250

THE MERRIMACK.

And, while from out its heavy fold
St. George's crimson cross unrolled,
Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,
And weapons brandishing in air,
He gave to that lone promontory
The sweetest name in all his story;
Of her-the flower of Islam's daughters,
Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters-
Who, when the chance of war had bound
The Moslem chain his limbs around,
Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain,
Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain,
And fondly to her youthful slave
A dearer gift than freedom gave.

But look!-the yellow light no more
Streams down on wave and verdant shore;

And clearly on the calm air swells

The distant voice of twilight bells.

From Ocean's bosom, white and thin

The mists come slowly rolling in;
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,
Amidst the sea-like vapour swim,
While yonder lonely coast-light set
Within its wave-washed minaret,

Half quenched, a beamless star and pale,
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!

THE MERRIMACK.

Vale of my fathers!-I have stood

Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood;
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade

Along his frowning Palisade;
Looked down the Appalachian peak
On Juniata's silver streak;

Have seen along his valley gleam
The Mohawk's softly-winding stream;
The setting sun, his axle red
Quench darkly in Potomac's bed;

And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;
Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be,
Thy wandering child looked back to thee!
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound

Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,

The unforgotten swell and roar

Of waves on thy familiar shore;

And seen amidst the curtained gloom

And quiet of my lonely room,

Thy sunset scenes before me pass;

As, in Agrippa's magic glass,

The loved and lost arose to view,
Remembered groves in greenness grew;
And while the gazer leaned to trace,
More near, some old familiar face,
He wept to find the vision flown-
A phantom and a dream alone!

251

AUTUMN.

BY R. C. WATERSTON.

UPON a leaf-strewn walk,

I wander on amid the sparkling dews;

Where Autumn hangs, upon each frost-gemmed stalk, Her gold and purple hues ;

Where the tall fox-gloves shake

Their loose bells to the wind, and each sweet flower, Bows down its perfumed blossoms to partake

The influence of the hour;

Where the cloud-shadows pass

With noiseless speed by lonely lake and rill,
Chasing each other o'er the low, crisped grass,
And up the distant hill ;-

Where the clear stream steals on

Upon its silent path, as it were sad

To find each downward-gazing flower has gone,
That made it once so glad.

AUTUMN.

I number it in days,

Since last I roamed through this secluded dell;
Seeking a shelter from the summer rays,

Where flowers and wild-birds dwell.

While gemmed with dew-drops bright, Green leaves and silken buds were dancing there, I moved my lips in murmurs of delight,

"And blessed them, unaware."

How changed each sylvan scene!

Where is the warbling bird? the sun's clear ray?

The waving brier-rose? and foliage green,

That canopied my way?

Where is the balmy breeze

That fanned so late my brow? the sweet south-west,
That, whispering music to the listening trees,
My raptured spirit blest?

Where are the notes of spring?

Yet the brown bee still hums his quiet tune,
And the low shiver of the insect's wing,
Disturbs the hush of noon.

The thin, transparent leaves,

Like flakes of amber, quiver in the light,

253

254

SONG OF THE FLOWER SPIRIT.

While autumn round her silver fret-work weaves

In glittering hoar-frost white.

Oh, Autumn, thou art blest!

My bosom heaves with breathless rapture here :
I love thee well, season of mournful rest!

Sweet Sabbath of the year!

SONG OF THE FLOWER SPIRIT.

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower,

Mine is the exquisite music that flies,

When silence and moonlight are dressing each bower, That blooms in the favour of tropical skies.

I woo the young bird, with melody glowing,

To leap forth in sunlight and warble his strain; And mine is the odour, in turn, that bestowing,

The warbler is paid for his music again.

Sorrow comes never where I am abiding,

The tempests are strangers, and far from us rove;

I woo the zephyrs too hurriedly riding,

And gently they linger, and tell us of love.