Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1834, By HARPER AND BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office, of the Southern District of New York. PRINTED BY GEORGE P. SCOTT & CO. CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. PAGE Charles Maitland, or the Mess-Chest-By William Leggett The Discarded-By Fitz-Greene Halleck Pencillings by the Way-By N. P. Willis The Sabbath-Bell-By Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney + The Author-By Theodore S. Fay - To Walter Bowne, Esq.-By Fitz-Greene Halleck Biography of Jacob Hays-By William Cox The Ocean-By William P. Palmer The Will and the Lawsuit-By William C. Baldwin The Repulse~By Samuel Woodworth A Night on the Banks of the Tennessee-By D. Sealfield The Indian Chief Red Bird-By William P. Palmer A Vision of the Hudson-By William Cox (- A Country Ramble--By William Cox Is she a spirit, given One hour to earth, one hour to earth, Her place of birth, her place of birth? Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun, To air and sun, to air and sun ? With harp divine, with harp divine, The last were mine, the last were mine. 2 If earth-born beauty's fingers Awaked the lay, awaked the lay, Where echoed music lingers Around my way, around my way ; Where smiles the hearth she blesses With voice and eye, with voice and eye Where binds the night her tresses, When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh? Is fashion's bleak cold mountain Her bosom's throne, her bosom's throne ? Or love's green vale and fountain, With one alone, with one alone ? Why ask? why seek a treasure, Like her I sing, like her I sing? Her name nor pain nor pleasure To me should bring, to me should bring. Love must not grieve or gladden My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, Nor woman soothe or sadden My path below, my path below. Before a worldlier altar I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long, And if my footsteps falter, 'Tis but in song, 'tis but in song. Nor would I break the vision Young fancies frame, young fancies frame, That lights with stars elysian, A poet's name, a poet's name; For she, whose gentle spirit Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime, Gives hues they do not merit To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme. But place the proudest near her, Whate'er his pen, whate'er his pen, She'll say, (be mute who hear her,) “Mere mortal men, mere mortal men !" |