WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. [Born, 1810.] MR. GALLAGHER, I believe, is a native of Ohio. | Literary Journal," "The Hesperian," and other He now resides in Cincinnati, where he conducts a daily gazette. He has been engaged in literary pursuits from early life, and has edited, in succession, "The Cincinnati Mirror," "The Western popular miscellanies. His first volume of poems appeared in 1835, and he has since published "Erato," in three volumes. The last-mentioned work embraces nearly all his metrical compositions. 66 TO THE WEST. LAND of the West!-green forest-land! And child of her munificence! And with clear vision gazing thence, Thy glories round me far expand: Rivers, whose likeness carth has not, And lakes, that elsewhere seas would be,Whose shores the countless wild herds dot, Fleet as the winds, and all as free; Mountains that pierce the bending sky, And with the storm-cloud warfare wage: Shooting their glittering peaks on high, To mock the fierce, red lightning's rage; Arcadian vales, with vine-hung bowers, And grassy nooks, 'neath beechen shade, Where dance the never-resting Hours, To music of the bright cascade; Skies softly beautiful, and blue As Italy's, with stars as bright; Flowers rich as morning's sunrise hue, And gorgeous as the gemm'd midnight. Land of the West! green forest-land! Thus hath Creation's bounteous hand Upon thine ample bosom flung Charms such as were her gift when the gray world was young! Land of the West!-where naught is old Thy yet unwritten annals hold Of many a daring deed the story! And woman's glorious strength of soul,- Her only child-her son! her son!" Which ends in now a shriek, and now a deep death-groan! Land of the West!-green forest-land! Till bravery is no longer named. Of men who ne'er their lineage shamed: Aye ready, morn, or night, or noon; The men of DANIEL BOON! Their dwelling-place--the "good green-wood;" Their favourite haunts--the long arcade, The murmuring and majestic flood, The deep and solemn shade: Where to them came the word of God, Breathed in the thunder's voice aloud, Heap'd by the playful winds, their bed; Other than fitting root, or stone, Of Time, and sinking, one by one; All honour to the few that yet do linger with us! Land of the West!-thine early prime By quiet lake, or gliding river,- With souls that would indignant turn, Land of the West!--beneath the Heaven Our Western Andes prop the sky- Till Freedom's eagles sink in blood, And quench'd are all the stars that now her banners stud! AUGUST. DUST on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish, as of rust, Dims thy late-brilliant sheen: And thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower— Change cometh over them with every hour. Thee hath the August sun Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face; The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent Flame-like, the long midday, With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd The down upon the spray, Where rests the panting bird, Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune. Seeds in the sultry air, And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; E'en the tall pines, that rear Their plumes to catch the breeze, The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, Partake the general languor, and deep rest. The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. Tediously pass the hours, And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root, Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge: The kine are forth again, The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Pleasantly comest thou, Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass; As the light breezes pass, That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, So, to the thirsting soul, To where the spirit freely may expand, SPRING VERSES. How with the song of every bird, Some recollection dear is stirr'd Of many a long-departed hour, I know not if, when years have cast Of all the present, much is bright; Which burns before me constantly; Guiding my steps, through haze and gloom, To where Fame's turrets proudly loom. Yet coldly shines it on my brow; And in my breast it wakes to life None of the holy feelings now, With which my boyhood's heart was rife : It cannot touch that secret spring Which erst made life so bless'd a thing. Give me, then give me birds and flowers, Which are the voice and breath of Spring! For those the songs of life's young hours With thrilling touch recall and sing: And these, with their sweet breath, impart Old tales, whose memory warms the heart. MAY. WOULD that thou couldst last for aye, Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers, Would that thou couldst last for aye! Out beneath thy morning sky Glistening, early flowers among- Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dew-drop And quickly to destruction hurl'd But hath swept the green earth's bosom; They are in life's May-month hours, And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but life's flowers? Would that thou couldst last for aye, Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers, Festoon'd with the dewy vine: Merry, ever-merry May, Would that thou couldst last for aye! Out beneath thy noontide sky, Giving fancy ample play; Steals o'er Nature's worshipper Silent, yet so eloquent, That we feel 'tis heaven-sent! Waking thoughts, that long have slumber'd, Passion-dimm'd and earth-encumber'd Bearing soul and sense away, To revel in the perfect day Which 'waits us, when we shall for aye [clay! Discard this darksome dust-this prison-house of Out beneath thy evening sky, Not a breeze that wanders by OUR EARLY DAYS. OUR early days!-How often back A boy-my truant steps were seen A youth-the mountain-torrent made Thou art thyself thine enemy! And Windsor's haunted "alleys green" 66 Dingle" and "bosky bourn" between, The whole wide realm of Old Romance: A man the thirst for fame was mine, Time, health, hope, peace--and madly striven, And I have worshipp'd!- But it hath found so much to be But hollowness and mockery, Our early days!-They haunt us ever- THE LABOURER. STAND UP-erect! Thou hast the form, A soul as dauntless mid the storm And pure, as breast e'er wore. What then?-Thou art as true a man 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, Forever, till thus check'd; The great!--what better they than thou? True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust! Of both--a noble mind. With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in GoD, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up, then that thy little span Of life may be well trod! THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. THE mothers of our forest-land! Our rough land had no braver, In its days of blood and strife- The mothers of our forest-land! On old Kentucky's soil How shared they, with each dauntless band, They quail'd not in the fight- The mothers of our forest-land! Their bosoms pillow'd men! And proud were they by such to stand, In hammock, fort, or glen, To load the sure, old rifle To run the leaden ball To watch a battling husband's place, The mothers of our forest-land! Such were their daily deeds. Their monument!-where does it stand? No nobler matrons Rome- The mothers of our forest-land! They sleep in unknown graves: And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves, They had not been more neglected! But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground." JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. [Born about 1810.] MR. CLARKE is a native of Boston. He is a grandson of the Reverend JAMES FREEMAN, D. D., for many years minister of King's Chapel, in that city, and was from his childhood designed for the church. He was educated in the university and in the divinity-school at Cambridge, and on being admitted to orders, went to Louisville, Kentucky, where he resided several years, and conducted with much ability a monthly miscellany of religion and letters, entitled "The Western Messenger." In 1840 he returned to Boston, and he is now pastor of a church in that city. HYMN AND PRAYER. INFINITE Spirit! who art round us ever, In whom we float, as motes in summer-sky, May neither life nor death the sweet bond sever, Which joins us to our unseen Friend on high. Unseen-yet not unfelt-if any thought Has raised our mind from earth, or pure desire, A generous act, or noble purpose brought, It is thy breath, O LORD, which fans the fire. To me, the meanest of thy creatures, kneeling, Conscious of weakness, ignorance,sin, and shame, Give such a force of holy thought and feeling, That I may live to glorify thy name; That I may conquer base desire and passion, That I may rise o'er selfish thought and will, O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, Walk humbly, softly, leaning on thee still. I am unworthy. Yet, for their dear sake I ask, whose roots planted in me are found; For precious vines are propp'd by rudest stake, And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground. Beneath my leaves, though early fallen and faded, Young plants are warm'd,-they drink my branches' dew: Let them not, LORD, by me be Upas-shaded; Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true. For their sake, too, the faithful, wise, and bold, Whose generous love has been my pride and stay, Those who have found in me some trace of gold, For their sake purify my lead and clay. And let not all the pains and toil be wasted, Spent on my youth by saints now gone to rest; Nor that deep sorrow my Redeemer tasted, When on his soul the guilt of man was press'd. Tender and sensitive, he braved the storm, That we might fly a well-deserved fate, Let all this goodness by my mind be seen, THE POET. HE touch'd the earth, a soul of flame, Yet smiled as one who knows no fear, Shed over human loss and sin. Lit by an inward, brighter light Than aught that round about him shone, He walk'd erect through shades of night; Clear was his pathway-but how lone! Men gaze in wonder and in awe Upon a form so like to theirs, Worship the presence, yet withdraw And carry elsewhere warmer prayers. Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest, Forgetting once his strange estate, Unloosed the lyre from off his breast, And strung its chords to human fate; And, gayly snatching some rude air, Caroll'd by idle, passing tongue, Gave back the notes that linger'd there, And in Heaven's tones earth's low lay sung; Then warmly grasp'd the hand that sought Men laid their hearts low at his feet, And sunn'd their being in his light, Press'd on his way his steps to greet, And in his love forgot his might. And when, a wanderer long on earth, They cherish'd e'en the tears he shed, |