By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
The mysterious Music of Ocean.-WALSH'S NATIONAL GAZETTE.
"And the people of this place say, that, at certain seasons, beautiful sounds are heard from the ocean."-Mavor's Voyages.
LONELY and wild it rose,
That strain of solemn music from the sea, As though the bright air trembled to disclose An ocean mystery.
Again a low, sweet tone,
Fainting in murmurs on the listening day, Just bade the excited thought its presence own, Then died away.
Once more the gush of sound, Struggling and swelling from the heaving plain, Thrilled a rich peal triumphantly around, And fled again.
O boundless deep! we know
Thou hast strange wonders in thy gloom concealed, Gems, flashing gems, from whose unearthly glow Sunlight is sealed.
Showers her rich colors with unsparing hand, Where coral trees their graceful branches fling O'er golden sand.
But tell, O restless main!
Who are the dwellers in thy world beneath, That thus the watery realm cannot contain The joy they breathe?
Emblem of glorious might!
Are thy wild children like thyself arrayed, Strong in immortal and unchecked delight, Which cannot fade?
Toiling with wo, and passion's fiery sting,
Like their own home, where storms or peace preside, As the winds bring?
Alas for human thought!
How does it flee existence, worn and old, To win companionship with beings wrought Of finer mould!
'Tis vain the reckless waves
Join with loud revel the dim ages flown, But keep each secret of their hidden caves Dark and unknown.
It is a sultry day; the sun has drank The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droop Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,- Their bases on the mountains-their white tops Shining in the far ether,-fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
O come, and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now, Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes! Lo where the grassy meadow runs in waves! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet; and silver waters break Into small waves, and sparkle as he comes.
Summer Evening Lightning.—Carlos Wilcox.
In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, Where sleeps in embryo the midnight storm, The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets, Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus
Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge; Or if the bolder fancy so conceive
Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus
Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops With beetling cliffs grotesque
The distant flashes gleam as to efface The window's image on the floor impressed, By the dim crescent; or outshines the light Cast from the room upon the trees hard by, If haply, to illume a moonless night,
The lighted taper shine; though lit in vain To waste away unused, and from abroad Distinctly through the open window seen, Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp.
THE Spring is here-the delicate-footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers; And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours
A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things.
We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet- Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There's no contentment, in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye And sing-till it is hooded from the sky.
To Seneca Lake.-PERCIVAL.
ON thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
*This is a beautiful piece of poetry-more exquisitely finished than any of Mr. Willis's poetry which we have seen. Even a prejudiced mind (and there seem to be many such) cannot but admire it.-En.
And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side!
At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.
Mount Washington; the loftiest Peak of the White Mountains, N. H.-G. MELLEN.
MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air,
And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there! Thine is the rock of other regions; where The world of life which blooms so far below
Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow.
Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne;
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