THE FALCONER

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I have a falcon swift and peerless
As e'er was cradled in the pine,
No bird had ever eye so fearless
Or wing so strong as this of mine;
The winds not better love to pilot
The clouds with molten gold o'errun,
Than him, a little burning islet,
A star above the sunken sun.

But better he loves the lusty morning
When the last white star yet stands at bay,
And earth, half-waked, smiles a child's forewarning
Of the longed-for mother-kiss of day;
Then with a lark's heart doth he tower,
By a glorious upward instinct drawn,-
No bee nestles deeper in the flower,
Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.
What joy to see his sails uplifted
Against the worst that gales can dare,
Through the northwester's surges drifted,
Bold viking of the sea of air!

His eye is fierce, yet mildened over
With something of a dove-like ruth,
I am his master less than lover.-
His short and simple name is Truth.
Whene'er some hoary owl of Error
Lags, though his native night be past,
And at the sunshine hoots his terror,
The falcon from my wrist I cast;
Swooping, he scares the birds uncleanly
That in the holy temple prey,
Then in the blue air floats serenely
Above their hoarse anathema.

The herd of patriot wolves, that, stealing,
To gorge on martyred Freedom run,
Fly, howling, when his shadow, wheeling,
Flashes between them and the sun;
Well for them that our once proud eagle
Forgets his empire of the sky,
And, stript of every emblem regal,
Does buzzard's work for Slavery.
Mount up, my falcon brave and kingly,
Stoop not from thy majestic height,
The terror of thy shadow, singly,
Can put a thousand wrongs to flight;
Wherever in all God's dominions
One ugly falsehood lurks apart,
Let the dread rustle of thy pinions
Send palsy to its traitor-heart.

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,

Shudders to see thee overhead;

The rush of thy fierce swooping bringeth
To innocent hearts no thrill of dread;
Let frauds and wrongs and falsehoods shiver,
For, still, between them and the sky,
The falcon Truth hangs poised forever,
And marks them with his vengeful eye.

LOVE AND LIVE.

I said once, madly, that I'd hate my race,
For so much base ingratitude and wrong
As it had measured out to me, in place

Of justice, which it had deferred so long.
My best affections I thought wasted long enough,
On what rewarded only with a cold rebuff.

I turned away, and went in search of rest
And peace in Nature's quiet solitude :—
Here all I found with loving kindness blest,

And here I found for resignation,-food :— Here first I learnt to know myself, and sought to know What I was for, and what for all things live and grow.

In stagnant pools I saw the lily nourished

By fragrant roses on their borders shaded;
I saw the woodbine here with ivy flourished,
And birds for pleasure in their waters waded;

I saw pink meadow-sweet by poison hemlock grow,
And read a lesson here-a truth that all should know.
I wandered to the woods and cheerful groves,
And found them full of joy and melody;
The birds seemed happy singing of their loves,

And nought seemed lonely I could hear or see; The flowers gave their bloom and fragrance to each

other,

And all seemed near akin-as near as friend or brother.

The trees were social and the flowers and birds, And nothing lonely was, nor yet unloved; All seemed to chide my mood almost in words, More eloquent than I could hear unmoved; To make bird-cradles, vines and branches interlocked, And floral bells sang lullabies as these were rocked. I saw that nothing could exist alone

That all was made by love, and lived for love; And all that lived in borrowed colors shone

All bade me back to love and friendship move.

I went, and tried my best to love my fellow-men, And by the law of life abide, and live again.

THE GOOD.

BY ANNE C. LYNCH.

"The Prophets, do they live forever."-Zech. 1.5.

Those spirits God ordained

To stand the watchmen on the outer wall, Upon whose soul the beams of truth first fall, They who reveal the Ideal, the unattained, And to their age, in stirring tones and high, Speak out for God, Truth, Man and LibertySuch Prophets, do they die?

GONE.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

——————————“ Gone before To that unseen and silent shore, Shall we not meet as heretofore

Some summer morning?"-LAMB.

Another hand is beckoning us,

Another call is given;

And glows once more with Angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.

Our young and gentle friend whose smile
Made brighter summer hours,
Amid the frosts of autumn time

Has left us, with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom
Forewarned us of decay;

No shadow from the Silent Land
Fell around our sister's way.

The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill

The glory of a setting star

Clear, suddenly and still.

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemedEternal as the sky;

And like the brook's low song, her voice-
A sound which could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
To give to Heaven a Shining One,
Who walked an Angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life

Fell on us like the dew;

And good thoughts, where her footsteps fell, Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds

Were in her very look;

We read her face, as one who reads

The measure of a blessed hymn,
To which our hearts could move;
The breathing of an inward psalm;
A canticle of love.

We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear
Once more her sweet" Good night!"

There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,
Like eyes that look through tears.
Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled;
That he whose love exceedeth ours
Hath taken home His child.

Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms,

And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and Thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,

And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in Goodness strong.

And, grant that she who, trembling, here
Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home
The well belov'd of ours.

Hail, holy light!' exclaim'd

The thunderous cloud that flamed

O'er daisies white;

And lo, the rose, in crimson dress'd, Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast,

And blushing, murmur'd, Light'
Then was the sky-lark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;
Then floods of praise
Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon,
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.

Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers all clad

In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod;
And darker than the tomb?

No, by the MIND of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our sire!

Our souls have holy light within, And every form of grief and sin Shall see and feel its fire.

By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven !
Mind, mind alone,

In light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night, from this bless'd hour,
The night of minds, is gone!

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Where time the measure of his hours

By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And like a young bride crowned with flowers, Far Shiraz in her garden sleeps;

Where, to her poet's turban stone,

The Spring her grateful gifts impart,
Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown
In the warm soil of Persian hearts;
There sat the stranger, where the shade
Of scattered date-trees thinly lay,
While in the hot clear heaven delayed
The long, and still, and weary day.
Strange trees and fruits above him hung,
Strange odors filled the sultry air,
Strange birds upon the branches swung,
Strange insect voices murmured there.

And strange bright blossoms shone around,
Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers,
As if the Gheber's soul had found

A fitting home in Iran's flowers.
Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard,

Awakened feelings new and sad,-
No Christian garb, nor Christian word,
Nor church with Sabbath bell chimes glad,

But Moslem graves, with turban stones,

And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view, And grey-beard Mollahs in low tones

Chanting their Korar. service through.

As if the burning eye of Baal

The servant of his Conqueror knew, From skies which knew no cloudy veil,

The Sun's hot glances smote him through,
The flowers which smiled on either hand

Like tempting fiends, were such as they
Which once, o'er all that Eastern land,
As gifts on demon altars lay.

Ah me!" the lonely stranger said,

.. The hope which led my footsteps on, And light from Heaven around them shed, O'er weary wave and waste, is gone! "Where are the harvest fields all white, For Truth to thrust her sickle in? Where flock the souls, like doves in flight From the dark hiding place of sin? "A silent horror broods o'er allThe burden of a hateful spellThe very flowers around recall

The hoary magi's rites of hell! "And what am I, o'er such a land

The banner of the Cross to bear?
Dear Lord uphold me with thy hand,
Thy strength with human weakness share!"

He ceased; for at his very feet

In mild rebuke, a floweret smiled-
How thrilled his sinking heart to greet
The Star-flower of the Virgin's child!
Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew
Its life from alien air and earth,
And told to Paynim Sun and Dew

The story of the Saviour's birth.
From scorching beams, in kindly mood,
The Persian plants its beauty screened;
And on its pagan sisterhood,

In love, the Christian floweret leaned.
With tears of joy the wanderer felt

The darkness of his long despair Before that hallowed symbol melt,

Which God's dear love had nurtured there.

From Nature's face, that simple flower

The lines of sin and sadness swept;
And Magian pile and Paynim bower
In peace like that of Eden slept.
Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old,
Looked holy through the sunset air;
And angel-like, the Muezzin told

From tower and mosque the hour of prayer.

With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn
From Shiraz saw the stranger part;

The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born
Still blooming in his hopeful heart!

SONG.

BY FELICIA D. HEMANS.

What woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way

Along the Nile's green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning's fire-

But sunlight's touch-the kind-the warm-
This woke the mystic lyre!
This, this, awoke the lyre!

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour Their music forth on life,

Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er

The sounds of torrent strife?
Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,

Nor e'en the triumph's hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong

To wake that music's power!
His breath awakes that power!

FOREFATHERS' DAY,

The 225th anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims was celebrated at Plymouth on the 22d inst. with the usual empty declamation about their virtues, sufferings and sacrifices. Among those who made speeches at the dinner given on the occasion were Edward Everett and Rufus Choate,-men who have not an atom of moral heroism in their composition, and who stand in this evil generation, where the time-serving and pusillanimous in all ages have s'ood. Respecting this matter, we find in the Boston Courier, of Tuesday last, the following original lines, which cut to the quick,' and which, though unaccompanied by any name or signature, we are almost certain were written by that true poet of Humanity and Freedom, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.-Liberator, for 2nd mo. 2, 1846.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH.

My wonder, then, was not unmixed
With merciful suggestion,
When, as my musing eye grew fixed
Upon the chair in question,
I saw its trembling arms enclose
A figure grim and rusty,

Whose doublet plain and plainer hose
Were somewhat worn and musty.
Now even those men whom nature forms

Only to fill the street with,

Once changed to ghosts by hungry worms,
Are serious things to meet with.
Your penitent spirits are no jokes,
And, though I'm not averse to
A cheerful ghost, they are not folks
One chooses to speak first to.

I sate one evening in my room

In that sweet hour of twilight,

When mingling thoughts,-half light, half gloom,——
Throng through the spirit's skylight;

The flames by fits curl'd round the bars,
And up the chimney crinkled,

While embers dropped, like falling stars,
And in the ashes tinkled.

I sate and mused; the fire burned low,
And, o'er my senses stealing,
Crept something of that ruddy glow
Which bloomed on wall and ceiling;
My pictures (they are very few,
The heads of ancient wise men,)

Smoothed down their knotty fronts, and grew
As rosy as excisemen.

Mine ancient, high-backed Spanish chair
Felt thrills through wood and leather

That had been strangers long since, while,
'Mid Andalusian heather,

The oak, that made its sturdy frame,
His happy arms stretched over

The ox, whose fortunate hide became
The bottom's polished cover.

It came out in that famous bark
That brought our sires intrepid,
Capacious as another ark
For furniture decrepid;

For as that saved of bird and beast

A pair for propagation,

So has the seed of these increased,
And furnished half the nation.

Kings sit, they say, in slippery seats;
But those slant precipices
Of ice, the northern sailor meets,
Less slippery are than this is;

To cling therein would pass the wit

Of royal man or woman,
And whatsoe'r can stay in it
Is more or less than human.

By Charon kindly ferried,

To tell me of some mighty sum
Behind the wainscot buried?
There is a buccaneerish air
About that garb outlandish-
Just then the ghost drew up his chair
And said, "My name is Standish."
There was a bluntness in his way
That pleased my taste extremely;
The native man had fullest play,
Unshackled by the seemly:

His bold, gray eye could not conceal
Some flash of the fanatic,

His words, like doughty blows on steel,
Rang sharply through my attic.

"I come from Plymouth, deadly bored
With songs and toasts and speeches
As long and flat as my old sword,
As threadbare as my breeches;
They understand us Pilgrims! they,
Smooth men with rosy faces,

Strength's knots and gnarls all pared away,
And varnish in their places!

"We had some roughness in our grain;

The eye to rightly see us is

Not just the one that lights the brain

Of drawing-room Tyrtæuses;-
Such talk about their Pilgrim blood,
Their birthrights high and holy!—
A mountain stream that ends in mud
Methinks is melancholy.

He had stiff knees, the Puritan,
That were not good at bending;
The homespun dignity of Man
He thought was worth defending;
He did not, with his pinchbeck ore,
His country's shame forgotten,
Gild Freedom's coffin o'er and o'er
While all within was rotten.