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TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR
THINE eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies;
Rocks rich with summer garlands-solemn streams— Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams— Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest-fair,
But different-everywhere the trace of men, Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air,
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.
THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou wait est late and com'st alone,
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
I would that thus, when I shall see
THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER.
WILD was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New-England's strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
They little thought how pure a light,
With years, should gather round that day; How love should keep their memories bright, How wide a realm their sons should sway.
Green are their bays; but greener still
Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, And regions, now untrod, shall thrill
With reverence when their names are breathed.
Till where the sun, with softer fires,
This hallowed day like us shall keep.
HYMN OF THE CITY.
NOT in the solitude
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see
And sunny vale, the present Deity;
Or only hear his voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.
Even here do I behold
Thy steps, Almighty!-here, amidst the crowd,
With everlasting murmur deep and loud—
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.
Thy golden sunshine comes
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes;
For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.
Thy Spirit is around,
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throngLike the resounding sea,
Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.
And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine.
The quiet of that moment too is thine,
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.