Blesses your pencill'd beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale, And freer dreams of heaven.
A mother yields her gem to thee,
On thy true breast to sparkle rare;
She places 'neath thy household tree
The idol of her fondest care;
And by thy trust to be forgiven,
When judgment wakes in terror wild, By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, Deal gently with the widow's child.
THINK'ST thou the steed that restless roves
O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee,
On thymy bank or vernal tree,
Intent to store her industry
Within her waxen round?
Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Through marble vase or sculptured urn,
Affords a sweeter draught
Than that which, in its native sphere,
Perennial, undisturb'd and clear,
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,
And wake his grateful thought?
Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pomp and miser's gold,
Obtains a richer prize
Than he who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?
THE WIDOW'S CHARGE AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.
DEAL gently, thou, whose hand has won
The young bird from the nest away,
Where, careless 'neath a vernal sun,
She gayly caroll'd day by day:
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,
From whence her timid wing doth soar,
They pensive list, at hush of eve,
Yet hear her gushing song no more.
Deal gently with her: thou art dear
Beyond what vestal lips have told,
And like a lamb, from fountain clear,
She turns confiding to the fold;
She round thy sweet, domestic bower
The wreaths of changeless love shall twine,
Watch for thy step at vesper hour,
And blend her holiest prayer with thine.
Deal gently, thou, when far away,
Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender cares decay,
The soul of woman lives in love; And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear Unconscious from her eyelid break,
Be pitiful, and sooth the fear
That man's strong heart can ne'er partake.
KING HENRY sat upon his throne,
And full of wrath and scorn,
His eye a recreant knight survey’d—
Sir BERNARDINE DU BORN.
And he that haughty glance return'd
Like lion in his lair,
And loftily his unchanged brow
Gleam'd through his crisped hair.
"Thou art a traitor to the realm,
Lord of a lawless band,
The bold in speech, the fierce in broil,
The troubler of our land;
Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers,
Are forfeit to the crown,
And thou beneath the Norman axe
Shalt end thy base renown.
"Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom,
Thou with strange madness fired?
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast?"
PLANTAGENET inquired.
Sir BERNARD turn'd him toward the king, He blench'd not in his pride;
Quick at that name a cloud of wo
Pass'd o'er the monarch's brow,
Touch'd was that bleeding chord of love,
To which the mightiest bow.
Again swept back the tide of years,
Again his first-born moved,
The fair, the graceful, the sublime,
The erring, yet beloved.
And ever, cherish'd by his side,
One chosen friend was near,
To share in boyhood's ardent sport
Or youth's untam'd career;
With him the merry chase he sought
Beneath the dewy morn,
With him in knightly tourney rode,
This BERNARDINE DU BORN.
Then in the mourning father's soul
Each trace of ire grew dim.
And what his buried idol loved
Seem'd cleansed of guilt to him—
And faintly through his tears he spake,
"Gop send his grace to thee,
And for the dear sake of the dead,
Go forth-unscathed and free."
THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
REST with the noble dead
In Dryburgh's solemn pile,
Where sleep the peer and warrior bold,
And mitred abbots stern and old,
Along the statued isle;
Where, stain'd with dust of buried years,
The rude sarcophagus appears
In mould imbedded deep;
And Scotia's skies of sparkling blue
Stream with the oriel windows through
Where ivied masses creep;
And, touch'd with symmetry sublime,
The moss-clad towers that mock at time
Their mouldering legends keep.
And yet, methinks, thou shouldst have chose
Thy latest couch at fair Melrose,
Whence burst thy first, most ardent song,
And swept with wildering force along
Where Tweed in silver flows.
There the young moonbeams, quivering faint
O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint,
Reveal a lordly race;
And knots of roses richly wrought,
And tracery light as poet's thought,
The cluster'd columns grace.
There good King DAVID's rugged mien
Fast by his faithful spouse is seen,
And 'neath the stony floor
Lie chiefs of DOUGLAS' haughty breast,
Contented now to take their rest,
And rule their kings no more.
It was a painful thing to see
Trim Abbotsford so gay,
The rose-trees climbing there so bold,
The ripening fruits in rind of gold,
And thou, their lord, away.
I saw the lamp, with oil unspent,
O'er which thy thoughtful brow was bent,
When erst, with magic skill,
Unearthly beings heard thy call,
And flitting spectres throng'd the hall,
Obedient to thy will.
Yon fair domain was all thine own,
From stately roof to threshold stone,
Yet didst thou lavish pay
The coin that caused life's wheels to stop?
The heart's blood oozing drop by drop
Through the tired brain away?
I said the lamp unspent was there,
The books arranged in order fair;
But none of all thy kindred race
Found in those lordly halls a place:
Thine only son, in foreign lands,
Led boldly on his martial bands,
And stranger-lips, unmoved and cold,
The legends of thy mansion told;
They lauded glittering brand and spear,
And costly gifts of prince and peer,
And broad claymore, with silver dight,
And hunting-horn of border knight-
What were such gauds to me?
More dear had been one single word
From those whose veins thy blood had stirr'd
To Scotia's accents free.
Yet one there was, in humble cell,
A poor retainer, lone and old,
Who of thy youth remember'd well,
And many a treasured story told;
And pride, upon her wrinkled face,
Blent strangely with the trickling tear,
As Memory, from its choicest place,
Brought forth, in deep recorded trace,
Thy boyhood's gambols dear;
Or pointed out, with wither'd hand,
Where erst thy garden-seat did stand,
When thou, return'd from travel vain,
Wrapp'd in thy plaid, and pale with pain,
Didst gaze with vacant eye,
For stern disease had drank the fount
Of mental vision dry.
Ah! what avails, with giant power,
To wrest the trophies of an hour;
One moment write, with sparkling eye,
Our name on castled turrets high,
And yield the next, a broken trust,
To earth, to ashes, and to dust.
And now, farewell, whose hand did sweep
Away the damps of ages deep,
And fire with proud baronial strain
The harp of chivalry again,
And make its wild, forgotten thrill
To modern ears delightful still.
Thou, who didst make, from shore to shore,
Bleak Caledonia's mountains hoar,
Her blue lakes bosom'd in their shade,
Her sheepfolds scatter'd o'er the glade,
Her rills, with music, leaping down,
The perfume of her heather brown,
Familiar as their native glen
To differing tribes of distant men,
Patriot and bard! old Scotia's care
Shall keep thine image fresh and fair,
Embalming to remotest time
The SHAKSPEARE of her tuneful clime.
A BUTTERFLY AT A CHILD'S GRAVE.
A BUTTERFLY bask'd on an infant's grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow;
Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye?
Where she of the bright and the sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low.
Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:
I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph
Wouldst thou call the blest one back?
DEATH found strange beauty on that polish'd
There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip. He touch'd the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of those curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set The seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile, So fix'd, so holy, from that cherub brow, Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal The signet-ring of heaven.
How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main!
Amid the heavy billows now she seems
A toiling atom; then, from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd, or reels
Half-wreck'd through gulfs profound. Moons wax
and wane,
But still that patient traveller treads the deep.
-I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers
With such a tardy movement, that it seems
Stern Winter's hand hath turn'd her keel to stone,
And seal'd his victory on her slippery shrouds.
-They land! they land! not like the Genoese,
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come
From their long prison, hardy forms that brave
The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair,
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave,
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth,
And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow.
What could lure their steps
To this drear desert? Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the guide who call'd him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark
Hath spread her parting sail. They crowd the strand,
Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo
That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link,
Binding to man, and habitable earth,
Is sever'd? Can ye tell what pangs were there,
With keen regrets; what sickness of the heart,
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth,
Their distant, dear ones? Long, with straining eye,
They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness
Sank down into their bosoms? No! they turn
Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray!
Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,
A loftiness, to face a world in arms,
To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay
On duty's sacred altar, the warm blood
Of slain affections, should they rise between
The soul and GOD. O ye, who proudly boast,
In your free veins, the blood of sires like these,
Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose
Their likeness in your sons. Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue, or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth-rock, and where they knelt
Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to GOD.
"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving ?"
YE say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave;
That, mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.
"Tis where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curl'd,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their conelike cabins,
That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves
Before the autumn's gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it
Amid his young renown.
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within its rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust,
Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust.
THE Right Reverend GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D., LL. D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Schenectady, when nineteen years old, and immediately after commenced the study of theology. He was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBART, in 1821, and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He officiated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, and, in 1824, was appointed Professor of Belles Lettres and Oratory in Washington College, Connecticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was conse
ON A VERY OLD WEDDING-RING.
THE DEVICE-Two hearts united. THE MOTTO "Dear love of mine, my heart is thine."
I LIKE that ring-that ancient ring,
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old.
I like it-for it wafts me back,
Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days,
The men and days of deeds sublime.
But most I like it, as it tells
The tale of well-requited love; How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdain'd to roveHow warmly he his suit preferr'd,
Though she, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,
He won his "fair and blooming bride."
How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours
How, then, the white-robed maiden train
Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowersAnd how, before the holy man,
They stood, in all their youthful pride,
And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows, Which bind the husband to his bride:
All this it tells; the plighted troth-
The gift of every earthly thing-
The hand in hand-the heart in heart
For this I like that ancient ring.
I like its old and quaint device;
"Two blended hearts"-though time may wear them,
No mortal change, no mortal chance,
"Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them.
Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,
Their hopes in heaven, their trust in GoD,
In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,
These two the world's rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires,
Their strength might fail, mid life's bleak weather, Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on
Kind souls! they slumber now together.
I like its simple poesy too:
"Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!" Thine, when the dark storm howls along,
As when the cloudless sunbeams shine. "This heart is thine, mine own dear love!"
Thine, and thine only, and forever; Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.
Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Pledge of devoted faithfulness,
Of heartfelt, holy love the token: What varied feelings round it cling!For these I like that ancient ring.
"RACHEL Weeping for her children, and would not be comforted."
HEARD ye, from Rama's ruin'd walls,
That voice of bitter weeping!—
Is it the moan of fetter'd slave,
His watch of sorrow keeping?
Heard ye,
from Rama's wasted plains,
That cry of lamentation!-
Is it the wail of ISRAEL'S Sons,
For Salem's devastation?
Ah, no-a sorer ill than chains
That bitter wail is waking,
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