And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side!
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.
Mount Washington; the loftiest Peak of the White Mountains, N. H.-G. MELLEN.
MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height
The tall rocks brighten in the ether air,
And spirits from the skies come down at night,
To chant immortal songs to Freedom there!
Thine is the rock of other regions; where
The world of life which blooms so far below
Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear,
Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow
Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow.
Thine is the summit where the clouds repose,
Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne;
When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws
His billowy mist amid the thunder's home!
Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come,
And bow the forests as they sweep along;
While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb,
The storms come forth-and, hurrying darkly on,
Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong!
And, when the tumult of the air is fled,
And quenched in silence all the tempest flame,
There come the dim forms of the mighty dead,
Around the steep which bears the hero's name.
The stars look down upon them--and the same
Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave,
Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame,
And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave-
The richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave!
Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws
The hoary mantle of the dying year,
Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows,
Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue;
When, lo! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear,
Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!
To the dying Year.-J. G. WHITTIER.
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!
The Captain. A Fragment.*-Brainard.
SOLEMN he paced upon that schooner's deck,
And muttered of his hardships :-" I have been
Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide
Has dashed me on the sawyer; I have sailed
In the thick night, along the wave-washed edge
Of ice, in acres, by the pitiless coast
Of Labrador; and I have scraped my keel
O'er coral rocks in Madagascar seas;
And often, in my cold and midnight watch,
Have heard the warning voice of the lee shore
Speaking in breakers! Ay, and I have seen
The whale and sword-fish fight beneath my bows;
And, when they made the deep boil like a pot,
Have swung into its vortex; and I know
To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill,
And brave such dangers with a sailor's heart ;—
But never yet, upon the stormy wave,
Or where the river mixes with the main,
Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay,
In all my rough experience of harm,
Met I-a Methodist meeting-house!
Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none,
Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern!
It comes in such a " questionable shape,"
I cannot even speak it! Up jib, Josey,
And make for Bridgeport! There, where Stratford Point,
Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy,
Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest!
And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale,
That once a Charleston schooner was beset,
Riding at anchor, by a meeting-house!
*The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said: "Arrived, schooner Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that harbor, during the rain storm on Thursday evening last, the Fame was run foul of by the wreck of the Methodist meeting-house from Norwich, which was carried away in the late freshet."
"They that seek me early shall find me."-COLUMBIAN STAR.
COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest,
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze;
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways;
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast-
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,
Come, and secure interminable rest.
Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;
Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover
Will to the embraces of the worm have gone;
Those who now bless thee will have passed for ever;
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee;
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be!
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die-
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.
Life is but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray:
O, touch the sceptre !-with a hope in heaven-
Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
Then will the crosses of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul,
And, shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal;
Home of the weary! where, in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss:
Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing,
Who would not early choose a lot like this?
A Son's Farewell to his Mother, and Departure from Home. -CONNECTICUT OBSERVER.
MOTHER-I leave thy dwelling,
Thy counsel and thy care;
With grief my heart is swelling
No more in them to share;
Nor hear that sweet voice speaking
When hours of joy run high,
Nor meet that mild eye seeking
When sorrow's touch comes nigh.
Mother-I leave thy dwelling,
And the sweet hour of prayer;
With grief my heart is swelling
No more to meet thee there.
Thy faith and fervor, pleading
In unspent tones of love,
Perchance my soul are leading
To better hopes above.
Mother-I leave thy dwelling;
Oh! shall it be for ever?
With grief my heart is swelling,
From thee-from thee-to sever.
These arms, that now enfold me
So closely to thy heart,
These eyes, that now behold me,
From all-from all-I part.
Hushed is the Voice of Judah's Mirth. A Sacred Melody.— FROM THE PORT-FOLIO.*
"In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not." St. Matt. ii. 18.
HUSHED is the voice of Judah's mirth;
And Judah's minstrels, too, are gone;
*We are not sensible that this piece is inferior, in any respect whatever, to Moore's celebrated and beautiful Sacred Melodies We lately saw it quoted, and wrongly ascribed to the English poet. It was written iu
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