Who will believe-not I-for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream; I cannot spare the luxury of believing
That all things beautiful are what they seem,
Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would like the patriarch's soothe a dying hour;
With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower;
With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air;
Thou art in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e'er clinch'd fingers in a captive's hair?
That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain,
Deadlier than that which bathes the Upas-tree;
And in thy wrath, a nursing Cat o' Mountain
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee?
And underneath that face like summer's ocean's,
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions,
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear.
Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter,
Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars;
Hatred of missionaries and cold water;
Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars;
Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit
Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone;
Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne.
BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
AN axe rang sharply mid those forest shades Which from creation towards the skies had tower'd In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side
His little son, with question and response,
Beguiled the toil.
Boy, thou hast never seen
Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks
Fall, how the firm earth groans! Rememberest thou
The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd,
So many days on towards the setting sun?
Qur own Connecticut, compared to that,
Was but a creeping stream." "Father, the brook
That by our door went singing, where I launch'd
My tiny boat, with my young playmates round
When school was o'er, is dearer far to me
Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye
They are as strangers. And those little trees
My mother nurtured in the garden bound
Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach
Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure,
Than this dark forest, shutting out the day."
"What, ho! my little girl," and with light step
A fairy creature hasted towards her sire,
And, setting down the basket that contain'd
His noon repast, look'd upward to his face
With sweet confiding smile. "See, dearest, see,
That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song
Of yon gay redbird, echoing through the trees,
THE WESTERN EMIGRANT.
Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear,
In far New England, such a mellow tone?"
"I had a robin that did take the crumbs
Each night and morning, and his chirping voice
Did make me joyful as I went to tend
My snowdrops. I was always laughing then
In that first home. I should be happier now,
Methinks, if I could find among these dells
The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on,
And round the rude hut of the emigrant
The wrathful spirit of the rising storm
Spake bitter things. His weary children slept,
And he, with head declined, sat listening long
To the swoln waters of the Illinois,
Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake:
"Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear?
'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights,
Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,
Befit thee better than these rugged walls
Of shapeless logs, and this lone hermit home."
"No, no.
All was so still around, methought
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal,
Which mid the church where erst we paid our vows,
So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice
Dissolved the illusion." And the gentle smile
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed
Her waking infant, reassured his soul
That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,
And strike a healthful root, is happiness.
Content and placid to his rest he sank:
But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought
Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart
Of his own native city; roof and spire,
All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray.
The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neigh'd;
The favourite dog came frisking round his feet,
With shrill and joyous bark; familiar doors
Flew open; greeting hands with his were link'd
In friendship's grasp; he heard the keen debate
From congregated haunts, where mind with mind
Doth blend and brighten; and, till morning, roved
Mid the loved scenery of his native land.
BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.
WHEN, from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
An angel left her place in heaven,
And cross'd the wanderer's sunless path.
'Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground,
And thus with seraph voice she spoke:
"The curse a blessing shall be found."
She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeam never blazed;
The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled,
And Nature gladden'd as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command to him are given;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.
He rends the oak-and bids it ride,
To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength and domes of taste.
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,
And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring beauty's lap to fill;
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that fill his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And, proudly scorning Time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.
In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky,
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the throne on high.
In war renown'd, in peace sublime,
He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power, subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm, and race to race.
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