THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, At morn, I know where she rested at night, At noon she hies to a cool retreat, At eve she hangs o'er the western sky She hovers around us at twilight hour, LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. YES! still I love thee:-Time, who sets His signet on my brow, And dims my sunken eye, forgets The heart he could not bow ;Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas! that little knows How love may sometimes last; The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose, Can never touch a leaf that blows, Though seeming to the sight; I would not have thy married heart Nor would I tear the cords apart, That bind me so to thee; No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, I would not have thee know, Enough! that in delicious dreams I see thee and forget- Enough, that when the morning beams, I feel my eyelids wet! Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall To meet thee,--and to love,- I would not shrink from aught below, EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE." I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell, To hive among the treasures they have wrought; Around that hermit-home of quietude, The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude, But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew. Around the door the honeysuckle climbed, And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell. Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood, That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink. EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. [Born, 1804. Died, 1830.] EDMUND DORR GRIFFIN was born in the celebrated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on the tenth day of September, 1804. During his infancy his parents removed to New York, but on account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was educated, until he was twelve years old, at various schools in the country. He entered Columbia College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the highest rank in the successive classes. During this period most of his Latin and English poems were composed. He was admitted to deacon's orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY. "Deh! fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte."-FILICAIA. WOULD that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, The sense of beauty when all else might fail. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men! Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, The yellow harvests loads the scarce till'd plain. Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading soon, E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fuir, Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone, Infused in music, now constrains the soul With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. And now with passionate throbs that spurn conWould that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean! after spending two years in the active discharge of the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, England, and Scotland, and returned to New York in the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an associate professor in Columbia College, but resigned the office after a few months, in consequence of ill health, and closed a life of successful devotion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on the first day of September, in the same year. His travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous writings were published in two large octavo volumes, in 1831. Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, No memory of the brave, of what has been? Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence: Shades of departed heroes, rise again! Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence! O, Italy! my country, fare thee well! For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me dwell, The fathers of my mind? whose fame impress'd E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest, Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams? Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost: I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, And wander on the mount, now waste and drear, Where CESAR's palace in its glory stood; And see again Parthenope's loved bay, And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay That floats by night through Venice-never Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar- [more? It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee. Fare-fare thee well once more. I love thee not As other things inanimate. Thou art The cherish'd mistress of my youth; forgot Thou never canst be while I have a heart. Launch'd on those waters, wild with storm and wind, I know not, ask not, what may be my lot; For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought. DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS. THOUGH old in cunning, as in years, And sportive like a boy, and wild; Is added more than childhood's power; And you perchance may rue the hour That saw you join his seeming play. He quick is anger'd, and as quick His short-lived passion's over past, Like summer lightnings, flashing thick, But flying ere a bolt is cast. I've seen, myself, as 't were together, Now joy, now grief assume its place, Shedding a sort of April weather, Sunshine and rain upon his face. His curling hair floats on the wind, Like Fortune's, long and thick before, His ruddy face is strangely bright, But sometimes steals a thrilling glance And sometimes looks with eye askance; But seldom ventures he to gaze With looks direct and open eye; His tongue, that seems to have left just then And forms his lisping infant strain In words scarce utter'd, half-complete; Yet, wafted on a winged sigh, And led by Flattery, gentle guide, Unseen into the heart they fly, Its coldness melt, and tame its pride. His ruddy lips are always dress'd, But, once admitted as a guest, That lowly port and look distress'dThen insolent assumes his reign, Displays his captious, high-bred airs, His causeless pets and jealous fears, His fickle fancy and unquiet brain. EMBLEMS. YON rose, that bows her graceful head to hail The welcome visitant that brings the morn, And spreads her leaves to gather from the gale The coolness on its early pinions borne, Listing the music of its whisper'd tale, And giving stores of perfume in returnThough fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide; Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride. Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high, Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes, And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky, Daring the thunder that its height provokes, And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh, From noonday heats to guard the weary flocksThough strong he seem, must dread the bursting And e'en the malice of the feeble worm. [storm, The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, And sends her silvery beam serenely down, We look, and closely, we perceive a stain. On which our passions and our hopes dilate: TO A LADY. LIKE target for the arrow's aim, Like snow beneath the sunny heats, Like wax before the glowing flame, Like cloud before the wind that fleets, I am 't is love that made me so, And, lady, still thou sayst me no. The wound's inflicted by thine eyes, The mortal wound to hope and me, Which naught, alas, can cicatrize, Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind, That make me such; ah, then be kind! My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite; Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense, My wishes-ne'er did passion light A flame more pure or more intense. Love all these arms at once employs, And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys. J. H. BRIGHT. [Born, 1804. Died, 1837.] JONATHAN HUNtington BrighT was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age he went to New York, where he resided several years, after which he removed to Albany, and subsequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was for several years a writer for the public journals and literary magazines, under the signature of "Viator." His poetry has never been published collectively. THE VISION OF DEATH. THE moon was high in the autumn sky, And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads An impulse I might not defy, Constrain'd my footsteps there, When through the gloom a red eye burn'd Then out it spake: "My name is Death!" And a voice from that unnatural shade "Dig me a grave! dig me a grave!" The gloomy monster said, "And make it deep, and long, and wide, And bury me my dead." A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet, With trembling hand the tool I spann'd, The gray and ropy mould; And I sought to detach my stiffen'd grasp, "Now cautiously turn up the sod; And time shall be when each small blade The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings, O, then I sought to rest my brow, "Toil on! toil on!" scream'd the ugly fiend, Toil on toil on! at the judgment-day Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes, How the grave made bare her secret work, While the ground beneath me heaved and roll'd The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth- Six thousand years your fellow-man And ever when he cursed I laugh'd, In this dark spot I've laid- And tender Indian maid; "Yet here they may no more remain ; Of deeper, lonelier gloom; From the east's remotest line, The forward banners shine: Anon a pale and silvery mist Was girdled round the moon: Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes, "Now marshal all the numerous host In one concentred band, And hurry them to the west," said he, "Where ocean meets the land: They shall regard thy bidding voice, And move at thy command." Then first I spake-the sullen corpse Like the dry bones the prophet raised, They stalk'd erect as if alive, Yet not to life allied, But like the pestilence that walks, The grave personified. The earth-worm drew his slimy trail And the carrion bird in hot haste came While ever as on their way they moved, And before and behind, and about their sides, As the beggar clasps his skinny hands On, on we went through the livelong night, We turn'd not aside for forest or stream Or mountain towering high, But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd, At length our army reach'd the verge The stars went out, the morning smiled The bird began his early hymn, And the vision of death was broken with HE WEDDED AGAIN. ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her cheek, Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not speak, And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment to bow; He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then And its soft, melting tones still held captive the ear, Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again. His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad! When we thought of the light death had stolen away, Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had, But can she be quite blest who presides at his board? When she with our lost one forgotten is laid? She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again. SONG. SHOULD Sorrow o'er thy brow Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring; Should pleasure at its birth Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth,There's rest for thee in heaven! If ever life shall seem To thee a toilsome way, And gladness cease to beam Upon its clouded day; If, like the wearied dove, O'er shoreless ocean driven, Raise thou thine eye above,There's rest for thee in heaven! But, O! if always flowers Throughout thy pathway bloom, And gayly pass the hours, Undimn'd by earthly gloom; Still let not every thought To this poor world be given, Not always be forgot Thy better rest in heaven! When sickness pales thy cheek, And dims thy lustrous eye, And pulses low and weak Tell of a time to die Sweet hope shall whisper then, "Though thou from earth be riven, There's bliss beyond thy ken,— There's rest for thee in heaven!" |