ded to no system, modifying his opinions as new light streamed in, but carrying into practical life the high and noble lessons given in his speculative utterances. His fame is unsurpassed in American literature, and is likely to go on increasing. THE SNOW-STORM. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Come see the north wind's masonry. And when his hours are numbered, and the world To those who go, and those who come, Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home. I go to seek my own hearth-stone, And evil men have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, SURSUM CORDA. Seek not the spirit if it hide Why shouldst thou stoop to poor excuse? Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay! GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD! Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home; Thou art not my friend; I am not thine: Too long through weary crowds I roam;A river ark on the ocean brine, Too long I am tossed like the driven foam; But now, proud world, I'm going home. Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; To crowded halls, to court and street, To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, TO THE HUMBLEBEE. Fine humblebee! fine humblebee! t Flower-bells, Honeyed cells,- Which he frequents. HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836. By the rude bridge that arched the flood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, or leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. Mary Howitt. Mary Howitt, whose maiden name was Botham, was of Quaker descent, and born in Uttoxeter, England, in 1804. In 1823 she was married to William Howitt, and the same year they published in conjunction "The Forest Minstrel," a series of poems. But William, though the author of some clever verses, is known chiefly for his prose writings. Mary has shown genuine poetical feeling and ability, especially in her verses for children. Her observation of nature is accurate and intense; and a true enthusiasm gives vitality to her descriptions. Her ballads are among the best. That of "New-year's-eve" is founded on a prose story by the Danish author, Hans Christian Andersen. NEW-YEAR'S-EVE. Little Gretchen, little Gretchen, Wanders up and down the street, The snow is on her yellow hair, The frost is at her feet. The rows of long dark houses Without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, By the flicker of the lamp. The clouds ride fast as horses, The wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, And no one looketh forth. Within those dark, damp houses Are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out The old year's latest night. The board is spread with plenty, Where the smiling kindred meet, But the frost is on the pavement, And the beggars in the street. With the little box of matches Against their burning lips,- But no one talks to Gretchen, And no one hears her speak; No breath of little whisperers Comes warmly to her cheek; No little arms are round her, Ah me! that there should be With so much happiness on earth, So much of misery! Sure they of many blessings, Should scatter blessings round, As laden boughs in Autumn fling Their ripe fruits to the ground. And the best love man can offer To the God of love, be sure, Is kindness to his little ones, And bounty to his poor. Little Gretchen, little Gretchen, No smile, no food, no fire, Where two great houses meet, Colder it grows and colder, But she does not feel it now, On the wall so cold and bare, The wall was rent in two. And there were kindred gathered, Red wine, and pleasant bread. And now she seemed to see, Within the same warm chamber, A glorious Christmas-tree: The branches were all laden With such things as children prize, Bright gift for boy and maiden, She saw them with her eyes. And she almost seemed to touch them, And to join the welcome shout; When darkness fell around her, For the little match was out. On the city wrapped in vapor, On the spot where Gretchen lies. The night was wild and stormy, The morn is cold and gray, And good church bells are ringing Christ's circumcision day; And holy men are praying In many a holy place; And little children's angels Sing songs before his face. In her scant and tattered garment, She answers not their call. For one more redeemed from sin; Would no one let her in?" And they shuddered as they spoke of her, THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. "And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see.” "And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low ?" "I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow." "And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill ?” "I heard the drops of the water form, And the ears of the green corn fill." "Oh, tell me all, my Mary, All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low." "Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine. "And the harp-strings rang right merrily, "And what were the words, my Mary, That you heard the fairies say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way. "And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill: 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill; "For there has been no water "O, the miller, how he will laugh When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both of his eyes!' "And some, they seized the little winds That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn unto his mouth And blew it sharp and shrill : "And there,' they said, 'the merry winds go, Away from every horn, And they shall clear the mildew dank "O, the poor blind old widow! Though she has been poor so long, She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong! "And some they brought the brown linseed, And flung it down from the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow. "O, the poor lame weaver! How he will laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night! |