JAMES WILLIAM MILLER.* TO A SHOWER. THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain! On twangling leaf and dimpling pool— The withering grass, and fading flowers, All things of earth-the grateful things! They hear the sound of the warning burst, And know the rain is near. It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain! It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers, It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lily pale, And it bears their life on its living wings- And yet it comes! the lightning's flash It comes with the rush of a god's descent With a rush, as of a thousand steeds, And now it is up, with a sudden lift- I see the smile of the opening cloud, And the happy earth gives back her smiles, As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, So came the good of the pleasant rain, It shall breathe this truth on the human ear, That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven, * J. W. MILLER was a native of Boston, and at one period connected with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of "The Yankee." I believe he died in 1826. WILLIAM B. WALTER.* TO AN INFANT. AND art thou here, sweet boy, among In flashings o'er the firmament! O! wake not from that tranquil sleep! O'er this long past and long to come; It may be that the dreams of fame, A name, and die-alas! in vain! Thou reckest not, sweet slumberer, there, * WILLIAM B. WALTER was born in Boston, in 18-, and was educated at Bowdoin College. He wrote "Sukey, a poem," in the style of "Don Juan," "Visions of Romance," and some other metrical compositions, which were popular in their time. He died in 18-. Of broken hearts-still loving on, And drink up that—which is not gore! Sleep on! sleep on! but, O my soul, JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.* TO PNEUMA. TEMPESTS their furious course may sweep Mr. EASTBURN was associated with ROBERT C. SANDS in writing "Yamoyden." See page 204. Where silence, death, and horror reign, Where naught but dreariness is found; To passion's dark and boundless sea. There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest, In bosoms lash'd by hidden woes; JAMES N. BARKER.* LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. SHE was, indeed, a pretty little creature, The wolf, indeed! Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates, With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely, And so it was a robber, not a wolf, That met poor little Riding Hood i' the wood! -Nor wolf nor robber, child: this nursery tale Contains a hidden moral. Hidden: nay, I'm not so young but I can spell it out, Mr. BARKER is a native of Philadelphia, and is now in one of the bureaus of the Treasury Department, at Washington. He is the author of "Tears and Smiles," "How to try a Lover," and several other dramatic compositions. To gaze on such a scene! the grassy bank, All purple with my own dear violet, And sprinkled o'er with spring flowers of each tint. There was that pale and humble little blossom, The fairy-form'd, flesh-hued anemone, Fair maids o' the spring. The lowly cinquefoil too, not. -O many more, whose names I have not learn'd. Beyond the brook there lay a narrow strip, This wolf, the story goes, Deceived poor grandam first, and ate her up: What is the moral here? Have all our grandams Been first devour'd by love? Let us go in; The air grows cool; you are a forward chit. When struggling JOSEPH dropp'd fraternal tears, When GoD came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers? Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run, Yet, what to me, or when, or how thy birth,- Or whether since, by changes, silently, Of sand, and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew; Or if, before man's little memory, Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two, And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw. I know but that I love thee. On my heart, Like a dear friend's, are stamp'd thy features now; Though there the Roman or the Grecian art Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, No broken temples, fain at length to bow, [time. Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of Not these o'er thee their mystic splendours throw, Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime. But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: We worship thee for beauties all thine own: Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be Admired, but only for herself alone. With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown, No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise, Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies. I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams, Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast, Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest! Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, Author of "Norman Leslie," "The Countess Ida," etc., and now Secretary of Legation at Berlin. He is a native of New York. Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sunWould through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run! And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky, Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Mount to the cloud-kiss'd summit. Far below Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet, is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold, Till earth receive him never can forget? Even when return'd amid the city's roar, The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. Imagination cons the moment o'er, When first-discover'd, awe-struck and amazed, Scarce loftier JOVE-whom men and gods adoreOn the extended earth beneath him gazed, Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beam'd such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past here broke its granite bound, Then to the sea in broad meanders stole, While ponderous ruins strew'd the broken ground, And these gigantic hills forever closed around. And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill, No sound doth rise but mimic it she will,The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er. Awake, my lyre, with other themes inspired. On the great day, and hold their deed aright, To stop the breath would quench young freedom's holy light. But see the broadening river deeper flows, In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, But O, my native land, not one, not one like thee! Tais semblance of your parent's time-worn face Amid life's wreck, we struggle to secure Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave: We pant for something that may still endure, And snatch at least a shadow from the grave. Poor, weak, and transient mortals! why so vain Of manly vigour, or of beauty's bloom? An empty shade for ages may remain When we have moulder'd in the silent tomb. But no! it is not we who moulder there, We, of essential light that ever burns; We take our way through untried fields of air, When to the earth this earth-born frame returns. CLEMENT C. MOORE, formerly one of the professors in Columbia College, resides in New York. Most of his poems were composed many years ago. And 'tis the glory of the master's art. Some radiance of this inward light to find, Some touch that to his canvass may impart A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind. Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show But some faint shadow of a transient thought, Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow, Some swift impression in its passage caught. O that the artist's pencil could portray A father's inward bosom to your eyes, What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, What aspirations for your welfare rise. Then might this unsubstantial image prove, When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, A friend for ever urging you to move In paths of honour, holiness, and truth. Let fond imagination's power supply The void that baffles all the painter's art; And when those mimic features meet your eye, Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart. Think that you still can trace within those eyes The kindling of affection's fervid beam, The searching glance that every fault espies, The fond anticipation's pleasing dream. Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise, Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will, The warning voice, or precepts that may raise Your thoughts above this treacherous world of ill. And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power; To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend: Not the companion of an idle hour, But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend. F. S. KEY.* THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming; Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming? And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore,dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half-discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam; Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. FRANCIS S. KEY is a native of Baltimore. This song is supposed to have been written by a prisoner on board the British fleet, on the morning after the unsuccessful bombardment of Fort McHenry. |