EROS. As when, untaught and blind, To the mute stone the pagan bows his knee, When first a laughing child, I gazed on Nature with a wondering eye, I saw the flowers appear, And spread their petals out to meet the sun, And if a harp was stirred By the soft pulses of some wandering sound, Fast through the vaulted sky, Giving no sound or light, when storms were loud, I saw the winds, and sea, And all the hosts of heaven in bright array, And then my spirit pined, And, like the sea-shell for its parent sea, Moaned for those kindred souls it could not find, And panted to be free. And then came wild Despair, And laid her palsying hand upon my soul, O God of life and light, Ix full-orbed splendor now the queen of Night Among the stars walks in her pride of place, And now again we miss that flood of light That overflowed the azure fields of space. But though her brightness meets no more the gaze, She shines in shadow, but not less she shines. Soon will she rise again upon the sight, Passing the darkened shape that bids her wane ; Then shall we see her, in unclouded light, Take her own place among the stars again. ON A PICTURE OF HARVEY BIRCH. FROM COOPER'S "SPY." I KNOW not if thy noble worth I know not if thou e'er didst live, Yet in thy history I see Full many a great soul's lot, Who joins that martyr-army's ranks, That the world knoweth not; Who can not weep "melodious tears" But who in silence bear their doom For whom no poet's harp is struck, And perish by the road. Truth, Justice, God! oh, mighty faith, The gates of hell may not prevail Go, ye sweet messengers, Where lettered wisdom from the walls Where sits in thought profound Whose flashing eye and fevered brow Who in those wells of lore No perfume e'er is found, Thoughts fresh as your own hues SONNETS. I. LOVE. Go forth in life, oh, friend! not seeking love, Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, II. THE LAKE AND STAR. THE mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills, Amid the shadows that above me roll; III. A REMEMBRANCE. [storms: NIGHT closes round me, and wild threatening forms IV. THE SUN AND STREAM. As some dark stream within a cavern's breast V. TO AH no! my love knows no vain jealousy: VI. THE HONEY-BEE. THE honey-bee that wanders all day long. Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear, Hived in our hearts it turns the nectar there. VII. ASPIRATION. THE planted seed, consigned to common earth, VIII. TO THE SAVIOR. OH thou who once on earth, beneath the weight JX. FAITH. [sea, SECURELY cabined in the ship below, That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering maze, Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass, Through thornset barren and through deep morass, But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, And bare my head unshrinking to the blast, Because my Father's arm is round me cast; And if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp. BONES IN THE DESERT. WHERE pilgrims seek the Prophet's tomb Across the Arabian waste, Upon the ever-shifting sands A fearful path is traced. A line of ghastly bones that bleach The desert-sands have strewed, For while along that burning track Still do the way worn pilgrims fall Toward Mecca looks, and dies. On sweeps the endless train; But there, to mark the desert path, Their whitening bones remain. As thus I read the mournful tale Upon the traveller's page, I thought how like the march of life For every heart hath some fair dream, Some Mecca to be gained. But beauty, manhood, love, and power, And longing eyes and outstretched arms Above their dust may sweep, Oh, fountains that I have not reached, Oh, Mecca of my lifelong dreams, In that far distance pierced by hope, And the pilgrim, as ye still recede, CHRIST BETRAYED. EIGHTEEN hundred years agone Was that deed of darkness doneWas that sacred, thorn-crowned head To a shameful death betrayed, And Iscariot's traitor name Blazoned in eternal shame. Thou, disciple of our time, Follower of the faith sublime, Who with high and holy scorn Of that traitorous deed dost burn, Though the years may never more To our earth that form restore, The Christ-Spirit ever livesEver in thy heart he strives. When pale Misery mutely calls, When thy tempted brother falls, When thy gentle words may chain Hate, and Anger, and Disdain, Or thy loving smile impart Courage to some sinking heart: When within thy troubled breast Good and evil thoughts contest, Though unconscious thou may'st be, The Christ-Spirit strives with thee. When he trod the Holy Land, With his small disciple band, And the fated hour had come For that august martyrdomWhen the man, the human love, And the God within him stroveAs in Gethsemané he wept, They, the faithless watchers, slept : While for them he wept and prayed, One denied and one betrayed! If to-day thou turn'st aside In our fallen, struggling race- THE WASTED FOUNTAINS.. "And their nobles have sent their little ones to the waters; they came to the pits and found no water; they returned with their vessels empty."-Jeremiah xiv. 3. WHEN the youthful fever of the soul Is awakened in thee first, And thou goest like Judah's children forth And when dry and wasted, like the springs Sought by that little band, Life's broken cisterns stand; Or o'erflowing with thy tears; Wilt thou sit among the ruins, With all words of cheer unspoken, Till the silver cord is loosened, Till the golden bowl is broken? Up and onward! toward the east Green oases thou shalt findStreams that rise from higher sources Than the pools thou leavest behind. Life has import more inspiring Than the fancies of thy youth; It has wrongs that may be righted, Its great triumphs are unwon. There is rising from its troubled deeps There are aching, there are breaking From strong limbs that should be chainless, There are words to raise the fallen; There is light to give the blind; There are crushed and broken spirits By the might of one strong will. Scale the walls of heaven by prayer "Tis the key of the apostle That opens heaven from below; "Tis the ladder of the patriarch, Whereon angels come and go! PAUL PREACHING AT ATHENS. GREECE! hear that joyful sound! A stranger's voice upon thy sacred hill, Wake with convulsive thrill. Athenians! gather there, he brings you words He brings you news of One Behold, he bids you rise From your dark worship round that idol shrine; He points to Him who reared your starry skies, And bade your Phœbus shine. Lift up your souls from where in dust ye bow; That God of gods commands your homage now. But, brighter tidings still! He tells of One whose precious blood was spilt In lavish streams upon Judea's hill, A ransom for your guilt; Who triumphed o'er the grave, and broke its chain; Sages of Greece! come near; Immortal life revealed! light for which ye Searchers for some First Cause Through doubt and darkness-lo! he points to One That was from everlasting-that shall be EMILY JUDSON. MISS EMILY CHUBBUCK, who under the graceful pseudonyme of Fanny Forester' became known as one of the most ingenious and brilliant female writers of the country, is a native of central New York; and after being thoroughly educated in the sciences suitable to her sex, and making herself familiar with the best literature by a loving and critical study of those authors who are the standards of thought and diction, she became a teacher in a female seminary at Utica, where she was residing when she made her first essays as a writer-some poetical contributions to the Knickerbocker Magazine, and several small volumes illustrative of practical religion, issued by the American Baptist Publication Society. Early in June, 1844, while visiting the city of New York, she wrote a hasty bagatelle for the New Mirror, then recently established by Gen. Morris and Mr. N. P. Willis, scarcely thinking or caring that it would for a moment receive their attention. But Mr. Willis's perception of beauty is instinctive: he saw at a glance that his correspondent was possessed of extreme cleverness-perhaps of genius-and his liberal but perfectly sincere applause led Miss Chubbuck to that career of literature which soon made her nom de plume as familiar as the names of the most popular authors. The first paper under the signature of "Fanny Forester" was published on the twenty-ninth of June in the New Mirror, and it was followed rapidly by all those sketches, essays, and poems, which, two years afterward, when she was on the eve of sailing for India, were reprinted under the title of Alderbrook. In 1846, the missionary Judson-after a long career of usefulness and true glory in the East-returned to America, where he was received by the churches in a manner worthy of the greatness of his services to religion and civilization. "Fanny Forester," on account of impaired health, sought the genial climate of Philadelphia for the succeeding winter, and here he came to visit her and persuade her to write the mortal history of one who had joined the angels, leaving him alone in the ship in which they had started together to revisit their native country. When the apostle of the Burmans described in sentences glowing with his fine enthusiasm, the condition of the missionary field, white with the harvests which so few were reaping, she kindled at the recital, and forgetting the bril liant prospects of success in letters, the dearest ties of home affections, determined to twine for the laurel which she cast aside, a wreath from these fields in the Orient, the grains in which should be stars to circle her brows for ever, and by their radiance to make more glorious the looked-for triumph of the Harvester of the world. Early in the spring she returned to the home of her childhood, to bid a last farewell to all its inmates. Then she wrote-"My heart is heavy with sorrow. The cup at my lips is very bitter. Heaven help me! White hairs are bending in submissive grief, and age-dimmed eyes are dimmer with tears; young spirits have lost their joyousness, young lips forget to smile, and bounding hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, the rending of ties, knitted at the first opening of the infant eye, and strengthened by numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing! To make the grave the only door to a meeting with those in whose bosoms we nestled, in whose hearts we trusted long before we knew how precious was such love and trust, brings with it an overpowering weight of solemnity. But a grave is yawning for each one of us; and is it much to choose whether we sever the tie that binds us here to-day, or lie down on the morrow? Ah, the 'weaver's shuttle' is flying; the flower of the grass' is withering; the space is almost measured ; the tale nearly told; the dark valley is close before us-- - tread we with care! My mother, we may neither of us close the other's darkened eyes, and fold the cold hands upon the bosom; we may neither of us watch the sod greening and withering above the other's ashes: but there are duties for us even more sacred than these. But a few steps, mother - difficult the path may be, but very bright |