A CONTRAST.

[high;

Ir was the morning of a day in spring; The sun look'd gladness from the eastern sky; Birds were upon the trees and on the wing, And all the air was rich with melody; The heaven-the calm, pure heaven, was bright on Earth laugh'd beneath in all its freshening green, The free blue streams sang as they wandered by, And many a sunny glade and flowery scene Gleam'd out, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled years between.

The rose's breath upon the south wind came, Oft as its whisperings the young branches stirr'd, And flowers for which the poet hath no name; While, mid the blossoms of the grove, were heard The restless murmurs of the humming-bird; Waters were dancing in the mellow light; And joyous notes and many a cheerful word Stole on the charmed ear with such delight As waits on soft, sweet tones of music heard at night. The night-dews lay in the half-open'd flower, Like hopes that nestle in the youthful breast; And ruffled by the light airs of the hour, Awoke the pure lake from its glassy rest: Slow blending with the blue and distant west, Lay the dim woodlands, and the quiet gleam Of amber-clouds, like islands of the blestGlorious and bright, and changing like a dream, And lessening fast away beneath the intenser beam. Songs were amid the valleys far and wide, And on the green slopes and the mountains high: While, from the springing flowers on every side, Upon his painted wings, the butterfly Roam'd, a gay blossom of the sunny sky; The visible smile of joy was on the scene; 'Twas a bright vision, but too soon to die! Spring may not linger in her robes of greenAutumn, in storm and shade shall quench the summer sheen.

I came again. 'Twas Autumn's stormy hour: The voice of winds was in the faded wood; The sere leaves, rustling in deserted bower, Were hurl'd in eddies to the moaning flood: Dark clouds were in the west-and red as blood, The sun shone through the hazy atmosphere; While torrent voices broke the solitude, Where, straying lonely, as with steps of fear, I mark'd the deepening gloom which shrouds the dying year.

The ruffled lake heaved wildly; near the shore It bore the red leaves of the shaken tree, Shed in the violent north wind's restless roar, Emblems of man upon life's stormy sea! Pale autumn leaves! once to the breezes free They waved in spring and summer's golden prime; Now, even as clouds or dew how fast they flee; Weak, changing like the flowers in autumn's clime, As man sinks down in death, chill'd by the touch of time!

I mark'd the picture-'t was the changeful scene Which life holds up to the observant eye:

Its spring, and summer, and its bowers of green, The streaming sunlight of its morning sky, And the dark clouds of death, which linger by; For oft, when life is fresh and hope is strong, Shall early sorrow breathe the unbidden sigh, While age to death moves peacefully along, As on the singer's lip expires the finish'd song.

THE FADED ONE.

GONE to the slumber which may know no waking Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,

A bond of loneliness--a spell of death! Yet 't was but yesterday that all before thee

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,

And thy light feet impress'd but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charm'd thy sweet existence,

Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. How have the garlands of thy childhood wither'd, And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gather'd, And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,

Youth's braided wreath lies stain'd in sprinkled Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, [dust, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and

trust.

A REMEMBRANCE.

I SEE thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingling with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm:
In visions of the midnight deep,
Thine accents through my bosom thrill,
Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep,-
For, wrapt in thought I see thee still!

I see thee still,-that cheek of rose,-
Those lips, with dewy fragrance wet,
That forehead in serene repose,—

Those soul-lit eyes-I see them yet!
Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead,—
Thou gracest still this earthly sphere,
An influence still is round me shed,
Like thine, and yet thou art not here!
Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight,
Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom;
No more thy smiles inspire delight,

For thou art garner'd in the tomb. Rich harvest for that ruthless power Which hath no bound to mar his will:Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour, Throned in my heart, I see thee still.

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.

TO THE WEST.

LAND of the West!-green forest-land!
Clime of the fair, and the immense!
Favourite of Nature's liberal hand,

And child of her munificence!
Fill'd with a rapture warm, intense,
High on a cloud-girt hill I stand;

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
Or fading, but tradition hoary,-
Thy yet unwritten annals hold

Of many a daring deed the story!
Man's might of arm hath here been tried,

And woman's glorious strength of soul,-
When war's fierce shout rang far and wide,
When vengeful foes at midnight stole
On slumbering innocence, and gave

Nor onset-shout, nor warning word,
Nor nature's strong appealings heard
From woman's lips, to "spare and save
Her unsuspecting little one,

Her only child-her son! her son!" Unheard the supplicating tone,

Which ends in now a shriek, and now a deep death-groan!

Land of the West!-green forest-land!
Thine early day for deeds is famed
Which in historic page shall stand

Till bravery is no longer named.
Thine early day!--it nursed a band

Of men who ne'er their lineage shamed:
The iron-nerved, the bravely good,
Who neither spared nor lavish'd blood-

Aye ready, morn, or night, or noon;
Fleet in the race, firm in the field,
Their sinewy arms their only shield--
Courage to Death alone to yield;

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,
When storm and darkness were abroad,

Breathed in the thunder's voice aloud,
And writ in lightning on the cloud.
And thus they lived: the dead leaves oft,

Heap'd by the playful winds, their bed;
Nor wish'd they couch more warm or soft
Nor pillow for the head,

Other than fitting root, or stone,
With the scant wood-moss overgrown.
Heroic band! But they have pass'd,

As pass the stars at rise of sun:
Melting into the ocean vast

Of Time, and sinking, one by one;
Yet lingering here and there a few,
As if to take a last, long view
Of the domain they won in strife
With foes who battled to the knife.
Peace unto those that sleep beneath us!

All honour to the few that yet do linger with us!
Land of the West!--thine early prime
Fades in the flight of hurrying Time ;
Thy noble forests fall, as sweep
Europa's myriads o'er the deep;

And thy broad plains, with welcome warm,
Receive the onward-pressing swarm:
On mountain-height, in lowly vale,

By quiet lake, or gliding river,——
Wherever sweeps the chainless gale,
Onward sweep they, and forever.
O, may they come with hearts that ne'er
Can bend a tyrant's chain to wear;

With souls that would indignant turn,
And proud oppression's minions spurn;
With nerves of steel, and words of flame,

To strike and sear the wretch who'd bring our land to shame!

Land of the West!--beneath the Heaven
There's not a fairer, lovelier clime;
Nor one to which was ever given
A destiny more high, sublime.
From Alleghany's base, to where

Our Western Andes prop the sky-
The home of Freedom's hearts is there,
And o'er it Freedom's eagles fly.
And here,--should e'er Columbia's land
Be rent with fierce intestine feud;
Shall Freedom's latest cohorts stand,

Till Freedom's eagles sink in blood,

And quench'd are all the stars that now her banners stud!

AUGUST.

DEST 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 flowerChange cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun

Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,
Scarce whispering in their pace,

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

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. Happy, as man may be,

Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, While the voluptuous bee

Robs each surrounding flower,

And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.

Against the hazy sky

The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. Beneath them far, yet high

In the dim, distant west,

The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air.

Soberly, in the shade,

Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox; Or in the shoal stream wade, Shelter'd by jutting rocks:

Faster, along the plain,

SPRING VERSES.

How with the song of every bird,
And with the scent of every flower,

Some recollection dear is stirr'd

Of many a long-departed hour,

Whose course, though shrouded now in night,
Was traced in lines of golden light!

I know not if, when vears have cast
Their shadows on life's early dreams,
"Tis wise to touch the hope that's past,
And re-illume its fading beams:
But, though the future hath its star,
That olden hope is dearer far.

Of all the present, much is bright;
And in the coming years. I see
A brilliant and a cheering light,

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.

21

MAY.

WOULD that thou couldst last for aye,
Merry, ever-merry May!

Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers,
Bursting buds, and breathing flowers;
Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested,
Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested;
Girdled with the eglantine,
Festoon'd with the dewy vine:
Merry, ever-merry May,

Would that thou couldst last for aye!

Out beneath thy morning sky
Dian's bow still hangs on high;
And in the blue depths afar
Glimmers, here and there, a star.
Diamonds robe the bending grass,

Glistening, early flowers among-
Monad's world, and fairy's glass,-
Bathing-fount for wandering sprite-
By mysterious fingers hung,
In the lone and quiet night.
Now the freshening breezes pass—
Gathering, as they steal along,
Rich perfume, and matin-song;
And quickly to destruction hurl'd

Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dew-drop

But hath swept the green earth's bosom;
Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom,
Dallying with the simplest flower
In mossy nook and rosy bower;
To the perfumed green-house straying,
And with rich exotics playing;
Then, unsated, sweeping over
Banks of thyme, and fields of clover!
Out beneath thy evening sky,
Groups of children caper by,
Crown'd with flowers, and rush along
With joyous laugh, and shout, and song.
Flashing eye, and radiant cheek,
Spirits all unsunn'd bespeak.

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,
Merry, ever-merry May!

Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers,
Bursting buds, and breathing flowers;
Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested,
Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested;
Girdled with the eglantine,

Festoon'd with the dewy vine:

Merry, ever-merry May,

Would that thou couldst last for aye!

Lo! yon cloud, which hung but now Black upon the mountain's brow,

[world.

Out beneath thy noontide sky,

On a shady slope I lie,

Giving fancy ample play;

And there's not more blest than I,
One of ADAM's race to-day.
Out beneath thy noontide sky!
Earth, how beautiful! how clear
Of cloud or mist the atmosphere!
What a glory greets the eye!
What a calm, or quiet stir,

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
We turn on life's bewildering track,
To where, o'er hill and valley, plays
The sunlight of our early days!

A boy-my truant steps were seen
Where streams were bright, and meadows green;
Where flowers, in beauty and perfume,
Breathed ever of the Eden-bloom;
And birds, abroad in the free wind,
Sang, as they left the earth behind
And wing'd their joyous way above,
Of Eden-peace, and Eden-love.
That life was of the soul, as well
As of the outward visible;

And now, its streams are dry; and sere
And brown its meadows all appear;

Gone are its flowers; its bird's glad voice

But seldom bids my heart rejoice;
And, like the mist as comes the day,
Its Eden-glories roll away.

A youth-the mountain-torrent made
The music which my soul obey'd.
To shun the crowded ways of men,
And seek the old tradition'd glen,
Where, through the dim, uncertain light,
Moved many an ever-changing sprite,
Alone the splinter'd crag to dare,
While trooping shadows fill'd the air,
And quicken'd fancy many a form
Traced vaguely in the gathering storm,
To tread the forest's lone arcades,
And dream of Sherwood's peopled shades,

And Windsor's haunted "alleys green"
“Dingle" and "bosky bourn" between,
Till burst upon my raptured glance
The whole wide realm of Old Romance:
Such was the life I lived-a youth!
But vanish'd, at the touch of Truth,
And never to be known agen,
Is all that made my being then.

A man-the thirst for fame was mine,
And bow'd me at Ambition's shrine,
Among the votaries who have given

Time, health, hope, peace--and madly striven,
Ay, madly! for that which, when found,

Is oftenest but an empty sound.

And I have worshipp'd!-even yet
Mine eye is on the idol set;

But it hath found so much to be

But hollowness and mockery,
That from its worship oft it turns
To where a light intenser burns,
Before whose radiance, pure and warm,
Ambition's star must cease to charm.

Our early days!-They haunt us ever-
Bright star-gleams on life's silent river,
Which pierce the shadows, deep and dun,
That bar e'en manhood's noonday sun.

THE LABOURER.

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

Forever, 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-'t is 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, 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!
Stout-hearted dames were they;
With nerve to wield the battle-brand,
And join the border-fray.

Our rough land had no braver,

In its days of blood and strifeAye ready for severest toil,

Aye free to peril life.

The mothers of our forest-land!

On old Kentucky's soil

How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest and life's toil!

They shrank not from the foeman

They quail'd not in the fightBut cheer'd their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night.

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, And fill it, should he fall:

The mothers of our forest-land!

Such were their daily deeds.

Their monument!-where does it stand?
Their epitaph!--who reads!
No braver dames had Sparta,

No nobler matrons Rome-
Yet who or lauds or honours them,
E'en in their own green home?

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."