Full of rest, the green moss lifts, As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow,"To the shore Follow! O follow! To be at rest for evermore! Look how the gray, old Ocean And all sweet sounds of earth and air And in our green isle rest for evermore! And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, Thus, on Life's weary sea, Voices sweet, from far and near, Is it not better here to be, To see the still seals only Making it yet more lonely? Beneath the plank, and feel so near A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, The leaden eye of the side-long shark Ever waiting there for thee: In the whirls of their unwieldy play: That waves its arms so lank and brown, Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Here all is pleasant as a dream; A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees At once with glowing fruit and flowers crown'd;- As if they fain would seek the shore, For evermore. Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, Heareth the marinere Voices sweet, from far and near, Ever singing in his ear, "Here is rest and peace for thee!" AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Press'd round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own. And, when he read, they forward leaned, Slowly there grew a tender awe, As if in him who read they felt and saw It was a sight for sin and wrong A sight to make our faith more pure and strong I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love. God scatters love on every side, There is no wind but soweth seeds Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd deeds We find within these souls of ours Within the hearts of all men lie Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man. And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome. O mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity! All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole : In his broad breast the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue, Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong. All thought begins in feeling,-wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid. Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams From the great heart of God. God wills, man hopes: in common souls Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men. It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;― But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then To write some earnest verse or line, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine He who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day, But surely shall be crown'd at last with those Who live and speak for aye. THE HERITAGE. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, A heritage, it seems to me, The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? What doth the poor man's son inherit? To make the outcast bless his door; O, rich man's son! there is a toil, But only whiten, soft, white hands,- O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; TO THE FUTURE. O, LAND of Promise! from what Pisgah's height Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd gold, Its crags of opal and of crysolite, Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold Still brightening abysses, And blazing precipices, Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven, Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses. O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf And lure out blossoms: to thy bosom leaps, As to a mother's, the o'er-wearied heart, Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, The hurrying feet, the curses without numoer, Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber. To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd hands And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, And her old wo-worn face a little while Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor Looks, and is dumb with awe; The eternal law And he can see the grim-eyed Doom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes, Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! To all their hopes what overjoy'd replies! What undream'd ecstasies for blissful song! Thy happy plains no war-trumps brawling clangor Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; The humble glares not on the high with anger; Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more; In vain strives self the godlike sense to smother; From the soul's deeps It throbs and leaps; The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long lost brother. To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, And grief and hunger climb about his knee Welcome as children: thou upholdest The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest, And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted. Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly Their own souls they were scarring; conquerors see With horror in their hands the accursed spear The beauty of man's soul to man revealing; Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, The ancestral buckler calls, To heal its desolations Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, With words of unshorn truth, with love that never Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, wearies. JAMES T. FIELDS. [Born, 1820.] a clear, cold, merry sparkle, and a rapidity of metrical motion (the very verse seeming to go on run moon making diamonds out of snow-flakes, vividly home to the fancy. Perhaps his most characteristic poem, in respect to subtlety of sentiment and delicacy of illustration, is "A Bridal Melody." There is a mystical beauty in it which eludes a careless eye and untuned ear. Besides his serious poems, he has produced some very original mirthful pieces, in which are adroit touches of wit, felicitous hits at current follies, and instances of quaint humour, laughing through prim and decorous lines, which evince a genius for vers de sociéte. MR. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but has long resided in Boston. He is a partner in a well-known publishing and book-ners), which bring the quick jingle of bells and the selling house in that city. His principal poems are "Commerce," read before the Boston Mercantile Library Association on its anniversary in 1838, when he was associated as poet with EDWARD EvERETT, who delivered on the occasion one of his most brilliant orations; and "The Post of Honour," read before the same society in 1848, when DANIEL WEBSTER preceded him as orator. For several years he has been an occasional contributor to the magazines, and a few of his poems, as "The Fair Wind," "Yankee Ships," and "Dirge for a Young Girl," have been copied from them into the newspapers of all parts of the Union. The general style of his serious pieces is pure, sweet, thought-ly ful, and harmonious; and though evidently unlabored, they are characterized by much refinement of taste and an intuitive perception of metrical proprieties. His lyrics are clear, strong, and bright, in expression, and dashing in movement, and have that charm which comes from a "polished want of polish," in which spontaneous sensibility is allied with instinctive taste. The "Sleighing Song" has The poems Mr. FIELDS has given us are evidentthe careless products of a singularly sensitive and fertile mind-indications rather than exponents of its powers-furnishing evidence of a capacity which it is to be hoped the engagements of business will not wholly absorb. In 1847 and the following year Mr. FIELDS visited Europe, and soon after his return a collection of his poems was published by Ticknor and Company, of Boston. ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS, BROUGHT FROM GERMANY. GIFT, from the land of song and wine- I heard the huntsman's bugle play, Again the crumbling tower appears, With memories of a thousand years; To fill again my charméd ear With echoes of the Rodenstein- Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. WE were crowded in the cabin, To be shatter'd in the blast, Each one busy in his prayers- Just the same as on the land?" A VALENTINE. SAE that is fair, though never vain or proud, More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd; Whose taste refined even female friends admire, Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire; She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast, To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd; True to herself, yet willing to submit, More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit: Though young, discreet-though ready, ne'er unBlest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind: [kind, She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts inSo at her door go leave my Valentine. [cline, ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES, To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd FROM "THE POST OF HONOUR." GLORY. UNCHANGING Power! thy genius still presides O'er vanquish'd fields, and ocean's purpled tides; Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board, Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword; For thee and thine combining squadrons form To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm; The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name, And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame; For him the bell shall wake its loudest song,. For him the cannon's thunder echo long, For him a nation weave the unfading crown, And swell the triumph of his sweet renown. SO NELSON watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days, Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blazeSaw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars, And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars. So the young hero, with expiring breath, Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death, Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast, And nail their colours dauntless to the mast; Then dies, like LAWRENCE, trembling on his lip That cry of Honour, "Don't give up the ship!" TRUE HONOUR. The painter's skill life's lineaments may trace, And stamp the impress of a speaking face; The chisel's touch may make that marble warm Which glows with all but breathing manhood's But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [formAre those which write their impress on the heart. On TALFOURD's page what bright memorials glow Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below! Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd, Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd, Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here, The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere. Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust, And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust, TO ELIA's grave the pilgrim shall repair, And hang with love perennial garlands there. And thou, great bard of never-dying name, Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame; For who, that wanders by the dust of GRAY While memory tolls the knell of parting day, But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb, That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom, To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear, So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier! Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave, "Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave." Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea, The countless shrines of woman's charity? In thy gay capital, bewildering France, Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome, Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home, Methinks I see that sainted sister now Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow; Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace, With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face? Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres, We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears. WEBSTER. [dance, Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed; Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side, And all their country's honest fame deride. All are not such: some glowing blood remains To warm the icy current of our veinsSome from the watch-towers still descry afar The faintest glimmer of an adverse star. When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail, Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale! On some great point where Honour takes her stand, The Ehrenbreitstein of our native landSee, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause, The mail'd defender of her rights and laws! On his great arm behold a nation lean, And parcel empire with the island queen; Great in the council, peerless in debate, Who follows WEBSTER takes the field too late. Go track the globe, its changing climes explore, From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore; See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas, See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze, Roam through the world, but find no brighter names Than those true honour for Columbia claims. |