There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in Melancholy.

I remember, I remember

Ode to Melancholy.

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 't is little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.

I remember, I remember.

Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap

In imperceptible water.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold !

Miss Kilmansegg.

Bright and yellow, hard and cold.

Ibid. Her Moral.

Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould.

How widely its agencies vary

To save to ruin to curse to bless
As even its minted coins express,

Ibid.

Now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess,

And now of a Bloody Mary.

Oh! would I were dead now,

Or up in my bed now,

To cover my head now
And have a good cry!

Ibid.

A Table of Errata.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT..

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language.

Thanatopsis.

Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings.

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man.

Ibid.

Ibid.

All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.

Ibid.

So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and
soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

The stormy March has come at last,

Ibid.

With wind and clouds and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

March.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Loyer to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame. Autumn Woods.

The groves were God's first temples.
Forest Hymn.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of

the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

The Death of the Flowers.

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the

stream no more.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Ibid.

A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson. Truth crushed to earth shall rise again: The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

The Battle-field.

JOHN K. INGRAM.

Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?

Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?

From The Dublin Nation, April 1, 1843. Vol. i. p. 339.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

1797-1835.

I've wandered east, I 've wandered west,

Through many a weary way;

But never, never can forget
The love of life's young day.

Jeannie Morison.

And we, with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies.

Ibid.

RUFUS CHOATE.

1799-1859.

There was a State without King or nobles; there was a church without a Bishop;1 there was a people governed by grave magistrates which it had selected, and equal laws which it had framed. Speech before the New England Society, New York, December 22, 1843.

We join ourselves to no party that does not carry the flag and keep step to the music of the Union. Letter to the Whig Convention.

Its constitution the glittering and sounding generalities of natural right which make up the Declaration of Independence.

Letter to the Maine Whig Committee.

1 The Americans equally detest the pageantry of a King, and the supercilious hypocrisy of a Bishop. Junius, Letter, No. 35, Dec. 19, 1769.

THOMAS K. HERVEY. 1799-1859.

The tomb of him who would have made

The world too glad and free.

The Devil's Progress.

He stood beside a cottage lone,

And listened to a lute,

One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone,

The hairs on his brow were silver-white,
And his blood was thin and old.

Ibid.

ROBERT C. WINTHROP.

Our Country-whether bounded by the St. John's and the Sabine, or however otherwise bounded or described, and be the measurements more or less ;-still our Country, to be cherished in all our hearts, to be defended by all our hands. Toast at Faneuil Hall on the 4th of July, 1845. A star for every state, and a state for every Address on Boston Common in 1862.

star.