SPEARING. THE lake's gold and purple have vanish'd from sight, The stars that first spangle the pearl of the west Are lost in the bright blazing crowds of the rest; Light the torch!-launch the boat!-for to-night we are here, The salmon, the quick-darting salmon, to spear. We urge our light craft by the push of the oar And the marble-like depths on each side of the blaze The loon from his nook in the bank, sends a cry; The night-hawk darts down, with a rush, through the sky; To his shrill piping tribe, croaks the patriarch frog; Low perch'd on the hemlock, we've blinded with light Yon gray-headed owl!-see him flutter from sight! And the orator frog, as we glide with our glow, Stops his speech with a groan, and dives splashing below, One long and strong pull !-the prow grates on the sand; Three cheers for our luck, boys! as spring we to land. CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. Born at Alexandria, near Washington, D.C., 1813. WRITTEN AT SORRENTO. THE wild waves madly dash and roar, Up through the cavernous rocks amain, Battering some castellated steep. Great pulses of the ocean heart, Ever, in still increasing force, I sit alone on the glowing sand, The wondrous lore that ye would teach. The sea-weed and the shells are wise, And versed in your broad Sanscrit tongue; The rocks need not our ears and eyes The ocean and the shore are one; Would that I might with freedom be A seer into your hidden truth, Joining your firm fraternity, To drink with you perpetual youth! THE HOURS. THE Hours are viewless angels, And we, who walk among them, Like summer bees, that hover They gather every act and thought,— The poison or the nectar The heart's deep flower-cups yield, A sample still they gather swift, And leave us in the field. And some flit by on pinions Of joyous gold and blue, And some flag on with drooping wings Of sorrow's darker hue. But still they steal the record, Their mission-flight by day or night And as we spend each minute That God to us hath given, The deeds are known before His throne, These bee-like Hours we see not, So, teach me, Heavenly Father, So, when death brings its shadows, HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. Born at Boston, Mass: 1813-died 1871. TO AN ELM. BRAVELY thy old arms fling Their countless pennons to the fields of air, Their panoply of green still proudly wear. As some rude tower of old, Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, With limbs of giant mould, To battle sternly with the winter storm. In Nature's mighty fane, Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky; That with a benison have pass'd thee by! Lone patriarch of the wood! The locust knows thee well; And when the summer-days his notes prolong, Hid in some leafy cell, Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. Oft, on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay. How bursts thy monarch wail, When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, And, bared to meet the gale, Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife! The sunset often weaves Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare, Sacred thy roof of green To rustic dance and childhood's gambols free! O, hither should we roam, Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. With blessings at thy feet, Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest; |