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THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,

List-thy bosom-door!

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore !

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
"Tis thy heart of sin :

"Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in!

Death comes down with reckless footstep
To the hall and hut:

Think you Death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
JESUS waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;

But thy door is fast!
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth:
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating
Christ to let thee in:

At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot,

JESUS waited long to know thee,
But he knows thee not!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring!
Those glorious Easter chimes;
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,
Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the LORD,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the LORD that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,

The joy of all the earth;

For thine thy mother's voice shall be,
And here-where Gon is king,

With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring.

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND,

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England green and old,

That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have toll'd;
How glorious must their music be
As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth with a seraph's voice
A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,
Sweet tales of olden time!

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime;

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king

Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
Upon a Christmas morn,

Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born;

How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and mistletoe,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle ;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,

And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

MARCH.

MARCH-march-march!

Making sounds as they tread,

Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead! Every stride, every tramp, Every footfall is nearer; And dimmer each lamp,

As darkness grows drearer; But ho! how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho, how they laugh, Going down to the dead! How they whirl--how they trip, How they smile, how they dally, How blithesome they skip,

Going down to the valley;

Oh-ho, how they march,

Making sounds as they tread;

Ho-ho, how they skip,

Going down to the dead!

March-march-march!

Earth groans as they tread! Each carries a skull;

Going down to the dead! Every stride-every stamp, Every footfall is bolder; "Tis a skeleton's tramp,

With a skull on his shoulder! But ho, how he steps

With a high-tossing head,

That clay-cover'd bone,

Going down to the dead!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[Born about 1819.]

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL is a son of Doctor LOWELL, an eminent Unitarian clergyman of Bos

ton.

He was educated at Harvard College, where he was graduated when twenty years of age, and I believe he is now engaged in the study of the law. In 1839 he published anonymously a class poem, delivered at Cambridge, and two years afterward a volume entitled "A Year's Life;" and he is now a frequent contributor to the literary magazines. "Rosaline," included in this volume, is one of his most recent compositions.

Sometimes, in hours of slumberous, melancholy musing, strange, sweet harmonies seem to pervade

ROSALINE.

THOU look'dst on me all yesternight,
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright
As when we murmur'd our trothplight
Beneath the thick stars, RosALINE!
Thy hair was braided on thy head
As on the day we two were wed,
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead-

But my shrunk heart knew, RoSALINE!
The deathwatch tick'd behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall,
The moaning wind did rise and fall

Among the bleak pines, ROSALINE!
My heart beat thickly in mine ears!
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears,
Its eyes are lidless, ROSALINE!
A wildness rushing suddenly,

A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,-

Is not this vengeance, ROSALINE?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite wither'd up and gone,
A strong soul trampled from its throne,-
What wouldst thou further, ROSALINE?
'Tis lone such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,

And then thou comest, RoSALINE! I seem to hear the mourners go, With long, black garments trailing slow, And plumes a-nodding to and fro,

As once I heard them, ROSALINE! Thy shroud it is of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night, Thou standest moveless and upright, Gazing upon me, ROSALINE! There is no sorrow in thine eyes, But evermore that meek surprise,— O, Gon! her gentle spirit tries

To deem me guiltless, ROSALINE!

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the air; impalpable forms, with garments trailing like shadows of summer clouds, glide above us; and wild and beautiful thoughts, ill-defined as the shapes we see, fill the mind. To echo these harmonies, to paint these ethereal forms, to imbody in language these thoughts, would be as difficult as to bind the rainbows in the skies. Mr. LOWELL is still a dreamer, and he strives in vain to make his readers partners in his dreamy, spiritual fancies. Yet he has written some true poetry, and as his later writings are his best, he may be classed among those who give promise of the highest excellence in the maturity of their powers.

Above thy grave the robin sings,

And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings,

But I am cheerless, ROSALINE! The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss, For Nature feels not any loss,

But I am cheerless, ROSALINE! Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred ? Why was my pride gall'd on to wed Her who brought lands and gold instead Of thy heart's treasure, ROSALINE? Why did I fear to let thee stay To look on me and pass away Forgivingly, as in its May,

A broken flower, ROSALINE?

I thought not, when my dagger strook,
Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook
The past all pleading in one look

Of utter sorrow, ROSALINE!

I did not know when thou wert dead:

A blackbird whistling overhead

Thrill'd through my brain; I would have fled,
But dared not leave thee, ROSALINE!

A low, low moan, a light twig stirr'd
By the upspringing of a bird,
A drip of blood,-were all I heard-

Then deathly stillness, ROSALINE!
The sun roll'd down, and very soon,
Like a great fire, the awful moon
Rose, stain'd with blood, and then a swoon
Crept chilly o'er me, ROSALINE!

The stars came out; and, one by one,
Each angel from his silver throne
Look'd down and saw what I had done :
I dared not hide me, ROSALINE!

I crouch'd; I fear'd thy corpse would cry
Against me to Gon's quiet sky,

I thought I saw the blue lips try
To utter something, ROSALINE.

I waited with a madden'd grin

To hear that voice all icy thin
Slide forth and tell my deadly sin

To hell and heaven, ROSALINE!
But no voice came, and then it seem'd
That if the very corpse had scream'd,

The sound like sunshine glad had stream'd
Through that dark stillness, ROSALINE!

Dreams of old quiet glimmer'd by,
And faces loved in infancy
Came and look'd on me mournfully,
Till my heart melted, ROSALINE!
I saw my mother's dying bed,
I heard her bless me, and I shed
Cool tears-but lo! the ghastly dead
Stared me to madness, ROSALINE!

And then, amid the silent night,
I scream'd with horrible delight,
And in my brain an awful light

Did seem to crackle, ROSALINE!
It is my curse! sweet mem'ries fall
From me like snow-and only all
Of that one night, like cold worms crawl
My doom'd heart over, ROSALINE!

Thine eyes are shut, they never more
Will leap thy gentle words before
To tell the secret o'er and o'er

Thou couldst not smother, ROSALINE! Thine eyes are shut: they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine That hid thy casement, beam on mine Sunful with gladness, ROSALINE!

Thy voice I never more shall hear,
Which in old times did seem so dear,

That, ere it trembled in mine ear,

My quick heart heard it, ROSALINE! Would I might die! I were as well, Ay, better, at my home in hell, To set for ay a burning spell

"Twixt me and memory, ROSALINE!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
Wherein such blessed memories,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,

Than hate more bitter, RosALINE!
Woe's me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in church-yard lie—
Would GoD it were so, ROSALINE!

THE BEGGAR.

A BEGGAR through the world am I,
From place to place I wander by ;-
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,
For CHRIST's sweet sake and charity!
A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,
Old oak, give me,-

That the world's blasts may round me blow,

And I yield gently to and fro,
While my stout-hearted trunk below
And firm-set roots unmoved be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and night
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,-
That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance
And the strong tide of circumstance,-
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy mournfulness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,
Put in this scrip of mine,-

That grief may fall like snowflakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright,—
O sweetly-mournful pine..

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,—
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prison'd me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-bye, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That flowers here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou'dst been,
O give, to strengthen me.

SONG.

I.

LIFT up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light out shine! Let me adore the mysteries

Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attuned to an order'd soul!

II.

Open thy lips yet once again,
And, while my soul doth hush
With awe, pour forth that holy strain
Which seemeth me to gush,

A fount of music, running o'er
From thy deep spirit's inmost core!

III.

The melody that dwells in thee Begets in me as well

A spiritual harmony,

A mild and blessed spell; Far, far above earth's atmosphere I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.

ANNE.

THERE is a pensiveness in quiet ANNE,
A mournful drooping of the full, gray eye,
As if she had shook hands with Misery,
And known some care since her short life began;
Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan,

And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack,
You feel as if she must be dress'd in black;
Yet is she not of those who, all they can,
Strive to be gay, and, striving, seem most sad,—
Hers is not grief, but silent soberness;
You would be startled if you saw her glad,
And startled if you saw her weep, no less;
She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath-day,
She decorously glides to church to pray.

THE WAY OF LIFE.

I saw a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;" Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropp'd upon my soul and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and So, without fear I lifted up my head, [pray!" And lo! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." Then rain'd once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! I am the Way, by me ye enter Heaven!"

TO A FRIEND.

My friend, adown life's valley, hand in hand,
With grateful change of grave and merry speech,
Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each,
We'll journey onward to the silent land;
And when stern Death shall loose that loving band,
Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours,
The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers,
Nor shall his heart a moment be unmann'd.
My friend and brother! if thou goest first,
Wilt thou no more revisit me below?
Yea, when my heart seems happy causelessly
And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst
With joy unspeakable,—my soul shall know
That thou, unseen, art bending over me.

THE POET.

POET! who sittest in thy pleasant room,
Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love,
And of a holy life that leads above,

Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom,
And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume,-
O, there were other duties meant for thee
Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be!
O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom,
Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin,
So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray
Of Heaven's blessed light may enter in!
Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way,
And lead them back to hope and peace again,-
For, save in act, thy love is all in vain.

GREEN MOUNTAINS.

YE mountains, that far off lift up your heads,
Seen dimly through their canopies of blue,
The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds
Distance-created beauty over you;

I am not well content with this far view;
How may I know what foot of loved one treads
Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds!
We should love all things better, if we knew
What claims the meanest have upon our hearts;
Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright
To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms;
Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts
To souls that have encircled mine with light,-
O, brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms!

THE DEAD.

To the dark, narrow house when loved ones go,
Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door
None but the sexton knocks at any more,
Are they not sometimes with us yet below?
The longings of the soul would tell us so;
Although, so pure and fine their being's essence,
Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence;
Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow,
Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever
With great thoughts worthy of their high behests
Our souls are fill'd, those bright ones with us be,
As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests:—
O, let us live so worthily, that never
We may be far from that blest company!

LOVE.

MUCH had I mused of love, and in my soul
There was one chamber where I dared not look,
So much its dark and dreary voidness shook
My spirit, feeling that I was not whole:
All my deep longings flow'd toward one goal
For long, long years, but were not answered,
Till hope was drooping, faith wellnigh stone-dead,
And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole:
Yet did I know that Gon was wise and good,
And would fulfil my being late or soon;
Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee,
Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine-wood,
Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon,
Filling my soul with glory utterly.

CAROLINE.

A STAIDNESS Sobers o'er her pretty face,
Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,
And a quaint look about her lips denies;
A lingering love of girlhood you can trace
In her check'd laugh and half-restrained pace;
And, when she bears herself most womanly,
It seems as if a watchful mother's eye
Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace:
Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free
As water, long held back by little hands
Within a pump, and let forth suddenly;
Until, her task remembering, she stands
A moment silent, smiling doubtfully,

Then laughs aloud, and scorns her hated bands.

AMELIA B. WELBY.

[Born about 1821.]

AMELIA B. COPPUCK, now Mrs. WELBY, was born in the small town of St. Michaels, in Maryland. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father, who is a respectable mechanic, removed to Lexington, and afterward to Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. GEORGE B. WELBY.

Most of her poetry has been published during the last four years, under the signature of "AMELIA,"

in the "Louisville Journal," edited by GEORGE D. PRENTICE. It has a musical flow and harmony, and the ideas are often poetical; but occasionally unmeaning epithets, lengthening out a line or a verse, remind us that the writer is not a scholarlike artist. She has feeling, and fancy, and pure sentiment-the highest qualities that ever distinguish the poetry of women. She is now but about twenty years of age.

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe

Of clouds around the hills untrodThose mountain-pillars of the globe Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD! All glittering round the sunset skies, Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd, As if to shade from mortal eyes

The glories of yon upper world; There, while the evening star upholds In one bright spot, their purple folds, My spirit lifts its silent prayer, For Thou, O God of love, art there. The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet Up-springing freely from the sod, In whose soft looks we seem to meet At every step, thy smiles, O GOD! The humblest soul their sweetness shares, They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,Give me, O LORD, a heart like theirs, Contented with my lowly lot; Within their pure, ambrosial bells In odours sweet thy spirit dwells. Their breath may seem to scent the air'Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there.

Hark! from yon casement, low and dim, What sounds are these that fill the breeze? It is the peasant's evening hymn

Arrests the fisher on the seas;
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft, delicious airs

Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is fill'd with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God, art with him there.

The birds among the summer blooms
Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,

They leave the earth and soar above;

We hear their sweet, familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found:
How lovely is a life like theirs,

Diffusing sweetness all around!
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll;
Till, melting on the realms of air,
They reach thy throne in grateful prayer.
The stars-those floating isles of light,
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white

That trembles round the form it veils,They touch the heart as with a spell,

Yet set the soaring fancy free:
And, O! how sweet the tales they tell

Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee.
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair-
They speak of thee, for Thou art there.
The spirit, oft oppress'd with doubt,

May strive to cast thee from its thought; But who can shut thy presence out,

Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought! In spite of all our cold resolves,

Magnetic-like, where'er we be,
Still, still the thoughtful heart revolves,

And points, all trembling, up to thee.
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest-
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou, the living Gon, art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,

Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
There is a land where Thou hast said
The pure in heart shall enter in;
There, in those realms so calmly bright,

How many a loved and gentle one Bathe their soft plumes in living light,

That sparkles from thy radiant throne! There, souls once soft and sad as ours Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers; They dream no more of grief and care, For Thou, the Gon of peace, art there.

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