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But, loved by innocence and youth,
I deemed it worthy love.
Would we, I thought, the soul imbue,
In early life, with sympathies
For every harmless thing, and view
Such creatures formed to please,_
And, when with usefulness combined,
Gives them our love and gentle care,
0, we might have a world as kind
As God has made it fair!
There is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to call this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.
The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth-Day of the
No lights! they break the spell;-away !
Let Fancy have her wildest play,
And, by the woodfire's cheery gleam,
Sit musing on her favorite theme,
The dear domestic group, that meet,
This happy day, once more to greet,
With heartfelt warmth, and honest glee,
And infantile festivity.
O, as yon mirror's polished frame
Catches by fits the dying flame,
And indistinctly shows the moon
Half-shrouded in a glimmering gloom, -
O, could some wizard wave his wand,
And show me then the happy band!
—'Tis done : like summer clouds that pass
At noontide o'er the sunny grass,
From the dark mirror flits away
The scene, in broken disarray,
And lo, to Fancy's charmed eyes
The gay illusion seems to rise.
I see thee, dearest mother, there,
In thine old-fashioned elbow-chair,
Thy knitting for a while laid by
To watch the children's revelry;
And her, I see her, by thy side,
Who marks them with a mother's pride,
Shares all their griefs, and all their joys,
And lives but in her favorite boys.
They now on pictured story pore,
Still pleased, so often pleased before;
Now lisp (their accents meet my ear)
The infant hymn thou lov'st to hear.
And now they join in frolic play,
And all are noisy, all are gay,
And health and innocency speak
In every plump and rosy cheek.
Ah me! what buoyant spirits there!
No thought, no sorrow, and no care:
That Age might for a while throw by
Its wrinkles and its gravity,
And e'en Philosophy might stoop,
To mingle with the frolic group.–
And now—’tis silence all, and gloom,
And my own solitary room.
I said to Sorrow’s awful storm,
That beat against my breast,
Rage on—thou may’st destroy this form,
And lay it low at rest;
But still the spirit, that now brooks
Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted, on its fury looks
With steadfast eye.
I said to Penury's meagre train,
Come on—your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures,
Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.
I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on—I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit, which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
Its high-born smiles.
I said to Friendship's menaced blow,
Strike deep—my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter wo
To those already there;
Yet still the spirit, that sustains
This last severe distress,
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.
I said to Death's uplifted dart,
Aim sure—0, why delay 2
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart-
A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall smiling pass away
Hymn for the second Centennial Anniversary of the City of a Boston.—J. PIERPont.
BREAK forth in song, ye trees,
As through your tops the breeze
weeps from the sea;
For on its rushing wings,
To your cool shades and springs,
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled, though free.
Ye sister hills, lay down
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due:
These are the great of earth,
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great, in their well proved worth,
Firm hearts and true.
These are the living lights,
That, from your bold green heights,
Shall shine afar,
Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, toward the flame
Come, as the Magi came
Toward Bethlehem’s star.
Gone are those great and good,
Who here, in peril, stood
And raised their hymn.
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim. /
Ye temples, that, to God,
Rise where our fathers trod,
Guard well your trust—
The faith, that dared the sea,
The truth, that made them free,
Their cherished purity,
Their garnered dust.
Thou high and holy ONE,
Whose care for sire and son
All nature fills,
While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let thy light repose
On these our hills.
JVapoleon at Rest.—J. PIERPont
His falchion flashed along the Nile,
His host he led i. Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow’s towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle-flag unrolled—and froze :
Here sleeps he now, alone!—not one,
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind the sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Has sunk, and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled—
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.
Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here ! The far off world at last
Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones,
And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Hark! Comes there from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world be awed to mourn him —No!
The only, the perpetual dirge
That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry—
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The clouds’ deep voice, the wind's low sigh.