NEW ENGLAND.
O! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
green and classic Italy-
And pillar'd fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;
And far toward the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak and mountain-pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade;
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest with wet eyes upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that fill'd the world with light, Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak, And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summon'd the sudden crimson to thy cheek. Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walk'd with thee in life's first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.
Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky:
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanish'd spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.
There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
A gentle murmur of the morning gales,
That sweep the ambrosial groves of that bright shore,
And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?
BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
STAND up-erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God-who more?
A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure as breast e'er wore.
What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among ;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy?—the high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.
If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.
No:-uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
For ever, till thus check'd;
These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labour and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!
Thou art thyself thine enemy!
The great!—what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has GOD with equal favours thee
Neglected to endow?
True, wealth thou hast not—'tis but dust!
Nor place uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both a noble mind.
With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in GoD,
any man.
Thou art the peer of
Look up, then that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!
He comes not-I have watch'd the moon go down,
But yet he comes not. Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town.
Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep;
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.
O! how I love a mother's watch to keep,
Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep.
I had a husband once, who loved me-now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,
As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;
But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours,
When I could hang for ever on his eye,
And time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then-he loved me too.
My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness, and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then
I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been!
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