FOREST LEAVES IN AUTUMN. RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun, Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And yet no second spring have they in store, Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, The green buds glisten in the dews of spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old. Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky Man's portion is to die and rise again Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, As his when Eden held his virgin heart. And haply, half unblamed his murmuring voice Might sound in heaven, were all his second life Only the first renew'd-the heathen's choice, A round of listless joy and weary strife. For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Though brighten'd oft by dear affection's kiss ;— Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall? But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart O'er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn. Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even Who but would follow, might he break his chain? And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord with lightning form And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee. When from the grave he sprung at dawn of morn, But first, by many a stern and fiery blast Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control The laggard body soon will waft to heaven. DIMNESS. Of the bright things in earth and air One page of Nature's beauteous book: I cannot paint to Memory's eye The scene, the glance, I dearest loveUnchanged themselves, in me they die, Or faint, or false, their shadows prove. What to her own she deigns to tell. When these dull ears shall scan aright Strains, that outring earth's drowsy chime, As heaven outshines the taper's light. These eyes, that dazzled now and weak At glancing motes in sunshine wink, Shall see the King's full glory break, Nor from the blissful vision shrink: Though scarcely now their laggard glance Reach to an arrow's flight, that day They shall behold, and not in trance, The region "very far away." If memory sometimes at our spell Refuse to speak, or speak amiss, Meanwhile, if over sea or sky, Some tender lights unnoticed fleet, Or on loved features dawn and die, Unread, to us, their lesson sweet; Yet are there saddening sights around, Which heaven, in mercy, spares us too, And we see far in holy ground, If duly purged our mental view. The distant landscape draws not nigh For all our gazing; but the soul, That upward looks, may still descry Nearer, each day, the brightening goal. And thou, too curious ear, that fain Wouldst thread the maze of harmony, Content thee with one simple strain, The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee; Till thou art duly train'd, and taught The concord sweet of love divine: Then, with that inward music fraught, For ever rise, and sing, and shine. Thus bad and good their several warnings give Counts them like minute bells at night, But what are Heaven's alarms to hearts that cower In wilful slumber, deepening every hour, That draw their curtains closer round, The nearer swells the trumpet's sound? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh. ADDRESS TO POETS. YE whose hearts are beating high (If the word be not too bold,) Giving virtue a new birth, And a life that ne'er grows old Sovereign masters of all hearts! His hosannas here below;- But if ye should hold your peace, Lord, by every minstrel tongue But should thankless silence seal Noblest things find vilest using,) Then waken into sound divine Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor, And untunable the parts, THE UNITED STATES. TYRE of the farther west! be thou too warn'd, Whose eagle wings thine own green world o'erspread, Touching two oceans: wherefore hast thou scorn'd Thy fathers' God, O proud and full of bread? Why lies the cross unhonour'd on thy ground, While in mid-air thy stars and arrows flaunt? That sheaf of darts, will it not fall unbound, Except, disrobed of thy vain earthly vaunt, Thou bring it to be bless'd where saints and angels haunt? The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar grace, Is rooted here and there in thy dark woods; But many a rank weed round it grows apace, And Mammon builds beside thy mighty floods, O'ertopping nature, braving nature's God; Oh while thou yet hast room, fair, fruitful land, Ere war and want have stain'd thy virgin sod, Mark thee a place on high, a glorious stand, Whence truth her sign may make o'er forest, lake, and strand. Eastward, this hour, perchance thou turnest thine [ear, To thee and Heaven. O trying hour for thee! Tyre mock'd when Salem fell; where now is Tyre? Heaven was against her. Nations thick as waves Burst o'er her walls, to ocean doom'd and fire; And now the tideless water idly laves Her towers, and lone sands heap her crowned merchants' graves. CHAMPIONS OF THE TRUTH. "Who shall go for us?" And I said, "Here am I: send me." DULL thunders moan around the Temple rock, And deep in hollow caves, far underneath, The lonely watchman feels the sullen shock, His footsteps timing as the low winds breathe; Hark! from the Shrine is ask'd, What steadfast heart Dares in the storm go forth? Who takes the Almighty's part? And with a bold gleam flush'd, full many a brow Is raised to say, "Behold me, Lord, and send !" But ere the words be breathed, some broken vow Remember'd, ties the tongue; and sadly blend With faith's pure incense, clouds of conscience dim, And faltering tones of guilt mar the Confessor's hymn. CHARLES WOLFE. distinguished for his skill in the treatment of pulmonary complaints. This visit was productive of no benefit. WOLFE returned to his cure, and soon after went to reside in Devon south of France. The summer months of 1822 were passed with his friend Archdeacon Russell, in Dublin. In November of that year he removed to the Cove of Cork, where he died on the twenty-first of February, 1822, in the thirty-second year of his age. THIS poet was born in Dublin, on the fourteenth of December, 1791. On the death of his father, the family removed to England, where they resided several years. In 1805 young WOLFE was placed at the Winchestershire, and subsequently at Bordeaux in the School, where he remained until 1809, when he entered the university of his native city. Here he was distinguished as a classical scholar, and for his abilities as a poet. At a very early age, while at Winchester, he had written verses remarkable as the productions of one so young, and before completing his twentyfirst year, he gained the reputation of being the first genius in the university, by two poems of considerable merit, Jugurtha and Patriotism, for the last of which a prize was given by one of the college societies. In the autumn of 1817, Mr. WOLFE entered into holy orders, and he soon after obtained a living in an obscure parish of Tyrone county, and subsequently the curacy of Castle Caulfield. He devoted himself with untiring assiduity to the duties of his profession until the spring of 1821, when symptoms of consumption made their appearance, and he was induced to visit Scotland, to consult a physician WOLFE is chiefly known as the writer of the lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore, which were originally printed anonymously, and attributed in turn to nearly every eminent poet of the day. Their authorship has been a subject of some controversy since the death of WOLFE, but the question has been put to rest by an article in the Dublin University Magazine for December, 1842, in which the proofs that it is by WOLFE are demonstrative. Several of his other pieces are distinguished for exquisite melody and tenderness, and show that he was capable of the highest lyrical efforts. Dr. RUSSEL has published the Remains of WOLFE, with an interesting memoir of his life. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;— But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: OH, MY LOVE HAS AN EYE OF THE SOFTEST BLUE. Оn, my love has an eye of the softest blue, But a little bright drop from her soul was there, 'Tis that that has undone me. I might have pass'd that lovely cheek, Nor, perchance, my heart have left me; But the sensitive blush that came trembling there, I might have forgotten that red, red lip- But there was a smile from the sunshine within, Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay, 'Tis the gracefully delicate mind that moves In every step, that enchants me. Let me not hear the nightingale sing, Though I once in its notes delighted; The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth Has left me no music beside it. Who could blame had I loved that face, OH, SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS COLD. Оn, say not that my heart is cold To aught that once could warm it; Still oft those solemn scenes I view Oft look on those who loved them too Again I long'd to view the light Stern duty rose, and frowning flung These for the free alone are given But what have slaves with nature?" IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. If I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be! And thou shouldst smile no more! And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; But when I speak, thou dost not say Sweet Mary! thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, |