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النشر الإلكتروني

POETRY.

TO DORA.-THE POWER OF LOVE.

OFT have I mocked the mystery of Love
As some fond fable of romantic minds,
A sickly dream, a hypochondriac type
Of girlish sensibility. I laughed
At the delusion, and defied its power.
I boasted, in the pride of moral strength,
That passion so enslaving ne'er could sway

A heart like mine, used to command the storms
Which wayward nature fosters, and to bend
Its stubborn longings to the rule of calm,
Unfettered reason.

Shall a mind

Filled with ambition's loftiest breathings, sink
Its mighty aspirations, and forget

The brightest visions of a beck'ning fame,
The triumphs of ascendant intellect,
Which hope is whisp'ring in the greedy ear;
Forego the glory of a laurelled name,
The homage of a world-and tamely sue
For the poor, paltry boon of beauty's smile,
The favor of a girl, a tender glance,
Perchance a faithless kiss, believed a pledge
Of true affection, but, in truth, a seal
Of youthful folly?

Shall we bind

The free, untrammelled spirit, wont to soar
Through all the realms of thought with eagle flight,
Culling from fancy's garden each bright flower,
And drinking draughts of joy from every fount
Of science, whether 'mid the starry host,
Borne high on airy pinions, it may scan
The wonders of creative energy,

Or, with an humbler flight, survey the scene
Of earthly bustle, gathering from them all
Food for reflection and improving thought?
Shall we enchain a spirit such as this?
With Cupid's slavish fetters bind it down
To worship at some pretty damsel's feet,
And say, the "world's well lost for love?"

"Twas thus

I railed of love, disdained its very name.
Beauty to me was but a painted snare,
A gilded evil, which I wisely scorned;
And the deep passion of the lover's soul
A poet's fiction, which could only move
A smile of pity, or contemptuous sneer,
For the deluded youth whose insane heart
Could pine for such a shadow. I looked down
With high contempt upon the suitor train,
As a nerveless, doting, mindless race
Of passion's slaves.

But when I met thee, Dora, Radiant as the seraph's loveliness, thy brow Stamped on its spotless page with truth's own seal, Thy bright eye kindling with the soul's warm fire Of genius and pure sensibility,

And every feature beaming with the light
Of peerless beauty and ascendant mind-

The walls which years of cold misanthropy
Had built around my heart were broken down.
The magic of a glance, and the soft strain
Of angel music which those lips distilled,
Fell like a charm on my bewildered soul,
And all my senses, in Elysian dreams
Of joy enwrapped, did reel with ecstasy.

I felt the chain, as link by link 'twas forged,
And gloried in the bondage which it brought.
Meekly I kissed the sceptre, and rejoiced

To own myself no longer proudly free

A slave of charms which angel hosts might wear.
Nor blush to own. Subdued, I bow to thee
In homage of such excellence.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

BY N. B. MOORE.

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Polyphonous songster, now hid on the spray,

I would almost be sworn, if I knew not thy lay,
That blue-bird, wren, black-bird, thrush, robin, and jay,
Sparrow, woodpecker, swallow, hold concert to-day
On the Isle of Orleans.

The blue-bird's soft carol, how oft has my ear
Drank its sweetness in boyhood, when bounding in glee
O'er the pastures in spring-time, all happy and free,
In the Puritan land

The trill of the black-bird, how quick It restores
Rocks, mountains, lakes, rivers, Atlantic's stern shores,
To the vision of him who their absence deplores

On the Isle of Orleans!

The lays of the robin, though poured from thy throat,
Sweet forger of song, seem at least his own note,
For they bring in each cadence sweet scenes far remote
In the Puritan land.

Come, oh, come, then, sweet warbler, resume on the spray
Thy marvellous power; thy magical lay
Can alone from my heart chase its glooms far away:
Oh, sing! for I fain would be happy to-day

On the Isle of Orleans.

DEEDS OF LOVE.

"To enrich, and be thereby the richer."

BY BLANCHE BENNAIRDE.

THE sunbeams pour their floods of light upon
The frozen ground, and thaw the ice and snow,
Which melt into the earth, and thus keep life
Within the root of tender plant and tree,
While Nature takes her annual repose

In stern old Winter's arms. Then comes young Spring
To waken up the buds, and bid them bloom
Again in beauty. Soon are seen the fruits
Of Summer, and her thousand beauties; while
From every grove and tree are heard sweet songs
Of praise, that thrill the heart of man with joy,
And bid him join in chorus. Autumn then
Appears, with golden fruits abundant, which
Are poured into the lap of Nature to
Repay the sunshine and the shower, and man's
Kind nurturing care.

And thus it is with things
Pertaining to the human heart. The more
We give its treasures shall we be thereby
Enriched, and reap abundant store of true
And lasting good.

A kind word gently spoken
To the sad soul when bowed to earth with grief,
Or deeds of charity unto the poor,

Will oft impart an untold pleasure to

The giver, which is sweeter far than all
That wealth can purchase with its coronets
And sparkling diamonds, and which lives
Throughout all time.

The good deed never.

The gold may perish; but

The oppressed will not
Forget their benefactor, who has raised

For them his voice, and sought to bless them: nor
Will Heaven forget. The orphan, too, who sighs
With sadness, will rejoice when love comes near,
And sweetly sing its praise: while she who weeps
In sorrow-the lone widow, who doth toil
Till midnight for a scanty pittance-will,
Upon her bended knees, thank Heaven, who heard
Her cry and sent relief. And will not He,
Who is all love, reward benevolence
And mercy, when His eye is over all
For good, and sleepeth not? Yea, verily;
The smiles of Heaven will ever rest upon
The form of Mercy, nor will deeds of love
Pass unrewarded.

Then pursue with zeal
Thy course, thou who dost visit poverty
And lend relief; or sittest near the sick
To pour the light of blessed truth into
The sinking soul, bidding it look beyond
Death's dark abode to an immortal life
In happiness celestial.

Words but fail

To show the worth of charity, or paint,
In truthful colors, her celestial form.
"More blessed 'tis to give than to receive,"
Said the divine and holy Teacher, who
Spent all his days in doing good, and we
May learn of Him. The suffering will rejoice
When gentle love comes nigh to wipe away
The falling tear; and those who minister
To others' happiness reap rich reward
Thereby, and lay up countless store of wealth.

TO CAROLINE.

BY ANN SWEET.

COME to me, love, at the moonlit hour,
When the fresh green leaf and smiling flower
So tranquilly sleep in the silvery rays-
Oh, come, and we 'll talk of other days!

I will tell thee then how this heart of mine
Still lovingly turns to that blessed time,
Ere the cares and the fever of life came on,
And our hopes and our loves were ever one.

I will fasten a link in the riven chain,
And the severed wreath it may bind again,
To backward gaze, through a mist of tears,
On the faded joys of departed years.

We will go down the lane where the elm-trees are,
By the dear old well that bubbles there:
Sister of mine, have ye quite forgot

How we loved in childhood that darling spot?

And, further on, you remember, too,

A place where the daisies and strawberries grew? Where the brown-bird floated from flower to flower, And the nightingale sang at the twilight hour?

"Twas a beautiful spot when the sun grew low, And bathed the whole scene in a brilliant glow, While our favorite maple, so grand and bold, He covered and decked with a crown of gold!

We will wander here in the moonlight sheen,
And I'll twine thee a wreath of the bright meadow-queen
We will almost think, in the calm, still even,
That the dream of your youth is yet unriven.

Ye will fancy ye see, in that vision fair,
The dear old vine-covered homestead there,
With its neat little parlor all cushioned in shade,
And tea-table spread with its cloth ready laid.

I love to think of that sunny time,

And forget that another home is thine;
That another roof-tree ye deem more fair,
And your household gods ye have gathered there.

Then come to me, love, at the moonlit hour,
For it hath a calm and subduing power;
"Twill ease the heart of its heavy pain,
And fasten a link in the riven chain.

SONNET.-CITIES OF THE PLAIN.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

SLOW sinks behind the fated cities' hills

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The sacred light, they ne'er should see again,
Which shone so oft in beauty o'er the plain,

Well watered by so many gushing rills.
High overhead his vengeful vial rears

The dread Death-angel of the wrathful Lord,

To give vile revellers their due award,

As onward the bold fire-flood now careers.
Down topple the altars, temples of their God,

That, erewhile, so magnificent had stood.

"Ten are not found," whom Heaven could deem as good; All traces, then, where reckless sinners trod, Death-bearing billows have fore'er effaced.

O'erwhelming cities "Shavidai had laid waste."

CLÄRCHEN'S PRAYER.

BY EDITH BRYANT.

And, in the deep stillness of the night, Clärchen prayed for Egmont, and because prayer would not save him, she died with him.

"Twas borne on the wings of Night,

A strange wild tone, and low As the voice of a pleading seraph, In its depths of anguished woe.

It came as the last sweet tone

From the strings of a broken lute

Or a heart torn from its home,
In agony deep and mute.

It came as the last faint sigh

Of a worn-out heart at rest

As the music, deep and wild,

From breaking harp-strings pressed.

It came as the prayer of the captive, In supplication wild,

When Hope is fast departing

From Misery's worn child.

As the deep and anguished utterance

Of the strong man's agony,

When the passions within him are wildAnd all are at enmity:

As the heart which hath lost its mate, When its kindred spirit's gone,

Bows low beneath the weight,

Like a broken reed in the storm:

So Clärchen's prayer arose

On the stillness of the night,

As the last breaking throes

Of a strong heart in its might.

CONSUMPTION'S WORK.

BY HELEN HAMILTON.

THEY tell me, oh! my gentle one,
That thou art dying, dying-
That human skill can naught avail
To check thy life's swift flying:
They say thou mayest hear, perchance,
Stern Winter's tempests rave-
But the early blossoms of the spring
Will bloom upon thy grave.

I brush away the burning tears
That dim my aching sight,

To gaze once more upon thy face,
So beautiful-so bright:

The rose has lent its fairest tints
To give thy cheek its dyes,
And the brightness of the diamond
Gleams in thine azure eyes.

But the rose's hue upon thy cheek
Is like the buds that bloom,
In sad and gentle loveliness,

O'er some lone woodland tomb:
And oh! it seems when I behold
The brightness of thine eyes,

As if they'd won the stars' soft light By gazing on the skies.

I scarce can deem that thou wilt die,
Thou art so young, so fair;
But oh! thy very beauty bids

My yearning heart despair:

No hope! no hope! I dare not dream
Thou wilt be spared to bless

My heart and home a little while,
With thy seraph loveliness.

Beloved, farewell! Words cannot speak

The anguish of my heart,

For when thy gentle soul has fled,

My joys in life depart:

And then my only hope will be
That when life's span is o'er,

In thy fair heaven-home we 'll meet,
We'll meet-to part no more.

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MADELINE.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

THY home was by the singing stream, On which all golden shadows gleam, Like sun and shade upon a dream,

When first I saw thee, Madeline: No dove was purer, none so pure,

And love's rich font was deep and sure Within a faith that must endure

Till life shall leave thee, Madeline.

Thou art a child of nature's choice,
It speaks within thy winning voice
In tones that make the heart rejoice,
When listening to thee, Madeline:

A simple, modest, guileless one,
Whose heart, like flowers beneath the sun,
Breathes out its richest gifts upon

The world's rude pathway, Madeline.

There is no form of wretchedness,
No care for Love to watch and bless
With its own rays of tenderness,

So pure and peaceful, Madeline,

But finds thee near with word and deed,
A friend amid the bitterest need,
To pour upon the hearts that bleed
A tide of comfort, Madeline.

A soul all quick to sympathize,
A nature truthful to those ties
That raise our wishes to the skies,

Are thine to fulness, Madeline-
Too high for nothing that may bring
Peace in the shadow of its wing-
Something to which the poor can cling,
And find a shelter, Madeline.

A creature reaching to the stars,
Yet stooping to remove the bars
Of iron want, against which jars

The world's high-souled, Madeline-
Those beacon lights that shine along
Life's ocean-way, with beams as strong
As truth, when armed against the wrong,
Sheds from her altars, Madeline.

No duty but can bring to thee,
From thy full stores of purity,
A truthfulness and energy

As deep and lasting, Madeline,
As only those can feel and know
Who, like to thee, live in the glow
That love and charity bestow

On the true-hearted, Madeline.
Thou hast no taint of worldliness,
That downwards on high spirits press,
And crush the flowers of gentleness
Ere in their budding, Madeline;
That shut the heart in chill and drear
With clouds of doubtfulness and fear,
And turn to ice each gushing tear
For erring nature, Madeline.

A host of gentle memories,
Of deep forgivingness arise
Within the beaming of thine eyes,"
That well with kindness, Madeline,
VOL. XLV. 41

Outgiving all of love and truth,
Of modest prudency and ruth
That hope could fashion for a youth
Sunful of promise, Madeline.

From out the fountain of thy heart,
With impulse wild as archer's dart,
The streams of tenderness outstart

So bright and starlike, Madeline;
Upbearing on their mountain tide
Those whom the world has scourged and tried,
And deeply have their garments dyed

In bitter waters, Madeline.

But still thou canst, amid the wrong,
Hear murmurs of that spirit-song
With which that earnest-hearted throng
Claim kindred with thee, Madeline;
Can see their footprints on the shore,
Untouched amid the breakers' roar,
Firm as the souls who've gone before,
And pure as thine is, Madeline.

THE PEASANT'S SONG.

BY ANNIE.

My cottage home! Oh, I would not dwell
In the crowded city for wealth untold.
Mine is a spot where the bright waves swell,

In the warm clear sunshine, like floods of gold;

The lofty trees in the free winds blow,

And the birds sing gayly as on they pass;
And sweet wild flowers like jewels grow
Down in the dewy grass.

The rose and jessamine climb the walls,
And in at the open casements peep;
The dry gray moss from the low roof falls,
O'er it a willow's long branches sweep.

In the wintry nights, when the winds rush by
Like the strong deep tones of an organ vast,
They float with a melody clear and high
Out on the ringing blast.

I have a bower in a shady place,

Where the birds are singing the livelong day;
There the violet springs in its modest grace,
And the merry leaves with the sunbeams play:
From the trees above me the vines droop down
To the mossy carpet beneath my feet.

I would not envy a monarch's crown
Here on my woodland seat.

The woods around me, the dim old woods,

And a river rolling its bright waves past

I could dwell in these eloquent solitudes

Till the heart which loves them has throbbed its last. Ye who are yoked to Pleasure's car,

And pour your idol-worship there, Know there is happiness purer far Out in the open air.

The flowers call from each fragrant bell,

And the tree-tops beckon and point on high:
Oh, come where freedom and gladness dwell-
Come to us under the broad blue sky,
And read and ponder each mystic line
In Nature's book that is open laid;

Come, worship God in the glorious shrine
Which is own bands have made.

GENIUS.

[Suggested by an incident which transpired at the Natural Bridge, in Virginia, as related by Mr. Elihu Burritt.]

BY MRS. M. A. BIGELOW.

"TWAS mid-day o'er that mighty arch Which Nature's hand hath framed, And far beneath the Cedar Creek Then in the sunlight flamed.

In the rough channel there below,
Three rosy children stood;
Uncovered was each thoughtful brow
Beside the sweeping flood.

Lo! now with earnest, curious eye,
They read, in letters deep,
Name after name, engraven high
Along the rocky steep.

At once they climb that jutting rock,
Which might the bravest dare,

And in rude letters carve their names
Deep in the limestone there.

They all descend again, save one→→→
One, with a dauntless eye,

Is reading far above his own
A name engraven high.

The name of one to Freedom dear,
Our Country's noble son-
"My humble name, I'll write it there,
By that of WASHINGTON."

'Tis done-yet upward, onward still
That boy pursues his flight,
Till from an opening o'er his head
Rushes a stronger light.

Many have gathered hastily
To see the hero there;

Anon he hears the voice of praise,
Or cry of faint despair.

But still he toils the vast ascent,
Beyond the reach of aid;
Still for his patient, tireless feet,
Niche after niche is made.

He pauses-turns a look beneath: What arm can save him now?

A dizziness comes o'er his brainA paleness o'er his brow.

The father's hand a strong noose flings From o'er the archway there:

A moment, and that slight form swings Suspended in the air!

And now the parent clasps his child With tones of transport loudWhile mingled shouts of rapture swell From the assembled crowd.

Is it not thus with those who climb The dangerous heights of FameTo write imperishably there

A name, an humble name?

Genius must never slack his course,
Or pause to look beneath:
One reckless glance at sordid things
May bring impending death:

Unless, thou venturous boy, like thine,

His Father's hand of love

Send succor from the arch of heaven, And take his child above.

THE CANARY BIRD'S SONG TO ITS MISTRESS.

BY JESSIE LEE.

OH! lady, bright as the silver light
Morn weaves, with rosy fingers,
Far upon high, in the azure sky,
Where the dusky shadow lingers:
Oh! list to me as I sing to thee
My tale of love and emotion,
And let me go where the waters flow,
To my isle in the distant ocean.

I have no need of the choicest seed,

Or of sparkling water ever;

Thou dost let the snow, when the cold winds blow,

Come to my bright cage never;

Thou dost look on me, in thy youthful glee,

With a pure and tender devotion;
Then let me go where the waters flow,
To my isle in the distant ocean.

With golden breast, on her downy nest
My mother sits repining-

And her mate's low song steals faint along,
Where the myrtle and rose are twining;
They cannot bear that-a stranger's care-
I should live in the land of another;
Oh! lady dear, pause as you hear,

And think of your own kind mother.

The soft winds blow, and the waters flew
So bright from the sparkling fountain--
And the dew-drops fall alike on all,

The bloom of the heather and mountain-
And the blossoms breathe on the quiet eve
Such a gush of untold sweetness:
Oh! let me fly to its genial sky,
And try my light wings' fleetness.

I should miss thy smile forever, while
The shade of twilight lingers;

I should never more pick my seedy store
From out thy snowy fingers;

Thy gentle form I should miss at morn,
Thy fond and tender carossing;
Yet, lady bright! let me go to-night,
With thy rich and holy blessing.

I cannot fly in the sunny sky-
These silver bars confine me;
From morning's light till dusky night
Thy silken fetters bind me:

Oh let me go 'mid the gushing flow
Of my own deep quiet river,
Where the flowers bloom in sweet perfume
And the bright leaves dance and quiver.

I will send a prayer through the silent air,
To thy Father who dwells in Heaven,
If thou 'lt send me free o'er the foamy sea,
To my home, this quiet even;

I will tell my joy without alloy,
Thy holy and deep devotion,

And my mother will bless thy tenderness,
From her isle in the distant ocean.

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