THE CHILDE'S DESTINY.

And none did love him,-not his lemans dear,But pomp and power alone are woman's care; And where these are, light Eros finds a frere."

No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,

Went up by night to heath or hill,
To read the stars for him;
The merriest girl in all the land

Of vine-encircled France
Bestow'd upon his brow and hand

Her philosophic glance:

"I bind thee with a spell," said she, "I sign thee with a sign; No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine!

And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek
Is colourless and cold,

Nor that thine eye is slow to speak
What only eyes have told;
For many a cheek of paler white
Hath blush'd with passion's kiss;
And many an eye of lesser light

Hath caught its fire from bliss;
Yet while the rivers seek the sea,

And 't is not that thy spirit, awed By beauty's numbing spell,

BYRON.

Shrinks from the force or from the fraud

Which beauty oves so well;

For thou hast learn'd to watch and wake,
And swear by earth and sky;
And thou art very bold to take

What we must still deny;

I cannot tell the charm was wrought
By other threads than mine,
The lips are lightly begg'd or bought,
The heart may not be thine!

"Yet thine the brightest smile shall be
That ever beauty wore,
And confidence from two or three,

And compliments from more;
And one shall give, perchance hath given,
What only is not love,-
Friendship, oh! such as saints in heaven
Rain on us from above.

If she shall meet thee in the bower,
Or name thee in the shrine,

Oh! wear the ring, and guard the flower,-
Her heart may not be thine!

Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun,-
The haven shall be reach'd at last,
The battle shall be won;
Or muse upon thy country's laws,
Or strike thy country's lute,

And patriot hands shall scund applause,
And lovely lips be mute:

Go, dig the diamond from the wave,
The treasure from the mine,
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,-
No woman's heart is thine!

"I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and from jealousy,

From doubt, and from disdain;
I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the cheek of youth,
And curl the lip at passion's tears,
And shake the head at truth:
While nere is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulness in wine,

Be thou from woman's love as free
As woman is from thine!"

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

THE breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came,
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear,

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd-This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim-band-
Why had they come to wither there
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?---
They sought a faith's pure shrine ?

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

hey have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedon to worship God!

Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this day;

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there cane a glittering band,

With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land;

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,

The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see.'

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went;

He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropp'd from his like lead,

He look'd up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

My king is false, my hope betray'd, my fatheroh! the worth,

The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet,

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met,

Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee my fields were won,

And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train;

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face,-the king be fore the dead!

"Came I not forth upor thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this!

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-gave answer, where are they?

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,

Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire!

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,

Thou canst not-and a king?-His dust be moun tains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,-upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look-then turn'd from that sad place:

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain,

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.

WHAT Secret current of man's nature turns
Unto the golden east with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow;
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary. faint, and slow,
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know

Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star,
Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain
Their hope, ne fair est birthright to regain.

KINDRED HEARTS.

On ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:

Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sces not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns:

It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bringA dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times,A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night; The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill,— These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,-
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.

HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRIS

TIAN.

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty
By the touch of the mountain sod.

Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trɔd;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon Whose lights must never die; We are guardians of an altar

Midst the silence of the sky;

The rocks yield founts of courage,

Struck forth as by thy rod,

For the strength of the hills we bless then
O God, our fathers' God!

For the dark, resounding heavens,
Where thy still small voice is heard,
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr'd;

For the storms on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad,—

For the strength of the hil's we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master Seeks there his wild delights;

But we for thy communion

Have sought the mountain sod,— For the strength of the hills we bless the Our God, our fathers' God! The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves; The war-horse of the spearman

Can not reach our lofty caves; Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold

Of freedom's last abode;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee Our God, our fathers' God!

For the shadow of thy presence

Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;

For the snows, and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial sod,
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

WASHINGTON'S STATUE.

YES! rear thy guardian hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou Western World!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er freedom s flag unfurl'd.
There, as before a shrine to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead
The language of that noble brow

For all things good shall plead.
The spirit rear'd in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o'er chainless earth.
And let that work of England's hand,
Sent through the blast and surge's roar,
So girt with tranquil glory, stand
For ages on thy shore!

Such through all time the greetings be, That with the Atlantic billow sweeps! Telling the mighty and the free

Of brothers o'er the decp!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed? -Oh! void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning— The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,

And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow'd be our hearts to think of what we are, When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!

Fill with forgetfulness!-there are, there are
Voices whose music I have loved too well;
Eyes of deep gentleness-but they are far-
Never! oh, never in my home to dwell!
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul---
Fill high the oblivious owl!

Yet pause again!-with memory wilt thou cast
The undying hope away, of memory born?
Hope of re-union, heart to heart at last,
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight

That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!-yet stay'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band:

Pour the sweet waters back on their own rillI must remember still.

For their sake, for the dead-whose image nought
May dim within the temple of my breast-
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me like a spirit,—yet
I ask not to forget.

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave-
One draught of that sweet wave!

Yet, mortal, pause!-within thy mind is laid Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine

Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine;
-Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd,

So it but sweep along the torrent's trace,

And fill the hollow channels of the past; And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf Rase the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more!-all, all thy soul hath known, Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade! Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone

A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? Think-wouldst thou part with all?

A PARTING SONG.

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away,
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought-
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime;
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may
tread;

Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will you think of me?-
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody;
When ve hear the voice of a mountain stresin,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream;
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you friends'
Thus ever think of me!
Kindly and gently, but as of one
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone;
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found;
Set it be.

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

1. INTELLECTUAL POWERS.

O THOUGHT! O memory! gems for ever heaping
High in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine imagination! keeping [shrined;
Thy lamp's lone star mid shadowy hosts en-
How in one moment rent and disentwined,
At fever's fiery touch apart they fall,
Your glorious combinations!-broken all,

As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind Scatter'd to whirling dust!-oh, soon uncrown'd! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,

Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern How by meek faith heaven's portals must be pass'd Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

II. SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

Thou art like night, O sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, And the dim quiet of my chamber filling

With low, sweet voices by life's tumult drown'd. Thou art like awful night!-thou gather'st round

V.-FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

WHITHER, Oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way!
What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array?
My spirit, when thy prison-house of clay,

After long strife is rent?-fond, fruitless guest
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd,
A glimpse of summer sky:-nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
Thou art that bird!-of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies, [Guide'
Knowing but this-that thou shalt find thy

VI. FLOWERS.

WELCOME, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room;
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom,
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells

And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Givest their dread presence to our mental eye. -Thou art like starry, spiritual night!

High and iminortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light

Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:-Be welcome then thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

III-RETZSCH'S DESIGN, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. WELL might thine awful image thus arise

With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist!-Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanency? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things?-Let others trembling bow, Angel of death! before thee.-Not to those, Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape!-and oh! for me How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

IV. REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O NATURE! thou didst rear me for thine own
With thy free singing-birds and mountain brooks;
feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks,
With fairy fantasies, and wood-dreams lone;
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone

Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves,
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves,
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne
Midst the green hills: and now, that, far estranged
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath,
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged,
So glows the love of thee, that not for death,
Seems that pure passion's fervour-but ordain'd
To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain'd.

Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music; more than this ye bring

Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath, [wing Whether the couch be that of life or death.

VII. RECOVERY.

BACK, then, once more to breast the waves of life,
To battle on against the unceasing spray,
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife,
And rise to strife again; yet on my way
O, linger still, thou light of better day!
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you,
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true;

Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay,
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn
Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new-born,
Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure,

A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e'en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE. WHAT household thoughts around theeastheirshire Cling reverently!-of anxious looks beguiled, My mother's eyes upon thy page divine Each day were bent; her accents gravely mild, Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child, Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away,

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, Some secret nest:-yet would the solemn Word At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be A seed not lost; for which, in darker years, O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!