DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. BY WILLIS G. CLARK.. YOUNG mother, he is gone! His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast ; Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd; His was the morning hour, And he hath pass'd in beauty from the day, Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray; Never on earth again Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, Breathing at eventide serene and clear; And from thy yearning heart, Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. Yet, mourner, while the day Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, And hope forbids one ray To stream athwart the grief-discolour'd sky; 'Tis from the better land! There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, As with the choiring cherubim he sings, Mother, thy child is bless'd: And though his presence may be lost to thee, And miss'd, a sweet load from thy parent knee; 251 BRONX. BY JOSEPH R. DRAKE. I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes unheeded. The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around, The bluefinch carol'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground Where lichens make a carpet for his feet; Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle BRONX. There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting 253 A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's dwelling. And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 22 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. BY JOHN H. BRYANT. THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale, With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure born of gentler showers. 'Twas there my young existence was begun, My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done, I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height-the sweetest of the day. There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home, In the lone path that winds across the plain, And when the woods put on their autumn glow, |