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 « Chaunt of Life" is chiefly occupied with passages of personal sentiment and reflection. The pieces entitled "Snow" and "The World for Sale," in his first volume, attracted more attention, and the author was led to pursue the vein, in "New" and "Old," which were subsequently written. A simple, natural current of feeling runs through them; the versification grows out of the subject, and the whole clings to us as something written from the heart of the author. A few such pieces have often prolonged a reputation, while writers of greater effort have been forgotten. OLD. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, All the landscape like a page perusing; By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat, Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding, Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat, Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding, There he sat ! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat. Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathising, no one heeding, Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there. Dapper country lads, and little maidens, When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, Ah! to me her name was always heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. Angel, said he sadly, I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told, Then his eye betray'd a pearl of sorrow, Down it roll'd! Angel, said he sadly, I am old! I have totter'd here to look once more Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 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 All the picture now to me how dear! Old stone school-house!-it is still the same! In the cottage, yonder, I was born; Long my happy home-that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn! In the cottage, yonder, I was born. Those two gate-way sycamores you see, There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb! There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails In the crops of buckwheat we were raising, There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Where the lily of my heart was blowing, There's the mill that ground our yellow grain! There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table; There's the gate on which I used to swing! I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled! Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said, When around it Jane and I were straying: She is dead! I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled! Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Tracing silently life's changeful story, Points me to seven that are now in glory Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky! Sire and sisters, and my little brother; Oft the aisle of that old church we trod! There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways, Bless the holy lesson !—but, ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise, Those sweet voices,-silent now for ever! Peaceful days! There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways! There my Mary blest me with her hand, When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hasten'd to the spirit-land; Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; There my Mary blest me with her hand! I have come to see that grave once more, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted I have come to see that grave once more. Angel, said he sadly, I am old! Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told: In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! Angel, said he sadly, I am old! By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him, sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown, By the wayside, on a mossy stone! NEW. STILL sighs the world for something new, For something new; Imploring me, imploring you, Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue; Each pleasure, tasted, fades away, Nor you, nor I can bid it stay, A dew-drop trembling on a spray; Fill up life's chalice to the brim; "Tis only a capricious whim; A dreamy phantom, flitting dim, SHE. She, young and fair, expects delight; The rose, once gather'd, cannot please, Ah, simple maid, a rose to seize, That only blooms to tempt and tease: "Tis winter, but she pines for spring; Unhappy, discontented thing; No bliss its frost and follies bring; She pines for spring! Delicious May, and azure skies; With flowers of paradisial dyes; Now, maiden, happy be and wise: Ah, JUNE can only charm her eyes With flowers of paradisial dyes, And azure skies! The glowing, tranquil summertime; Too listless in a maiden's prime, Too listless in a maiden's prime, The summertime! October! with earth's richest store; Earth's richest store; Alas! insipid as before; Days, months, and seasons, o'er and o'er, Remotest lands their treasures pour; Alas, insipid as before, Earth's richest store! Love nestles in that gentle breast; Ah, love will never let it rest; A viper in a linnet's nest, Ah, love will never let it rest; Could she embark on Fashion's tide; On fashion's tide; How gaily might a maiden glide ;— How gaily might a maiden glide, Ah, maiden, time will make thee smart: Will make thee smart; Some new, and keen, and poison'd dart, Will pierce at last that restless heart; Youth, friends, and beauty will depart; Some new, and keen, and poisoned dart, Will make thee smart! So pants for change the fickle fair; A feather, floating in the air, Still wafted here, and wafted there, No charm, no hazard worth her care; . A feather floating in the air, The fickle fair! HE. How sad his lot, the hapless swain; With care, and toil, in heat and rain, To speed the plough or harvest-wain; Still reaping only fields of grain, Youth, weary youth, 'twill soon be past; His MANHOOD's happiness shall last; Now toiling up ambition's steep; The rugged path is hard to keep; The spring how far! the well how deep! Ah me! in folly's bower asleep! The rugged path is hard to keep; Ambition's steep! The dream fulfilled! rank, fortune, fame; Rank, fortune, fame; Vain fuel for celestial flame! He wins and wears a glittering name, Sweet beauty aims with Cupid's bow; With Cupid's bow; Can she transfix him now?-ah, no! Can she transfix him now?-ah, no, Indulgent heav'n, O grant but this, The boon shall be enough of bliss, The Eden won:-insatiate still; A wider, fairer range, he will; Some mountain higher than his hill; Some prospect fancy's map to fill; A wider, fairer range, he will; Insatiate still! From maid to matron, son to sire; Each bosom burns with quenchless fire, In some new phoenix of desire; Each bosom burns with quenchless fire, Still sighs the world for something new; For something new; Imploring me, imploring you Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue. Ah hapless world, what will it do; Imploring me, imploring you, FOR SOMETHING NEW! SALE. THE WORLD FOR SALE!-Hang out the sign; And set me from earth's bondage free:"Tis going!Yes, I mean to fling The bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'r it bring; The World at Auction here to-day! It is a glorious thing to see, Ah, it has cheated me so sore! It is not what it seems to be: For sale! It shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear; "Tis going-going!-I must sell! Who bids?-Who'll buy the Splendid Tear? Here's WEALTH in glittering heaps of gold,Who bids?-But let me tell you fair, A baser lot was never sold; Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care? A goodly landscape all may trace; "Tis going-Love and I must part! Who bids for Friendship-as it is! "Tis going-going!-Hear the call: Once, twice, and thrice!-'Tis very low! Ye millions, now's the time to buy! How much for Fame! How much for Fame! Hear how it thunders!-Would you stand On high Olympus, far renown'd,— Now purchase, and a world command!— And be with a world's curses crown'd! Sweet star of HOPE! with ray to shine In every sad foreboding breast, Save this desponding one of mine,— Who bids for man's last friend and best! This treasure should my soul sustain ; And SONG!-For sale my tuneless lute; Or e'en were mine a wizard shell, Has taught my haughty heart to bow. Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long, And still its aching throb to bear ;How broken, that was once so strong; How heavy, once so free from care. No more for me life's fitful dream;Bright vision, vanishing away! My bark requires a deeper stream; My sinking soul a surer stay. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod, The best of all I still have left,My Faith, my Bible, and my God. SNOW. THE blessed morn is come again; Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, "Break, break from the enchanter's chain, Away,-away!" "Tis winter, yet there is no sound Of winds upon their battle-ground, The snow is falling,-all around The jocund fields would masquerade; Fantastic scene! Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade Have cast their green, And join'd the revel, all array'd So white and clean. E'en the old posts, that hold the bars Forgetful of their wintry wars High-capp'd, and plumed, like white hussars, Stand there in state. The drifts are hanging by the sill, The eaves, the door; The hay-stack has become a hill; The wagon, loaded for the mill Maria brings the water-pail,But where's the well! Like magic of a fairy tale, Most strange to tell, All vanish'd,-curb, and crank, and rail;— How deep it fell! The wood-pile too is playing hide; The axe-the log The kennel of that friend so tried(The old watch-dog,) The grindstone standing by its side, All now incog. The bustling cock looks out aghast No spot to scratch him a repast, Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime Like Memnon's music of old time- So marbled they-and so sublime Good Ruth has called the younker folk Full welcome was the word she spoke, The cottage quietude is broke,— Now rises from around the fire A pleasant strain; Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire! A hymn to the Eternal Sire The patriarchal Book divine, Upon the knee, Opes where the gems of Judah shine,(Sweet minstrelsie!) How soars each heart with each fair line, Around the altar low they bend, As snows upon the roof descend, Guard o'er that household, to defend Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze; Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise, The old round stand her nod obeys, Unerring presages declare The banquet near; Soon, busy appetites are there; And disappear The glories of the ample fare, With thanks sincere. Now let the busy day begin:— Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin, To delve his threshing John must hie; Can all the subtle damp defy: How wades he through! While dainty milkmaids, slow and shy, Each to the hour's allotted care: The broken harness to repair; So cheerful-tranquil-snowy-fair, EXTRACT FROM THE CHAUNT OF LIFE. GIVE me to love my fellow, and in love, If with none other grace to chaunt my strain, Sweet key-note of soft cadences above, Sole star of solace in life's night of pain. Chief gem of Eden, fractured in that fall That ruin'd two fond hearts, and tarnish'd all! Redeemer! be thy kindly spirit mine; That pearl of Paradise to me restore, Pure, fervent, fearless, lasting, love divine, Sad prelude I have sung, by Sorrow led Along the mournful shades that own her sway, Where, by a stream that weeping eyes have shed, Low chaunted I my melancholy lay, In pensive concord with the sootheless wail Of sighing wanderers in that lonely vale. Ah, chide not those whose wo seems hard to bear, The heart must hover where its treasures sleep. I saw the great, the wise, the gifted there, With humbler multitudes compell'd to weep; No penury, no wealth commands relief! No serf, no sovereign in the realms of grief! |