"Pity" thee! so I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar

But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine

What were ten thousand to a fame like mine

"Hereafter!" Aye-hereafter!

A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave death ever from his kingdom back
To check the sceptic's laughter?

Come from the grave tomorrow with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man! we die

Even as the flowers, and shall breathe away

Our life upon the chance wind, even as they.— Strain well thy fainting eye—

For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,

The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes, as it won me—
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me!

Aye-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst ;-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,

And taunt its mother till my brain went wild ;—

All I would do it all

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot

Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot-
O Heavens !-but I appal

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint! rack him till he revives !

Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye

Glazes apace.

He does not feel you now

Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one, till I eclipse

Conception with the scorn of those proud lips!

Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now-that was a difficult breath-
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?

Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Ah! lift then up his head!

Heshudders-gasps-Jove help him-so-he's dead.

JAMES G. WHITTIER.

66

FROM THE MINSTREL GIRL."

SHE leaned against her favorite tree,

The golden sunlight melting through

The twined branches, as the free

And easy-pinioned breezes flew

Around the bloom and greenness there,
Awaking all to life and motion,

Like unseen spirits sent to bear

Earth's perfume to the barren ocean.

That ocean lay before her then,

Like a broad lustre, to send back

The scattered beams of day again,

To burn along its sunset track!

And broad and beautiful it shone ;
As quickened by some spiritual breath,

Its very waves seemed dancing on

To music whispered underneath.

And there she leaned, that minstrel girl!
The breeze's kiss was soft and meek
Where coral melted into pearl

On parted lip and glowing cheek;
Her dark and lifted eye had caught
Its lustre from the spirit's gem;
And round her brow the light of thought
Was like an angel's diadem;

For genius, as a living coal,

Had touched her lip and heart with flame,

And on the altar of her soul

The fire of inspiration came.

And early she had learned to love

Each holy charm to Nature given,—

The changing earth, the skies above,
Were prompters to her dreams of Heaven!
She loved the earth-the streams that wind
Like music from its hills of green-
The stirring boughs above them twined—
The shifting light and shade between ;-
The fall of waves—the fountain gush-
The sigh of winds-the music heard
At even-tide, from air and bush-
The minstrelsy of leaf and bird.
But chief she loved the sunset sky-
Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn
To form the gorgeous canopy

Of monarchs to their slumbers gone!

The sun went down,-and, broad and red,
One moment, on the burning wave,
Rested his front of fire, to shed

A glory round his ocean-grave:
And sunset-far and gorgeous hung
A banner from the wall of heaven--
A wave of living glory, flung

Along the shadowy verge of even.

TO THE DYING YEAR.

AND thou, gray voyager to the breezeless sea

Of infinite Oblivion, speed thou on!

Another gift of Time succeedeth thee,

Fresh from the hand of God! for thou hast done

The errand of thy destiny, and none

May dream of thy returning. Go! and bear
Mortality's frail records to thy cold,
Eternal prison-house ;-the midnight prayer

Of suffering bosoms, and the fevered care
Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold;
Ambition's grasp at greatness; the quenched light
Of broken spirits; the forgiven wrong.

And the abiding curse. Ay, bear along

These wrecks of thine own making. Lo! thy knell Gathers upon the windy breath of night,

Its last and faintest echo! Fare thee well!