Sentimental Music-F. G. HALLECK. SOUNDS as of far off bells came on his ears; Something of freedom, and our happy land; Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song,-his saddest, and his last: "Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream. "There's music in the forest leaves The fluttering of his wing. "There's music in the dash of waves, When the swift bark cleaves their foam; When moon and star-beams, smiling, meet, And there is music once a week In Scudder's balcony. But the music of young thoughts too soon Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning dreams we wake To curse the coming day. And childhood's frolic hours are brief, And oft, in after years, Their memory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears. "To-day the forest leaves are green; They'll wither on the morrow, And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long, To the widow's wail of sorrow. Come with the winter snows, and ask Where are the forest birds; The answer is a silent one, More eloquent than words. "The moonlight music of the waves When the livid lightning mocks the wreck And the mariner's song of home has ceased And music ceases, when it rains, In Scudder's balcony." The Silk-Worm.-MRS. HALE. THERE is no form upon our earth, I saw a fair young girl-her face Was sweet as dream of cherished friendJust at the age when childhood's grace And maiden softness blend. A silk-worm in her hand she laid; Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred; She raised it to her dimpled cheek, That worm-I should have shrunk, in truth, To feel the reptile o'er me move, But, loved by innocence and youth, Would we, I thought, the soul imbue, And, when with usefulness combined, There is no form upon our earth, That bears the mighty Maker's seal, The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth-Day of the Author's Mother.-FRISBIE. No lights! they break the spell ;-away! O, as yon mirror's polished frame I see thee, dearest mother, there, The Soul's Defiance.*-ANONYMOUS 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. *This poem was written many years ago, by a lady, and written from experience and feeling. There is a very remarkable grandeur and power in the sentiments, sustained, as they are, by an energy of expression well suited to the spirit's undaunted defiance of misfortune.-ED. I said to Penury's meagre train, Shall mock your force the while, I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, Yet still the spirit, which you see I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Yet still the spirit, that sustains Shall smile upon its keenest pains, I said to Death's uplifted dart, 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 Boston.-J. PIERPONT. BREAK forth in song, ye trees, |