My ear was like the wayward strings,
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;
And fitful in its echoings
Has my spirit been before.
But something in my inmost heart
Responds to each touch of thine,
And bids me own thy wondrous art
The soul of the "tuneful Nine."
Yes, all I've dreamed of bright or fair
Is but imbodied sound:
Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around!
All Nature hath of breezy grace,
In motion swift and free,-
Each lovely hue upon her face,—
Is living melody.
Well might thy witchery inspire
The bard's enraptured lay,
And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play;-
But vainly would the haunted king
Have sought relief from thee;
For chained had been each demon's wing
By thy rich minstrelsy.
Priestess of a mighty power,
My spirit worships thee;
For inspiration is thy dower-
Thy voice is poetry.
Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Charlestown.-PIERPONT."
Two hundred years!-two hundred years!—
How much of human power and pride,
There is uncommon grandeur, both of thought and expression, in several of Mr. Pierpont's occasional odes. This piece, Napoleon at Rest, and the Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in their general character, and all truly sublime.-ED.
What glorious hopes, what'gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide !-
The red man, at his horrid rite,
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon ;
His dance, his yell, his counsel fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.
And that pale pilgrim band is gone,
That, on this shore, with trembling trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on
The ark of freedom and of God.
And war-that, since, o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark-its storm is still.
Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,
Has raised, and shown, and swept along.
'Tis like a dream when one awakes-
This vision of the scenes of old;
'Tis like the moon when morning breaks;
'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told.
Then what are we !-then what are we !---
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.
God of our fathers,-in whose sight
The thousand years, that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,
Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.
The Family Bible.-ANONYMOUS.
How painfully pleasing the fond recollection
Of youthful connexions and innocent joy,
When, blessed with parental advice and affection,
Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high,
I still view the chair of my sire and my mother,
The seats of their offspring as ranged on each hand, And that richest of books, which excelled every other That family Bible, that lay on the stand;
The old-fashioned Bible, the dear, blessed Bible,
The family Bible, that lay on the stand.
That Bible, the volume of God's inspiration,
At morn and at evening, could yield us delight,
And the prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation,
For mercy by day, and for safety through night.
Our hymns of thanksgiving, with harmony swelling,
All warm from the heart of a family band,
Half raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling,
Described in the Bible, that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other-
The family Bible, that lay on the stand.
Ye scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted;
My hope's almost gone, and my parents no more;
In sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted,
And wander unknown on a far distant shore.
Yet how can I doubt a dear Savior's protection,
Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand!
O, let me, with patience, receive his correction,
And think of the Bible, that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other-
The family Bible, that lay on the stand.
The Notes of the Birds.-I. MCLELLAN, JUN
WELL do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the Summer-time,
And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.
If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life;
If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike,—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest birds.
How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid
Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.
With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes;
And in her simple song there seems to gush
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth
Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch
Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig,
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.
In the last days of Autumn, when the corn
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field,
And the gay company of reapers bind
The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree
Close at the corn-field edge.
Lone whippoorwill,
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.
Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out,
And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes
His lodging in the wilderness of woods,
And lifts his anthem when the world is still:
And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man
And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews
To the red roses and the herbs, doth find
No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush
And the green, roving linnet are at rest,
And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased
Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.
Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath silence of the wilderness:
And you may find her by some reedy pool,
Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock,
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down,
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.
And now, would'st thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth,
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.
|