TO THE CANARY-BIRD.
I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng,
Past days of joy should through thy memory
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell,
While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on the past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky.
THY BEAUTY FADES.
THY beauty fades, and with it too my love,
For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower;
Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above
The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour;
And I had thought forever by thy side
With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell;
But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide,
And every hope's wan look a grief can tell :
For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway,
Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all,
Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay,
With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall,
And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies.
From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death
THE WIND-FLOWER.
THOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye
Upon the clouded smile of April's face,
Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by,
Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace.
Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith array'd,
More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king;
Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd,
As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring,
While other flowers still hide them from her call
Along the river's brink and meadow bare.
Thee will I seek beside the stony wall,
And in thy trust with childlike heart would share,
O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find
A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind.
I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with GOD,
Like the translated patriarch of old ;-
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like DAVID turn'd a willing ear;
Gon walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.
THE light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object,-hill, and stream, and skies,
Rejoice within the encircling line to be;
"Tis day, the field is fill'd with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din,
The traveller with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast-
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
To those who find on earth their place to stay.
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,-it is no day
I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near
When I this conscious being may resign;
Whose only task thy words of love to hear,
And in thy acts to find each act of mine;
A task too great to give a child like me,
The myriad-handed labours of the day,
Too many for my closing eyes to see,
Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say
Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love,
Each other gift more lovely then appears,
For dark-robed night comes hovering from above,
And all thine other gifts to me endears;
And while within her darken'd couch I sleep,
Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.
FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd;
In finding thee are all things round us found;
In losing thee are all things lost beside;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound,
And to our eyes the vision is denied;
We wander in the country far remote,
Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living sell;
While on our path bewilder'd falls the night
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.
THE TREES OF LIFE.
For those who worship THEE there is no death,
For all they do is but with THEE to dwell;
Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath,
It is but of THY glorious name to tell;
Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find,
But in them both my soul doth ever flow;
They come as viewless as the unseen wind,
And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go;
The trees that grow along thy living stream,
And from its springs refreshment ever drink,
Forever glittering in thy morning beam,
They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink;
And as more high and wide their branches grow,
They look more fair within the depths below.
THERE is no change of time and place with THEE;
Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same;
Within thy presence I rejoice to be,
And always hallow thy most holy name;
The world doth ever change; there is no peace da Among the shadows of its storm-vex'd breast; With every breath the frothy waves increase, They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest; I thank THEE that within thy strong-built ark My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, And, though the night of death be long and dark, My hopes in CHRIST shall reach within the veil ; And to the promised haven steady steer, Whose rest to those who love is ever near.
THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Because my feet find measure with its call; The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them, both great and small; The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; For he who with his Maker walks aright, Shall be their lord as ADAM was before; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, Each object wear the dress that then it wore; And he, as when erect in soul he stood, Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear, And one by one their tender leaves unfold, As if they knew that warmer suns were near, Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen To veil from view the early robin's nest, I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppress'd; And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare, And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, I love to watch thy shadowy form below, And through thy leafless arms to look above On stars that brighter beam when most we need
FATHER, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand
Beneath the mingling line of night and day,
A listening servant, waiting thy command
To roll rejoicing on its silent way;
The tongue of time abides the appointed hour,
Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall;
The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, Then every drop speeds onward at thy call; The bird reposes on the yielding bough, With breast unswollen by the tide of song; So does my spirit wait thy presence now To pour thy praise in quickening life along, Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep, While round the unutter'd word and love their vigils keep.
THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young unfinish'd cottage spy; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now, For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves; All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ, That else upon thy music borne along And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer Had learn'd that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share.
THOU great proclaimer to the outward eye Of what the spirit too would seek to tell, Onward thou goest, appointed from on high The other warnings of the Lord to swell; Thou art the voice of one that through the world Proclaims in startling tones, "Prepare the way;" The lofty mountain from its seat is hurl'd, The flinty rocks thine onward march obey; The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, O'ertop the hills that on them frown'd before, Thou passest where the living seldom tread, Through forests dark, where tides beneath thee roar, And bidd'st man's dwelling from thy track remove, And would with warning voice his crooked paths
THE latter rain,-it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring, No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves; The rain falls still,-the fruit all ripen'd drops, It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell, The furrow'd fields disclose the yellow crops, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain.
THE Rev. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE, whose ancestors, on the mother's side, have lived in Newton, near Boston, since the first settlement of the country, was born in Hanover, New Hampshire, on the fourth of April, 1810. He was prepared for college by his grandfather, the Rev. JAMES FREEMAN, D.D., and in the Boston Latin school, and graduated at Cambridge, in 1829. Becoming a Unitarian minister, he went to Louisville, Kentucky, in 1833, and there edited for several years "The Western Messenger," a monthly magazine of religion and literature. In 1839 he married ANNA, daughter of H. J. HEIDEKOPER, of Meadville, Pennsylvania. In 1840 he returned to Boston, and established a church, on the principles of free seats, congregational worship, and social intercourse, called the Church of the Disciples, of which he is still the pastor. In 1849, and again in 1852, he visited Europe. He published a very entertaining and instructive account of his first visit, under the title of "Eleven Weeks in Europe." He has also published two small books on "Forgiveness," and "Prayer;" some anti-slavery tracts, and articles in periodicals, besides taking part in a " Memoir of General WILLIAM HULL,❞ and with Mr. EMERSON and Mr. CHANNING, in
the "Memoirs of MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI." In poetry, his longest production is “A Poem
So pure her forehead's dazzling white,
So swift and clear her radiant eyes,
Within the treasure of whose light
Lay undeveloped destinies,
Of thoughts repressed such hidden store
Was hinted by each flitting smile,
I could but wonder and adore,
Far off, in awe, I gazed the while.
I gazed at her, as at the moon,
Hanging in lustrous twilight skies,
Whose virgin crescent, sinking soon,
Peeps through the leaves before it flies:
Untouched Diana, flitting dim,
While sings the wood its evening hymn.
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delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, of
Harvard College," in 1846. It is a spirited satire
lets. A characteristic paragraph is the following,
of the social phenomena of the day, in heroic coup-
of our intellectual condition:
"And if our land's heroic day is fled,
Have we romance, art, poetry, instead?
There have been ages when the soul of Art
Was poured abroad upon a nation's heart;
When genius filled the waters, woods, and skies,
With forms of life and fair divinities,
There, through the leaves which shade the haunted stream,
The naiad's limbs in pearly lustre gleam;
And in green forest-depths the Grecian ear
The dryad's gentle voice was used to hear.
But modern bards expect no rights like these,
Nor watch for meanings in the streams and trees.
Our only dryads now are lumberers stout,
Our naiads, gentlemen who fish for trout.
We in our studies build the lofty verse,
Nor find our books in brooks—but the reverse;
Copy each other's copies in our songs,
Each stealing what to nobody belongs-
As in the story to our childhood taught,
Thieves came to rob a man-and he had nought."
friends some fine translations from the German
He has contributed to volumes edited by his
poets, and has printed in magazines occasional
poems, some of which have much sweetness, di
rectness, and force.
So full-orbed Cynthia walks the skies,
Filling the earth with melodies;
Even so she condescends to kiss
Drowsy Endymion, coarse and dull,
Or fills our waking souls with bliss,
Making long nights too beautiful.
O fair, but fickle, lady-moon,
Why must thy full form ever wane?
O love! O friendship! why so soon
Must
your sweet light recede again?
I wake me in the dead of night,
And start-for through the misty gloom
Red Hecate stares-a boding sight!--
Looks in but never fills my room.
Thou music of my boyhood's hour!
Thou shining light on manhood's way!
No more dost thou fair influence shower,
To move my soul by night or day.
O strange! that while in hall and street
Thy hand I touch, thy grace I meet,
Such miles of polar ice should part
The slightest touch of mind and heart!→→
But all thy love has waned, and so,
I gladly let thy beauty go.
DEAR FRIEND! whose presence in the house,
Whose gracious word benign
Could once, at Cana's wedding feast,
Change water into wine;
Come, visit us! and when dull work
Grows weary, line on line,
Revive our souls, and let us see
Life's water turned to wine.
Gay mirth shall deepen into joy,
Earth's hopes grow half divine,
When JESUS visits us, to make
Life's water glow as wine.
The social talk, the evening fire,
The homely household shrine,
Grow bright with angel visits, when
The LORD pours out the wine.
For when self-seeking turns to love,
Not knowing mine nor thine,
The miracle again is wrought,
And water turned to wine.
Ask you why this portrait bears not
The romance of those lips and lashes?
Why that bosom's blush shares not,
Mirrors not her eyes' quick flashes?
Is it false in not revealing
Her girlish consciousness of beauty-
The graceful, half-developed feeling,
Desire-opposing fancied duty?
For on the canvas, shadowy hair
Floats backward from an earnest face;
The features one expression bear,
The various lines one story trace. And what is their expression? Love. Not wildfire passion-bright but damp,— purer flame, which points above,
Though kindled at an earthly lamp.
Call it devotion-call it joy;
'Tis the true love of woman's heart, Emotion, pure from alloy,
Action, complete in every part.
Blame not the artist, then, who leaves
The circumstances of the hour-
Within the husk the fruit perceives,
Within the husk the future flower.
He took the one pervading grace
Which charms in all, and fixed it there,
The deepest secret of her face-
The key to her locked characterThe spirit of her life, which beats
In every pulse of thought and feelingThe central fire which lights and heats, Explaining earth, and heaven revealing.
WHITE-CAPT waves far round the Ocean, Leaping in thanks or leaping in play, All your bright faces, in happy commotion, Make glad matins this summer day.
The rosy light through the morning's portals
Tinges your crest with an August hue;
Calling on us, thought-prisoned mortals,
Thus to live in the moment too.
For, graceful creatures, you live by dying,
Save your life when you fling it away,
Flow through all forms, all form defying,
And in wildest freedom strict rule obey.
Show us your art, O genial daughters
Of solemn Ocean, thus to combine
Freedom and force of rolling waters
With sharp observance of law divine.
HE touch'd the earth, a soul of flame,
His bearing proud, his spirit high;
Fill'd with the heavens whence he came,
He smiled upon man's destiny;
Yet smiled as one who knows no fear,
And felt a secret strength within;
Who wonder'd at the pitying tear
Shed over human loss and sin.
Lit by an inward, brighter light,
Than aught that round about him shone, He walk'd erect through shades of night; Clear was his pathway-but how lone! Men gaze in wonder and in awe Upon a form so like to theirs, Worship the presence, yet withdraw And carry elsewhere warmer prayers. Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest, Forgetting once his strange estate, Unloosed the lyre from off his breast,
And strung its chords to human fate; And, gayly snatching some rude air,
Caroll'd by idle, passing tongue, Gave back the notes that linger'd there, And in Heaven's tones earth's low lay sung; Then warmly grasp'd the hand that sought To thank him with a brother's soul, And when the generous wine was brought, Shared in the feast, and quaff'd the bowl; Men laid their hearts low at his feet,
And sunn'd their being in his light,
Press'd on his way his steps to greet,
And in his love forgot his might.
And when, a wanderer long on earth,"
On him its shadow also fell,
And dimm'd the lustre of a birth
Whose day-spring was from Heaven's own well; They cherish'd e'en the tears he shed, Their woes were hallow'd by his wo, Humanity, half cold and dead,
Had been revived in genius' glow.
HERE, after JACOB parted from his brother,
His daughters linger'd round this well, new-made;
Here, seventeen centuries after, came another,
And talk'd with JESUS, wondering and afraid.
Here, other centuries past, the emperor's mother
Shelter'd its waters with a temple's shade.
Here, mid the fallen fragments, as of old,
The girl her pitcher dips within its waters cold.
And JACOB's race grew strong for many an hour,
Then torn beneath the Roman eagle lay;
The Roman's vast and earth-controlling power
Has crumbled like these shafts and stones away;
But still the waters, fed by dew and shower,
Come up, as ever, to the light of day,
And still the maid bends downward with her urn,
Well pleased to see its glass her lovely face return.
And those few words of truth, first utter'd here,
Have sunk into the human soul and heart;
A spiritual faith dawns bright and clear,
Dark creeds and ancient mysteries depart;
The hour for GoD's true worshippers draws near;
Then mourn not o'er the wrecks of earthly art:
Kingdoms may fall, and human works decay,
Nature moves on unchanged-Truths never pass
away.
WHEN April's warmth unlocks the clod,
Soften'd by gentle showers,
The violet pierces through the sod,
And blossoms, first of flowers;
So may I give my heart to GoD
In childhood's early hours.
Some plants, in gardens only found,
Are raised with pains and care:
Gon scatters violets all around,
They blossom everywhere;
Thus may my love to all abound,
And all my fragrance share.
Some scentless flowers stand straight and high,
With pride and haughtiness: But violets perfume land and sky, Although they promise less.
Let me, with all humility,
Do more than I profess.
Sweet flower, be thou a type to me
Of blameless joy and mirth,
Of widely-scatter'd sympathy,
Embracing all GoD's earth-
Of early-blooming piety.
And unpretending worth.
*Suggested by a sketch of Jacob's Well, and Mount Gerizim.
Written for a little girl to speak on May-day, in the character of the Violet.
TO A BUNCH OF FLOWERS.
LITTLE firstlings of the year!
Have you come my room to cheer?
You are dry and parch'd, I think;
Stand within this glass and drink;
Stand beside me on the table,
'Mong my books—if I am able,
I will find a vacant space
For your bashfulness and grace;
Learned tasks and serious duty
Shall be lighten'd by your beauty.
Pure affection's sweetest token,
Choicest hint of love unspoken,
Friendship in your help rejoices,
Uttering her mysterious voices.
You are gifts the poor may offer-
Wealth can find no better proffer:
For you tell of tastes refined,
Thoughtful heart and spirit kind.
Gift of gold or jewel-dresses
Ostentatious thought confesses;
Simplest mind this boon may give,
Modesty herself receive.
For lovely woman you were meant
The just and natural ornament,
Sleeping on her bosom fair,
Hiding in her raven hair,
Or, peeping out mid golden curls,
You outshine barbaric pearls;
Yet you lead no thought astray,
Feed not pride nor vain display,
Nor disturb her sisters' rest,
Waking envy in their breast.
Let the rich, with heart elate,
Pile their board with costly plate;
Richer ornaments are ours,
We will dress our homes with flowers,
Yet no terror need we feel
Lest the thief break through to steal.
Ye are playthings for the child,
Gifts of love for maiden mild,
Comfort for the aged eye,
For the poor, cheap luxury.
Though your life is but a day,
Precious things, dear flowers, you say,
Telling that the Being good
Who supplies our daily food,
Deems it needful to supply
Daily food for heart and eye.
So, though your life is but a day,
We grieve not at your swift decay;
He, who smiles in your bright faces,
Sends us more to take your places;
"Tis for this ye fade so soon,
That He may renew the boon;
That kindness often may repeat
These mute messages so sweet:
That Love to plainer speech may get,
Conning oft his alphabet;
That beauty may be rain'd from heaven,
New with every morn and even,
With freshest fragrance sunrise greeting:
Therefore are ye, flowers, so fleeting.
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