'Twas thus, in nature's bloom and solitude,
He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage;
'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued,
Till in life's toils it could no more engage;
And his had been a useless pilgrimage,
Had he been gifted with no sacred power,
To send his thoughts to every future age;
But he is gone where grief will not devour,
Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower.
To that bright world where things of earth appear
Stripped of false charms, my fancy often flies,
To ask him there what life is happiest here;
And, as he points around him, and replies
With glowing lips, my heart within me dies,
And conscience whispers of a dreadful bar,
When, in some scene where every beauty lies,
A soft, sweet pensiveness begins to mar
The joys of social life, and with its claims to war.
How many now are dead to me
That live to others yet!
How many are alive to me
Who crumble in their graves, nor see
That sickening, sinking look which we
Till dead can ne'er forget.
Beyond the blue seas, far away,
Most wretchedly alone,
One died in prison, far away,
Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray
In his lone dungeon shone.
Dead to the world, alive to me;
Though months and years have passed,
In a lone hour, his sigh to me
Comes like the hum of some wild bee,
And then his form and face I see
As when I saw him last.
And one, with a bright lip, and cheek,
And eye, is dead to me.
How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!
His lip was cold-it would not speak;
His heart was dead, for it did not break;
And his eye, for it did not see.
Then for the living be the tomb,
And for the dead the smile ;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom-
Dim is such glare; but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.
THERE'S beauty in the deep:-
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And, though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.
There's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.
There's quiet in the deep:Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.
Scene after a Summer Shower.-PROFESSOR NORTON.
THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!
In grateful silence, earth receives
The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.
The softened sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odors on the gale.
Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest, to gaze below awhile,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.
The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is hung.
Now gaze on Nature-yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,
Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.
Hear the rich music of that voice,
Which sounds from all below, above;
She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms of love.
Drink in her influence; low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And 'mid this living light expire.
The Child's Wish in June.-MRS. GILMAN.
MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,
But very lazily flieth he,
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.
You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near,
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.
I wish, oh, I wish, I was yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.
From "The Minstrel Girl."-JAMES G. WHITTIER.
SHE leaned against her favorite tree,
The golden sunlight melting through
The twined branches, as the free
And easy-pinioned breezes flew
Around the bloom and greenness there,
Awaking all to life and motion,
Like unseen spirits sent to bear
Earth's perfume to the barren ocean
That ocean lay before her then
Like a broad lustre, to send back
The scattered beams of day again
To burn along its sunset track!
And broad and beautiful it shone;
As quickened by some spiritual breath,
Its very waves seemed dancing on
To music whispered underneath.
And there she leaned,-that minstrel girl!
The breeze's kiss was soft and meek.
Where coral melted into pearl
On parted lip and glowing cheek;
Her dark and lifted eye had caught
Its lustre from the spirit's gem;
And round her brow the light of thought
Was like an angel's diadem;
For genius, as a living coal,
Had touched her lip and heart with flame,
And on the altar of her soul
The fire of inspiration came.
And early she had learned to love
Each holy charm to Nature given,
The changing earth, the skies above,,
Were prompters to her dreams of Heaven
She loved the earth-the streams that wind
Like music from its hills of green-
The stirring boughs above them twined-
The shifting light and shade between; -
The fall of waves-the fountain gush-
The sigh of winds-the music heard
At even-tide, from air and bush-
The minstrelsy of leaf and bird.
But chief she loved the sunset sky-
Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn
To form the gorgeous canopy
Of monarchs to their slumbers gone!
The sun went down,-and, broad and red
One moment, on the burning wave,
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