When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth-and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong!
And, when the tumult of the air is fled, And quenched in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name. The stars look down upon them-and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave, Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave- The richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave'
Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws The hoary mantle of the dying year, Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows,
Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear,
Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!
To the dying Year.-J. G. WHITTIER.
AND thou, gray voyager to the breezeless sea Of infinite Oblivion, speed thou on!
Another gift of Time succeedeth thee,
Fresh from the hand of GoD! for thou hast done The errand of thy destiny, and none
May dream of thy returning. Go! and bear Mortality's frail records to thy cold, Eternal prison-house ;-the midnight prayer Of suffering bosoms, and the fevered care
Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold; Ambition's grasp at greatness; the quenched light Of broken spirits; the forgiven wrong, And the abiding curse. Ay, bear along
These wrecks of thine own making. Lo! thy knell Gathers upon the windy breath of night,
Its last and faintest echo! Fare thee well!
The Captain. A Fragment.*-BRAINARD SOLEMN he paced upon that schooner's deck, And muttered of his hardships :-" I have been Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide Has dashed me on the sawyer; I have sailed In the thick night, along the wave-washed edge Of ice, in acres, by the pitiless coast
Of Labrador; and I have scraped my keel O'er coral rocks in Madagascar seas;
And often, in my cold and midnight watch, Have heard the warning voice of the lee shore Speaking in breakers! Ay, and I have seen The whale and sword-fish fight beneath my bows; And, when they made the deep boil like a pot, Have swung into its vortex; and I know To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill,
And brave such dangers with a sailor's heart ;- But never yet, upon the stormy wave, Or where the river mixes with the main, Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay, In all my rough experience of harm, Met I-a Methodist meeting-house!
Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none,
Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern!
It comes in such a " questionable shape,"
I cannot even speak it! Up jib, Josey,
And make for Bridgeport! There, where Stratford Point, Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy, Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest! And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale, That once a Charleston schooner was beset, Riding at anchor, by a meeting-house!
*The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said: "Arrived, schooner Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that harbor, during the rain storm on Thursday evening last, the Fame was run foul of by the wreck of the Methodist meeting-house from Norwich, which was carried away in the late freshet."
They that seek me early shall find me."-COLUMBIAN
COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze; Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways; Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding, Waken rich feelings in the careless breast-
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding, Come, and secure interminable rest.
Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;
Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover Will to the embraces of the worm have gone; Those who now bless thee will have passed for ever; Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee;
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever, As thy sick heart broods over years to be!
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die- Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing, Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.
Life is but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray: O, touch the sceptre !-with a hope in heaven- Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
Then will the crosses of this brief existence Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul, And, shining brightly in the forward distance, Will of thy patient race appear the goal; Home of the weary! where, in peace reposing, The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss:
Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing, Who would not early choose a lot like this?
A Son's Farewell to his Mother, and Departure from Home. -CONNECTICUT OBSERVER.
MOTHER-I leave thy dwelling, Thy counsel and thy care; With grief my heart is swelling No more in them to share ; Nor hear that sweet voice speaking When hours of joy run high, Nor meet that mild eye seeking When sorrow's touch comes nigh,
Mother-I leave thy dwelling, And the sweet hour of prayer; With grief my heart is swelling No more to meet thee there. Thy faith and fervor, pleading In unspent tones of love, Perchance my soul are leading To better hopes above.
Mother-I leave thy dwelling; Oh! shall it be for ever? With grief my heart is swelling, From thee-from thee-to sever. These arms, that now enfold me So closely to thy heart,
These eyes, that now behold me, From all-from all—I part.
Hushed is the Voice of Judah's Mirth. A Sacred Melody.FROM THE PORT-FOLIO.*
"In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not." St. Matt. ii. 18.
HUSHED is the voice of Judah's mirth:
And Judah's minstrels, too, are gone;
* We are not sensible that this piece is inferior. in any respect whatever. to Moore's celebrated and beautiful Sacred Melodies We lately saw it quoted, and wrongly ascribed to the English poet. It was written in
And harps that told Messiah's birth Are hung on heaven's eternal throne.
Fled is the bright and shining throng That swelled on earth the welcome strain, And lost in air the choral song
That floated wild on David's plain :
For dark and sad is Bethlehem's fate; Her valleys gush with human blood; Despair sits mourning at her gate,
And Murder stalks in frantic mood.
At morn, the mother's heart was light, Her infant bloomed upon her breast; At eve, 'twas pale and withered quite, And gone to its eternal rest.
Weep on, ye childless mothers, weep; Your babes are hushed in one cold grave; In Jordan's streams their spirits sleep, Their blood is mingled with the wave.
Extract from a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College, in 1826.-N. P. WILLIS.
WE shall go forth together. There will come Alike the day of trial unto all,
And the rude world will buffet us alike. Temptation hath a music for all ears; And mad ambition trumpeteth to all; And the ungovernable thought within Will be in every bosom eloquent ;-
But, when the silence and the calm come on, And the high seal of character is set, We shall not all be similar. The scale
Of being is a graduated thing;
And deeper than the vanities of power, Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ Gradation, in its hidden characters.
Charleston, South Carolina, and published in the Port-Folio of 1818. While under Mr. Dennie's care, the pages of this journal were enriched with many fine articles, both in poetry and prose.-ED.
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