Enamell'd fields of green, where herding kine I turn where, glancing down, the eye surveys Grasps the glad soil where freemen plant their feet; No ruin'd castle here with ivy waves, She owes her mountain-breath of Liberty; A patriot mask, to compass what they dare, Our lays are like the fitful streams that flow ANNE BOLEYN. I WEEP while gazing on thy modest face, The beautiful and young, that while their path SUNRISE, FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON. THE laughing hours have chased away the night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem:-And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, Attendant on the day-the mountain-tops Have lit their beacons, and the vales below Send up a welcoming;-no song of birds, Warbling to charm the air with melody, Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks! The sunshine and the shade of poetry. I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, Temple of Nature! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued ; Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer-now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light, Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending Questions the eye with ever-varying forms. The sun comes up! away the shadows fling From the broad hills-and, hurrying to the west Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down. Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light Dances along with their perennial flow. And there is beauty in yon river's path, The glad Connecticut! I know her well, By the white veil she mantles o'er her charmis: At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills, Sportfully hiding-then again with glee Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves, And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes and woods And all that hold the faculty entranced, Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air, And sleep in the deep quietude of joy. There is an awful stillness in this place, A Presence, that forbids to break the spell, Till the heart pour its agony in tears. Bat I must drink the vision while it lasts; For even now the curling vapours rise, Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace These towering summits-bidding me away;But often shall my heart turn back again, Thou glorious eminence! and when oppress'd, And aching with the coldness of the world, Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee. SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, At morn, I know where she rested at night, At noon she hies to a cool retreat, At eve she hangs o'er the western sky She hovers around us at twilight hour, LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. YES! still I love thee:-Time, who sets How love may sometimes last; The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose, Can never touch a leaf that blows, A moment finely exquisite, I would not have thy married heart That bind me so to thee; No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, Like dew upon the roses wild, I would not have thee know, The stream that seems to thee so still, Enough! that in delicious dreams I see thee and forget- Enough, that when the morning beams, I feel my eyelids wet! Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall To meet thee,--and to love,- I would not shrink from aught below, EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE." I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell, To hive among the treasures they have wrought Around that hermit-home of quietude, The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude, But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew. Around the door the honeysuckle climbed, And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood. That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink. The green earth heaved her giant waves around, EDMUND D. GRIFFIN. [Born, 1804. Died, 1830.] EDMUND DORR GRIFFIN was born in the celeprated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on the tenth day of September, 1804. During his infancy his parents removed to New York, but on account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was educated, until he was twelve years old, at various schools in the country. He entered Columbia College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the highest rank in the successive classes. During this period most of his Latin and English poems were composed. He was admitted to deacon's orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY. "Deh! fossi tu nien bella, o almen piu forte."-FILICAIA. WOULD that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, The sense of beauty when all else might fail. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men! Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, The yellow harvests loads the scarce till'd plain. Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading soon, E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone, Infused in music, now constrains the soul With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. And now with passionate throbs that spurn conWould that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean! after spending two years in the active discharge. the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, Eng land, and Scotland, and returned to New York in the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an associate professor in Columbia College, but resigned the office after a few months, in consequence of ill health, and closed a life of successful devotion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on the first day of September, in the same year. His travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous writings were published in two large octavo vo lumes, in 1831. Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, No memory of the brave, of what has been! Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence: Shades of departed heroes, rise again! Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence! O, Italy! my country, fare thee well! For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me dwell, The fathers of my mind? whose fame impress'd E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest, Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams? Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost: Too early lost, alas! when once so dear; I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, And wander on the mount, now waste and drea", Where CESAR's palace in its glory stood; And see again Parthenope's loved bay, And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay That floats by night through Venice-never Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar- [more? It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee. Fare-fare thee well once more. I love thee not As other things inanimate. Thou art The cherish'd mistress of my youth; forgot Thou never canst be while I have a heart. Launch'd on those waters, wild with storm and wind, I know not, ask not, what may be my lot; For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind. Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought. DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS. THOUGH old in cunning, as in years, And sportive like a boy, and wild; Is added more than childhood's power And you perchance may rue the hour That saw you join his seeming play. He quick is anger'd, and as quick His short-lived passion's over past, Like summer lightnings, flashing thick, But flying ere a bolt is cast. I've seen, myself, as 't were together, Now joy, now grief assume its place, Shedding a sort of April weather, Sunshine and rain upon his face. His curling hair floats on the wind, Like Fortune's, long and thick before, And rich and bright as golden ore: Like hers, his head is bald behind. His ruddy face is strangely bright, But sometimes steals a thrilling glance And sometimes looks with eye askance; But seldom ventures he to gaze With looks direct and open eye; His tongue, that seems to have left just then And forms his lisping infant strain In words scarce utter'd, half-complete; Yet, wafted on a winged sigh, And led by Flattery, gentle guide, Unseen into the heart they fly, Its coldness melt, and tame its pride His ruddy lips are always dress'd, Humble in speech, and soft in look, But, once admitted as a guest, By slow degrees he lays aside That lowly port and look distress'dThen insolent assumes his reign, Displays his captious, high-bred airs, His causeless pets and jealous fears, His fickle fancy and unquiet brain. EMBLEMS. Yox rose, that bows her graceful head to hail The welcome visitant that brings the morn, And spreads her leaves to gather from the gale The coolness on its early pinions borne, Listing the music of its whisper'd tale, And giving stores of perfume in returnThough fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide, Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride. Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high, Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes, And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky, Daring the thunder that its height provokes, And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh, From noonday heats to guard the weary flocksThough strong he seem, must dread the bursting And e'en the malice of the feeble worm. [storm, The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, And sends her silvery beam serenely down, Or on the clear waves, clearer far than theySeems purity itself; but if again We look, and closely, we perceive a stain. Fit emblems all, of those unworthy joys On which our passions and our hopes dilate: We wound ourselves to seize on Pleasure's toys, Nor see their worthlessness until too late; And Power, with all its pomp and all its noise, Meets oft a sudden and a hapless fate; And Fame of gentle deeds and daring high, Is often stain'd by blots of foulest dye. Where then shall man, by his Creator's hand Gifted with feelings that must have an aim, Aspiring thoughts and hopes, a countless band; Affections glowing with a quenchless flame, And passions, too, in dread array that stand, To aid his virtue or to stamp his shame: Where shall he fix a soul thus form'd and giv n Fix it on GoD, and it shall rise to Heaven. TO A LADY. LIKE target for the arrow's aim, Like snow beneath the sunny heats, Like wax before the glowing flame, Like cloud before the wind that fleets, I am 'tis love that made me so, And, ady, still thou sayst me no. The wound's inflicted by thine eyes, The mortal wound to hope and me, Which naught, alas, can cicatrize, Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. Thou art the sun, the fire. the wind, That make me such; ah, then be kind! My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense. My wishes-ne'er did passion light A flame more pure or more intense. Love all these arms at once employs, And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys. J. H. BRIGHT. [Born, 1804. Died, 1837.] JONATHAN HUNTington Bright was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age he went to New York, where he resided several years, after which he removed to Albany, and subBequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was for several years a writer for the public journals and literary magazines, under the signature of "Viator.' His poetry has never been published collectively. 66 Dig me a grave! dig me a grave!" "And make it deep, and long, and wide, And bury me my dead." A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet, With trembling hand the tool I spann'd, The gray and ropy mould; And I sought to detach my stiffen'd grasp, "Now cautiously turn up the sod; And time shall be when each small blade Deeply my spade the soft earth pierced, As leaves in autumn shed; The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings, O, then I sought to rest my brow, "Toil on! toil on!" scream'd the ugly fiend, "My servants never stop! Toil on toil on! at the judgment-day Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes, "I was horrible to see How the grave made bare her secret work, While the ground beneath me heaved and roll d The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth 66 Ye like not this, I trow: Six thousand years your fellow-man Has counted me his foe, And ever when he cursed I laugh'd, In this dark spot I've laid- And tender Indian maid; "Yet here they may no more remain ; Of deeper, lonelier gloom; The forward banners shine: Anon a pale and silvery mist Was girdled round the moon: Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes, Ha!" mutter'd the mocking sprite, “I fea "Now marshal all the numerous host In one concentred band, 315 |