MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET.

That spring would clothe his boughs no more,
Nor ring his boughs with song of bird-
Sounds like the melancholy shore

Alone were through his branches heard.

Methought, as then, he stood to trace

The withered stems, there stole a tearThat I could read in his sad face,Brothers, our sorrows make us near.

And then he stretched him all along,
And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song,-
How glad was I to tend his rest!

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MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET.

Then happier grew his soothed soul.

He turned and watched the sunlight play Upon my face, as in it stole,

Whispering, Above is brighter day!

He praised my varied hues—the green,
The silver hoar, the golden, brown;
Said, Lovelier hues were never seen;
Then gently pressed my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,

He called them trees, in fond conceit:
Like silly lovers in their suits

He talked, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,
Could I but chase away his care,

And clothe me in a thousand hues,
To bring him joys that I might share.

He answered, earth no blessing had

To cure his lone and aching heart-
That I was one, when he was sad,

Oft stole him from his pain, in part.

But e'en from thee, he said, I go,

To meet the world, its care and strife,

MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET.

No more to watch this quiet flow,

Or spend with thee a gentle life.

And yet the brook is gliding on,

And I, without a care, at rest,

While back to toiling life he's gone,

Where finds his head no faithful breast.

Deal gently with him, world, I pray;

Ye cares, like softened shadows come;

His spirit, wellnigh worn away,

Asks with ye but awhile a home.

O, may I live, and when he dies

Be at his feet an humble sod;
O, may I lay me where he lies,
To die when he awakes in God!

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TO THE URSA MAJOR.

BY HENRY WARE, JR.

WITH What a stately and majestic step
That glorious constellation of the north
Treads its eternal circle! going forth
Its princely way amongst the stars in slow
And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail!
I joy to see thee on thy glowing path
Walk, like some stout and girded giant-stern,
Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot
Disdains to loiter on its destined way.

The other tribes forsake their midnight track,
And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave;
But thou dost never close thy burning eye,
Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on,
While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds
Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds.
The near horizon tempts to rest in vain.

Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit

Thy long-appointed watch; but, sleepless still,

TO THE URSA MAJOR.

Dost guard the fixed light of the universe,
And bid the north for ever know its place.

Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust,

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Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God
Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven,
And echoed from the outer spheres that bound

The illimitable universe, thy voice

Joined the high chorus; from thy radiant orbs
The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise,
Who thus had cast another sparkling gem,
Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd

Of splendors that enrich his firmament.

As thou art now, so wast thou then the same.

Ages have rolled their course, and time grown gray;
The earth has gathered to her womb again,

And yet again, the myriads that were born

Of her uncounted, unremembered tribes;

The seas have changed their beds-the eternal hills
Have stooped with age-the solid continents
Have left their banks-and man's imperial works-
The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung
Their haughty honors in the face of heaven,
As if immortal-have been swept away—
Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot.
But time has shed no dimness on thy front,

Nor touched the firmness of thy tread; youth, strength,
And beauty still are thine-as clear, as bright,