STRIVE on the ocean ne'er was cross'd,
Repining on the shore;
A nation's freedom ne'er was won
When sloth the banner bore.
Strive on 'tis cowardly to shrink
When dangers rise around;
'Tis sweeter far, though link'd with pain,
To gain the vantage ground.
Bright names are on the roll of Fame;
Like stars they shine on high;
They may be hid with brighter rays,
But never, never die!
And these were lighted 'mid the gloom
Of low obscurity,
Struggling through years of pain and toil,
And joyless poverty.
But strive-this world's not all a waste,
A wilderness of care;
Green spots are on the field of life,
And flow'rets blooming fair.
Then strive-but, oh! let virtue be
The guardian of your aim!
Let pure, unclouded love illume
The path that leads to fame!
W. CULLEN BRYANT.
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play in the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray;
On the leaping waters and gay young isles,
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
THE poor man's child-oh! hear his tale,
Wordless, yet on his pale brow stamp'd;
Born, nursed, and fed in sorrow's vale,
With every noble impulse cramp'd.
In stern experience, see the man;
In woes, the martyr; years, the child!
Few care his fire of love to fan,
Or train each impulse, fond or wild.
Man counts by weight of gold-dust, worth ;
And not by virtue's stamp of soul:
But God bids Genius visit earth,
And cast sweet drops in sorrow's bowl.
Oh! then, my boy, in whose bright eye
Language and love portray'd I
Wake to a sense of right!-the sky
Of knowledge hath its stars for thee.
Wake, and look up! the grey dawn's light;
Want hath not blighted that which smiled
Thy nobler portion. Mind is might!
And oft great-soul'd, the poor man's child!
And struggle still, ye sacred fires!
Immortal soul, look upward-on!
Will He who gives them, quench desires,
Oppress the fall'n, or leave the lone?
Worlds may dissolve, and matter change
Its form, its nature; yet shall dwell
In every sphere, the soul's wide range,
Crown'd with a light ineffable.
THE GRAVES OF THE HOUSEHOLD.
THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee;-
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight :-
Where are those dreamers now?
One 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd,
Above the noble slain;
He wrapp'd his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth!
Aн, smiling cherub! cheating Hope, adieu!
No more I'll listen to your pleasing themes;
No more your flattering scenes with joy renew,
For ah! I've found them all delusive dreams;
Yes, mere delusions all-therefore, adieu!
No more shall you this aching heart beguile; No more your fleeting joys will I pursue,
That mock'd my sorrows when they seem'd to smile. And flatter'd tales that never will be true:
Tales only told to aggravate distress,
And make me at my fate the more repine ;
By whispering joys I never can possess,
And painting scenes that never can be mine.
COME, pensive Autumn, with thy clouds and storms,
And falling leaves, and pastures lost in flowers;
A luscious charm hangs on thy faded forms,
More sweet than Summer in her loveliest hours;
Who, in her blooming uniform of green,
Delights with samely and continued joy:
But give me, Autumn, where thy hand hath been;
For there is wildness that can never cloy :-
The russet hue of fields left bare, and all
The tints of leaves and blossoms ere they fall.
In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes,
Wild music softens in thy hollow winds;
And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms,
That's more than dear to melancholy minds.
THE FEAST OF LIFE.
L. E. L. (LÆTITIA E. LANDON.)
I BID thee to my mystic Feast;
Each one thou lov'st is gather'd there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around;
But beauty from which bloom has fled;
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