Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the North-east; The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,

Then leaped her cable's length. “Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,

And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow.
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat,

Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.
“ O father! I hear the church-bells ring,

O say what may it be?” “ 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”

And he steered for the open sea. “ O father! I hear the sound of guns,

O say, what may it be?” “ Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry sea !”
“O father, I see a gleaming light,

O say, what may it be?".
But the father answered never a word,

A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow

On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed

That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,

On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear,

Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,

She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew

Like icicles from her deck
She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side

Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,

Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,

Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow;
Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

Miscellaneous Poems,

1841-46.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.
NO HAY PÁJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTAÑO.

Spanish Proverb. The sun is bright, the air is clear, | All things rejoice in youth and love,

The darting swallows soar and sing, The fulness of their first delight! And from the stately elms I hear

And learn from the soft heavens above The blue-bird prophesying Spring. The melting tenderness of night. So blue yon winding river flows, Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, It seems an oatlet from the sky,

Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; Where, waiting till the west wind blows, Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

The freighted clouds at anchor lie. For O! it is not always May! All things are new;-the buds, the leaves, Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, To some good angel leave the rest ; And even the nest beneath the eaves ;-|For time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest ! | There are no birds in last year's uest

THE RAINY DAY.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the dav is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree He goes on Sunday to the church,
The village smithy stands ;

And sits among his boys ;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

He hears the parson pray and preach, With large and sinewy hands;

He hears his daughter's voice,
And the muscles of his brawny arms Singing in the village choir,
Are strong as iron bands.

And it makes his heart rejoice.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
His face is like the tan;

| Singing in Paradise ! His brow is wet with honest sweat, He needs must think of her once more, He earns whate'er he can,

How in the grave she lies ;
And looks the whole world in the face, | And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
For he owes not any man.

A tear out of his eyes,
Week in, week out, from morn till night, Toiling-rejoicing --sorrowing,
You can hear his bellows blow;

Onward through life he goes ;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Each morning sees some task begin,
With measured beat and slow,

Each evening sees it close ;
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, Something attempted, something done,

When the evening sun is low. ! Has earned a night's repose. And children coming home from school Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Look in at the open door;

For the lesson thou hast taught ! They love to see the flaming forge, Thus at the flaming forge of life And hear the bellows roar,

Our fortunes must be wrought ; And catch the burning sparks that fly Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Like chaff from a threshing floor. Each burning deed and thought.

ENDYMION. The rising moon has hid the stars ;

In silence and alone
Her level rays, like golden bars,

To seek the elected one.
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep,

Are life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And silver white the river gleams,

And kisses the closed eyes
As if Diana in her dreams,

Of him who slumbering lies.
Had dropt her silver bow

0, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! Upon the meadows low.

0, drooping souls whose destinies On such a tranquil night as this,

Are fraught with fear and pain, She woke Endymion with a kiss,

Ye shall be loved again!
Wheu sleeping in the grove,

No one is so accursed by fate,
He dreamed not of her love.

No one so utterly desolate,
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,

But some heart, though unknown, Love gives itself, but is not bought ;

Responds unto his own.
Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Responds-as if with unseen wings,
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

An angel touched its quivering strings; It comes—the beautiful, the free,

And whispers, in its song, The crown of all humanity

“Where hast thou stayed so long ?'

GOD'S-ACRE.
I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow.

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.
RIVER! that in silence windest | Not for this alone I love thee,

Through the meadows bright and free, Nor because thy waves of blue
Till at length thy rest thou findest From celestial seas above thee
In the bosom of the sea !

Take their own celestial hue.
Four long years of mingled feeling, Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
Half in rest, and half in strife,

And thy waters disappear, I have seen thy waters stealing

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, Onward, like the stream of life. And have made thy margin dear. Thou hast taught me, Silent River! More than this ;-thy name reminds me Many a lesson, deep and long ;

Of three friends, all true and tried ; Thou hast been a generous giver, And that name, like magic, binds me I can give thee but a song.

Closer, closer to thy side. Oft in sadness and in illness,

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! I have watched thy current glide, How like quivering flames they start, Till the beauty of its stillness

When I fan the living embers Overflowed me, like a tide.

On the hearthstone of my heart !
And in better hours and brighter, 'Tis for this, thou Silent River !
When I saw thy waters gleam,

That my spirit leans to thee ;
I have felt my heart beat lighter, | Thou bast been a generous giver,

And leap onward with thy stream. Take this idle song from me.