the spirits that dwell in the air; Yet thou art treasured in my heart As in thine own deep sea; THERE is no type of indolence like this: A ship in harbour, not a signal flying, The wave unstirr'd about her huge sides lying, Sailors recumbent, listless, stretch'd around To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found Some are asleep, some whistle, try to sing, SPORT. To see a fellow of a summer's morning, Of harmless murder, yet it is to me For well I know that when he's out of town, He and his dog and gun will all lie down, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown. M. I. BORN in the north, and rear'd in tropic lands: Her mind has all the vigour of a tree, Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea, And all the sweetness of a rose that stands In the soft sunshine on some shelter'd lea. She seems all life, and light, and love to me! No winter lingers in her glowing smile, No coldness in her deep, melodious words, But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle, And all the music of its tuneful birds. With her conversing of my native bowers, In the far south, I feel the genial air Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers, Which, like herself, are bright above compare. TO MY SISTER. SISTER! dear sister, I am getting old: My hair is thinner, and the cheerful light That glisten'd in mine eyes is not as bright, Though while on thee I look, 'tis never cold. My hand is not so steady while I pen 441 These simple words to tell how warm and clear Flows my heart's fountain toward thee,sister dear! For years I've lived among my fellow-men, [joys, Shared their deep passions, known their griefs and And found Pride, Power, and Fame but gilded And, sailing far upon Ambition's waves, [toys; Beheld brave mariners on a troubled sea, [graves. Meet, what they fear'd not--shipwreck and their My spirit seeks its haven, dear, with thee! ΤΟ 'Tis Winter now--but Spring will blossom soon, And flowers will lean to the embracing airAnd the young buds will vie with them to share Each zephyr's soft caress; and when the Moon Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling Her arrowy lustre through some vapour's wing, The streamlets will return the glance of night From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by Spring Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite, Instead of Winter's crumbled sparks of white. So, dearest! shall our loves, though frozen now By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers, Like fountain's flash, for Hope with smiling brow Tells of a Spring, whose sweets shall all be ours! ΤΟ LADY, farewell! my heart no more to thee Bends like the Parsee to the dawning sun; No more thy beauty lights the world for me, Or tints with gold the moments as they run. A cloud is on the landscape, and the beams That made the valleys so divinely fair, And scatter'd diamonds on the gliding streams, And crown'd the mountains in their azure airAre veil'd forever!--Lady, fare thee well! Sadly as one who longeth for a sound To break the stillness of a deep profound, I turn and strike my frail, poetic shell:-Listen! it is the last; for thee alone My heart no more shall wake its sorrowing tone. TO A LADY WITH A BOUQUET. FLOWERS are love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining rods of Magi old, Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, But love--strong love, that never can decay! I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem All eloquent of feelings unexpress'd. O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair! Let them repose upon thy forehead fair, And on thy bosom's yielding snow be press'd! Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal The love that maiden coyness would conceal! RALPH HOYT. [Born about 1810.] REV. RALPH Horr was born in the city of New York, of which he is a resident, in the second lustrum of the present century. After passing several years as a teacher, and as a writer for the gazettes, he studied theology, and was ordained a presbyter of the Protestant Episcopal church in 1842. Verse is but an episode, though a natural one, in the life of a clergyman devoted to the active pursuit of good. Mr. Horr may have written much, but he has acknowledged little. He is known chiefly by «The Chaunt of Life and other Poems," published in 1844, and by the second portion of "The Chaunt of Life," etc., which appeared in the summer of 1845. The Chat of Life" is chiefly occupied with passages of per sonal sentiment and reflection. The pieces entitled "Snow" and "The World for Sale," in his first volume, attracted more attention, and the authe was led to pursue the vein, in "New" and "0" which were subsequently written. A simple, tural current of feeling runs through them; the versification grows out of the subject, and the what clings to us as something written from the heat of the author. A few such pieces have often prolonged a reputation, while writers of greater effort have been forgotten. OLD. Br the wayside, on a mossy stone, By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat, Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat. No one sympathising, no one heeding, Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there. " HERE'S A FOOL!" It was summer, and we went to school. When the stranger seem'd to mark our play, When the stranger seemed to mark our play. Ah! to me her name was always heaven! (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) ISABEL! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. Angel, said he sadly, I am old; I have totter'd here to look once more All the picture now to me how dear! Ah, that such a scene must be completed In the cottage, yonder, I was born; Ah, forlorn! In the cottage, yonder, I was born. Those two gate-way sycamores you see, |