KATHERINE A. WARE.*

MARKS OF TIME.

AN infant boy was playing among flowers, Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, To mark the artless joy and blooming grace Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair He smiled, and press'd a-rosy dimple there.

Next Boyhood follow'd, with his shout of glee, Elastic step, and spirit wild and free

As the young fawn, that scales the mountain height,
Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight;
Time cast a glance upon the careless boy,
Who frolick'd onward with a bound of joy! [eye
Then Youth came forward; his bright glancing
Seem'd a reflection of the cloudless sky!
The dawn of passion, in its purest glow,
Crimson'd his cheek, and beam'd upon his brow,
Giving expression to his blooming face,
And to his fragile form a manly grace;
His voice was harmony, his speech was truth-
Time lightly laid his hand upon the youth.

Manhood next follow'd, in the sunny prime
Of life's meridian bloom; all the sublime
And beautiful of nature met his view,
Brighten'd by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew
The rich perspective of a scene as fair
As that which smiled on Eden's sinless pair;
Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway,
Thrill'd his warm heart, and with electric ray
Illumed his eye, yet still a shade of care,
Like a light cloud that floats in summer air,
Would shed at times a transitory gloom,
But shadow'd not one grace of manly bloom.
Time sigh'd, as on his polish'd brow he wrought
The first impressive line of care and thought.
Man in his proud maturity came next;
A bold review of life, from the broad text
Of nature's ample volume! He had scann'd
Her varied page, and a high course had plann'd;
Humbled ambition, wealth's deceitful smile,
The loss of friends, disease, and mental toil,
Had blanch'd his cheek, and dimm'd his ardent eye,
But spared his noble spirit's energy!
Gon's proudest stamp of intellectual grace
Still shone unclouded on his care-worn face!
On his high brow still sate the firm resolve
Of judgment deep, whose issue might involve
A nation's fate. Yet thoughts of milder glow
Would oft, like sunbeams o'er a mound of snow,
Upon his cheek their genial influence cast,
While musing o'er the bright or shadowy past:
Time, as he mark'd his noblest victim, shed
The frost of years upon his honour'd head.

Last came, with trembling limbs and bending form,

Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm,

* Mrs. KATHERINE AUGUSTA WARE is a native of Massachusetts, and was at one time editor of a periodical published in Boston, called "The Bower of Taste." She has for several years resided in England, and a collection of her writings, entitled "Power of the Passions, and other Poems," appeared in London since the commencement of the present year, (1842.)

Man, in the last frail stage of human life-
Nigh pass'd his every scene of peace or strife.
Reason's proud triumph, passion's wild control,
No more dispute their mastery o'er his soul;
As rest the billows on the sea-beat shore,
The war of rivalry is heard no more;
Faith's steady light alone illumes his eye,
For Time is pointing to Eternity!

HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT.*

GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before; For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them

back.

Each bird, and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair: I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: Its charms I no longer obey or invoke,

Its spirit hath let me, its spell is now broke.
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light;
I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night;
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves;
And will take a new Manito-such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes;
I shall wash from my face every cloud-colour'd stain;
Red-red shall, alone, on my visage remain !
I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow;
By night and by day I will follow the foe;
Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor

J. K. MITCHELL.*

THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE.

O! FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
"Tis as green and as wide and as wild as the sea:
O'er its soft silken bosom the summer winds glide,
And wave the wild grass in its billowy pride.
The city's a prison too narrow for thee-
Then away to the prairies so boundless and free:
Where the sight is not check'd till the prairie and
skies,

In harmony blending, commingle their dyes.
The fawns in the meadow-fields fearlessly play-
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away!
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near,
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer.
Let England exult in her dogs and her chase-
O! what's a king's park to this limitless space!
No fences to leap and no thickets to turn,
No owners to injure, no furrows to spurn.
But, softly as thine on the carpeted hall,
Is heard the light foot of the courser to fall;
And close-matted grass no impression receives,
As ironless hoofs bound aloft from the leaves.
O, fly to the prairie! the eagle is there :
He gracefully wheels in the cloud-speckled air;
And, timidly hiding her delicate young,
The prairie-hen hushes her beautiful song.
O, fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me!
The vine and the prairie-rose blossom for thee;
And, hailing the moon in the prairie-propp'd sky,
The mocking-bird echoes the katydid's cry.

Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their steeds,
The free prairie-hunter no shepherd-boy needs;
The bison, like clouds, overshadow the place,
And the wild, spotted coursers invite to the chase.
The farmer may boast of his grass and his grain--
He sows them in labour, and reaps them in pain;
But here the deep soil no exertion requires,
Enrich'd by the ashes, and clear'd by the fires.
The woodman delights in his trees and his shade;
But see! there's no sun on the cheek of his maid;
His flowers are faded, his blossoms are pale,
And mildew is riding his vapourous gale.
Then fly to the prairie! in wonder there gaze,
As sweeps o'er the grass the magnificent blaze,
The land is o'erwhelm'd in an ocean of light,
Whose flame-surges break in the breeze of the night.
Sublime from the north comes the wind in his wrath,
And scatters the reeds in his desolate path;
Or, loaded with incense, steals in from the west,
As bees from the prairie-rose fly to their nest.
O, fly to the prairie! for freedom is there!
Love lights not that home with the torch of despair!

* Doctor MITCHELL, Professor of the Practice of Medicine in the Jefferson Medical College, at Philadelphia, is a native of Shepherdstown, in Virginia. He was educated at one of the universities of Scotland, and studied his profession in Philadelphia. In 1839, he published a volume, entitled "Indecision, and other Poems."

No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny,
No gossips to slander, no neighbour to pry.
But, struggling not there the heart's impulse to hide,
Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock side,
And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring,
Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colour'd wing.

ELIZABETH TOWNSEND.*

[of all

THE INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD.
WHERE art thou? Thou! Source and Support
That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,
Unfelt, unknown-alas! unknowable!
I look abroad among thy works: the sky,
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,
And speaking winds, and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air-
Though hail'd as gods of old, and only less-
Are not the Power I seck; are thine, not Thee!
I ask Thee from the past; if, in the years
Since first intelligence could search its source,
Or in some former, unremember'd being,
(If such, perchance, were mine,) did they behold
And next interrogate futurity-
[Thee?

So fondly tenanted with better things
Than e'er experience own'd-but both are mute;
And past and future, vocal on all else,
So full of memories and phantasies,
Are deaf and speechless here! Fatigued, I turn
From all vain parley with the elements, [ward.
And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn in-
From each material thing its anxious guest,
If, in the stillness of the waiting soul,
He may vouchsafe himself, Spirit to spirit!
O, Thou, at once most dreaded and desired,
Pavilion'd still in darkness, wilt Thou hide Thee?
What though the rash request be fraught with fate,
Nor human eye may look on thine and live?
Welcome the penalty! let that come now,
Which soon or late must come. For light like this
Who would not dare to die?

Peace, my proud aim,
And hush the wish that knows not what it asks.
Await His will, who hath appointed this
With every other trial. Be that will
Done now as ever. For thy curious search,
And unprepared solicitude to gaze
On Him-the Unreveal'd-learn hence, instead,
To temper highest hope with humbleness.
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts,
Till rent the veil, no longer separating
The holiest of all; as erst disclosing
A brighter dispensation; whose results
Ineffable, interminable, tend

E'en to the perfecting thyself, thy kind,
Till meet for that sublime beatitude,
By the firm promise of a voice from Heaven,
Pledged to the pure in heart!

* Of Boston.

REVEREND R. C. WATERSTON.*

THE DYING ARCHER.

THE day has near ended, the light quivers through The leaves of the forest, which bend with the dew, The flowers bow in beauty, the smooth-flowing

stream

Is gliding as softly as thoughts in a dream;

The low room is darken'd, there breathes not a sound, While friends in their sadness are gathering round; Now out speaks the Archer, his course well nigh done,

"Throw, throw back the lattice, and let in the sun."

[year,

The lattice is open'd; and now the blue sky
Brings joy to his bosom, and fire to his eye;
There stretches the greenwood, where, year after
He "chased the wild roe-buck and follow'd the deer."
He gazed upon mountain, and forest, and dell,
Then bow'd he, in sorrow, a silent farewell:
"And when we are parted, and when thou art dead,
O, where shall we lay thee?" his followers said.

Then up rose the Archer, and gazed once again
On far-reaching mountain, and river, and plain;
"Now bring me my quiver, and tighten my bow,
And let the winged arrow my sepulchre show!"
Out, out through the lattice the arrow has pass'd,
And in the far forest has lighted at last;
And there shall the hunter in slumber be laid,
Where wild deer are bounding beneath the green
shade.

His last words are finish'd: his spirit has fled,
And now lies in silence the form of the dead.
The lamps in the chamber are flickering dim,
And sadly the mourners are chanting their hymn;
And now to the greenwood, and now on the sod,
Where lighted the arrow, the mourners have trod;
And thus by the river, where dark forests wave,
That noble old Archer hath found him a grave!

JAMES T. FIELDS.t

THE VILLAGER'S WINTER EVENING SONG.

Not a leaf on the tree, not a bud in the hollow, Where late swung the blue-bell and blossom'd

the rose; And hush'd is the cry of the swift-darting swallow That circled the lake in the twilight's dim close.

Gone, gone are the woodbine and sweet-scented brier That bloom'd o'er the hillock and gladden'd the vale;

And the vine that uplifted its green-pointed spire Hangs drooping and sere on the frost-cover'd pale.

*Of Boston.

+ Mr. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, in New Hampshire, but has for several years resided in Boston. His principal poem, entitled “Commerce," was published in 1839. His writings are distinguished for a natural simplicity and elegance, and generally relate to rural or do. mestic subjects.

And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain That prattled and shone in the light of the moon; Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain, And lock'd up in silence its frolicksome tune.

Then heap up the hearth-stone with dry forest

branches,

And gather about me, my children, in glee; For cold on the upland the stormy wind launches, And dear is the home of my loved ones to me!

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

UNDERNEATH the sod, low lying,
Dark and drear,

Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever-bending o'er her,
Eyes that weep;

Forms that to the cold grave bore her,
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above;

Souls like thine with GoD inherit
Life and love!

SACO FALLS.

RUSH on, bold stream! thou sendest up
Brave notes to all the woods around,
When morning beams are gathering fast,
And hush'd is every human sound;
I stand beneath the sombre hill,
The stars are dim o'er fount and rill,
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away;
Dash on, bold stream! I love the roar
Thou sendest up from rock and shore.
"Tis night in heaven--the rustling leaves
Are whispering of the coming storm,
And, thundering down the river's bed,

I see thy lengthen'd, darkling form;
No voices from the vales are heard,
The winds are low, each little bird
Hath sought its quiet, rocking nest,
Folded its wings, and gone to rest:
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away.

O! earth hath many a gallant show--
Of towering peak and glacier height,
But ne'er, beneath the glorious moon,

Hath nature framed a lovelier sight
Than thy fair tide with diamonds fraught,
When every drop with light is caught,
And, o'er the bridge, the village girls
Reflect below their waving curls,
While merrily thy waters play
In welcome music, far away!

SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.*

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

Mr boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,
And thou must go ;-but never when there
Forget the light of home.

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash it will deepen the night,
When thou treadest the lonely way.

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as the vestal fire;

"T will burn, 't will burn, forever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest toss'd,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam,

But when sails are shiver'd and rudder lost,
Then look to the light of home.

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,

Thou shalt see the beacon bright,

For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quench'd its holy light.

The sun of fame, 't will gild the name,
But the heart ne'er feels its ray;

And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim,
Are like beams of a wintry day.

And how cold and dim those beams would be,
Should life's wretched wanderer come:
But my boy, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of home.

Dear country! our thoughts are more constant to thee

Than the steel to the star or the stream to the sea. Then fill up the brimmer! the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

Fill high the brimmer!-the wine-sparkles rise Like tears, from the fountain of joy, to the eyes! May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of

care,

Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
Drink deep to the chime of the nautical bells,
To woman,--God bless her, wherever she dwells!
Then fill high the brimmer! the land is in sight,
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

SONG.

WHEN other friends are round thee,
And other hearts are thine;
When other bays have crown'd thee,
More fresh and green than mine,
Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee;
I know thy truth remains.
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me

Along life's troubled sea;
And whatever fate betides me,

This heart still turns to thee.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.t

LAND, HO!

FILL high the brimmer!-the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night: The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd, And the warm, genial earth glads our vision at last;

In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find,

To soothe us in absence of those left behind. Then fill high the brimmer! the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! Fill high the brimmer!-till morn we'll remain, Then part in the hope to meet one day again, Round the hearth-stone of home, in the land of our birth,

The holiest spot on the face of the earth!

* Mrs. HALE is a native of Newport, New Hampshire. She is the author of "Northwood," "Sketches of American Life," etc.

+ General MORRIS was born in the city of New York, in the year 1800. Associated with SAMUEL WOODWORTH, in 1823, he established the New York Mirror, with which he has ever since been connected. He has written several popular songs, and some other brief poems, most

WOMAN.

Aн, woman!-in this world of ours,
What boon can be compared to thee?
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own!

My mother! at that holy name

Within my bosom there's a gush Of feeling which no time can tame. A feeling, which for years of fame,

I would not, could not crush!
And, sisters! ye are dear as life,
But when I look upon my wife

My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother, sisters, wife, and friend!
Yes, woman's love is free from guile

And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
And base-born passions fade away!
Were I the monarch of the earth,
Or master of the swelling sea,

Dear woman, half the price of thee.

PROSPER M. WETMORE.

"TWELVE YEARS HAVE FLOWN."

TWELVE years have flown since last I saw
My birth-place, and my home of youth:
How oft its scenes would Memory draw,
Her tints the pencillings of truth;
Unto that spot I come once more,

The dearest life hath ever known:
And still it wears the look it wore,

Although twelve weary years have flown. Again upon the soil I stand

Where first my infant footsteps stray'd; Again I view my father-land,"

And wander through its pleasant shade; I gaze upon the hills, the skies,

The verdant banks, with flowers o'ergrown, And while I look with glistening eyes,

Almost forget twelve years have flown.

Twelve years are flown! those words are brief,
Yet in their sound what fancies dwell!
The hours of bliss, the days of grief,

The joys and woes remember'd well;
The hopes that fill'd the youthful breast,
Alas! how many a one o'erthrown!
Deep thoughts, that long have been at rest,
Wake at the words, twelve years have flown!

The past! the past! a saddening thought,
A withering spell is in the sound!
It comes with memories deeply fraught
Of youthful pleasure's giddy round;
Of forms that roved life's sunniest bowers,
The cherish'd few, forever gone:
Of dreams that fill'd life's morning hours,
Where are they now? Twelve years have flown!

A brief but eloquent reply!

Where are youth's hopes--life's morning dream? Seek for the flowers that floated by

Upon the rushing mountain stream!
Yet gems beneath that wave may sleep,
Till after years shall make them known:
Thus, golden thoughts the heart will keep,
That perish not, though years have flown.

THE BANNER OF MURAT.

FOREMOST among the first,

And bravest of the brave! Where'er the battle's fury burst,

Or roll'd its purple wave,-There flash'd his glance, like a meteor,

As he charged the foe afar; And the snowy plume his helmet bore Was the banner of Murat!

* PROSPER MONTGOMERY WETMORE was born at Stratford, in Connecticut, in 1799. In 1830, he published a voInme entitled "Lexington, and other Fugitive Poems." He is now one of the regents of the university of New York, to whom are confided the various interests of education and literature in that state.

Mingler on many a field

Where rung wild victory's peal!

That fearless spirit was like a shield—

A panoply of steel;

For very joy in a glorious name

He rush'd where danger stood;

And that banner-plume, like a winged flame, Stream'd o'er the field of blood!

His followers loved to gaze

On his form with a fierce delight,

As it tower'd above the battle's blaze,

A pillar midst the fight;

And eyes look'd up, ere they closed in death, Through the thick and sulphury air

And lips shriek'd out, with their parting breath, "The lily plume is there!"

A cloud is o'er him now

For the peril-hour hath come

And he stands with his high, unshaded brow,
On the fearful spot of doom!
Away! no screen for a soldier's eye-

No fear his soul appals:

A rattling peal, and a shuddering cry,
And bannerless he falls!

MRS. LYDIA M. CHILD.*

MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,

Fanes quiver in the air,

A prostrate city is thy seat,

And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crown'd thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul

Though friends and fame depart; The car of fate may o'er thee roll, Nor crush thy Roman heart.

And genius hath electric power,

Which earth can never tame; Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower, Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life,

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife,

Like Carthage in decay;

And proud hopes in the human heart

May be to ruin hurl'd;

Like mouldering monuments of art
Heap'd on a sleeping world:

Yet, there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

Author of "Hobomok," "History of the Condition of Women," etc.