صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

But I must drink the vision while it lasts
For even now the curling vapors rise,
Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace
These towering summits-bidding me away.
But often shall my heart turn back again,
Thou glorious eminence!-and when oppress'd
And aching with the coldness of the world,
Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee.


I WEEP While gazing on thy modest face
Thou pictured history of woman's love,
Joy spreads his beaming pinions on thy cheek
Shaming its whiteness, and thine eyes are full
Of conscious beauty while they undulate.
Yet all thy beauty-all thy gentleness
Served but to light thy ruin. Is there not
Kind heaven! some secret talisman of hearts
Whereby to find a resting-place for love?
Unhappy maiden! let thy history teach
The beautiful and young that when their path
Softens with roses, danger may be there;
That love may watch the bubbles of the stream,
But never trust his image on the wave!


Was born in Philadelphia, in 1799. He is the youngest son of Dr William Moore Smith. He received an education for the bar, and was admitted to practice in 1820. In 1822, he became editor of The Aurora, a daily journal in Philadelphia, and continued in that station till 1828, when he returned to his profession of the law. Besides his poems and his prose compositions in various periodicals, Mr Smith is the author of several dramatic pieces, among which are Caius Marius,

The Prodigals, The Eighth of January, and Quite Correct, which have been played in Philadelphia. A novel from his pen is about to be published.


THE mist of the morn is still grey on the mountain;
The violet blooms on the brink of the fountain;
Low murmurs the stream from the mossy rock gushing,
But wildly and loud through the dark ravine rushing.

The pheasant now springs from his dew-spangled nest;
The crescent moon sinks like a bark in the west;
The first streak of morning now breaks through the night,
And mountains and vales ring with hymns of delight.

The horn of the huntsman sounds far o'er the hill,
The voice of the fleet hound is frequent and shrill,
While panting the chased stag appears at the lake,
He swims the dark stream and then bounds through the brake.

How sweet is the woodbine o'er yon lattice creeping,
Which blushingly steals where the maiden is sleeping!
How softly the breeze sounds that kisses the billow!
But softer by far is the sigh on yon pillow.


The dash of a light oar is heard on the lake,
And gaily a voice sings " Awake! oh! awake!
The morning already is gray on the hill;

The crow of the barn cock is frequent and shrill.

And hark, the wood echoes the wood cutter's stroke;
The mocking bird sings on the top of the oak;
The cow-boy is driving the herd to the lake,
The plough-boy's afield, and all nature's awake.

Oh! come, dearest, come, to the cot of thy lover,
Where souls may be free as the wings of the plover,
And hearts shall be pure as the vestal maid's shrine,
And the day star of true love shall never decline.

The bright face of one at the lattice is seen,
And ruby lips glow through the foliage of green,
Like buds of the vine the wild breezes perfuming,
Ere breath of the morning has kiss'd them to blooming.

The maiden now stands on the brink of the stream,
And looks upon life as a fairy-like dream,

For she hies to the spot where her soul may be blest
With a passion as mild as the dove in its nest.

[ocr errors]

On the stern of the skiff she is seated in haste,
Her lover beside her with arm round her waist,
He presses her lips as they float from the shore
And they mingle their songs with the dash of the oar.


ART thou a husband?-hast thou lost
The partner of thy joys-thy woes;
Didst watch her when in anguish tost,
And share the dire conflicting throes
Of agonized mortality,

Till e'en to thee 't was bliss to close
The last fond look of her glazed eye?

Art thou a father?-hath thy son,
The prop of thy declining life,
Fail'd ere his manly race was run,

And left thee to a world of strife?
Dost thou pursue in cold neglect

The remnant of thy journey here;
No one thy frailties to protect,
Or gray-hair'd sorrows to revere ?
Is it denied thy stricken heart
To gaze upon the face of one,
Who seem'd thy former counterpart,
Recalling ages long since gone?
To see the follies that were thine

When life ran frolic through each vein;

And thus, e'en in thy life's decline

To live the hours of youth again.

From a poem entitled Francesca, written before the author was aware that Leigh Hunt had preoccupied the subject. This circumstance induced him to withhold it from publication.

Art thou a lover?-is the theme

Of all thy raptures torn from thee;
Hast broke the wild ecstatic dream
And woke to actual agony?

The eyes where countless cupids play'd;
The form as light as gossamer;

The neck where thy warm lips have stray'd-
Say, does the grave worm fatten there?

If so, say, hast thou never known
The joy of gazing on the sky
While nature sleeps, and you alone
Seem roused to thought and misery.
Hast never watch'd the pallid moon,
While resting on some sifted cloud,
Pure as the fretful ocean's foam,

And filmy as an angel's shroud.
Gazed on her while her crescent pride
Seem'd through a sea of pitch to float;
Then from the depth of darkness glide,
And burst to view a fairy boat;

And shed her beams so strong and bright,
That the globe seem'd a chrysolite ?—
'Tis heavenly at that hour to muse,
When sleep is o'er the senses stealing,
And e'en to agony profuse,

Indulge the luxury of feeling.
The features to recall of those,
Who moulder in their last repose;
To chase each image that may rise
In mockery before the eyes,
Until you catch the happy clue

That brings to life the wonted smile,
And gives the cheek its roseate hue
That moulders in decay the while;
Then dead to reason; dead to pain,
You dream an hour of bliss again.

[blocks in formation]


THE Reverend Norman Pinney is a native of Simsbury in Connecticut, and is now one of the Professors in Washington College in that state.


How calm comes on this holy day!
Morning unfolds the eastern sky,
And upward takes her lofty way,
Triumphant to her throne on high.
Earth glorious wakes, as o'er her breast
The morning flings her rosy ray,
And, blushing from her dreamless rest,
Unveils her to the gaze of day;

So still the scene, each wakeful sound
Seems hallow'd music breathing round.

The night-wind to their mountain caves,
The morning mists to heaven's blue steep,
And to their ocean depths the waves

gone, their holy rest to keep.
"Tis tranquil all-around-above-
The forests far, which bound the scene,
Are peaceful as their Maker's love,
Like hills of everlasting green;
And clouds like earthly barriers stand,
Or bulwarks of some viewless land.

Each tree, that lifts its arms in air,

Or hangs its pensive head from high,
Seems bending at its morning prayer,
Or whispering with the hours gone by.
This holy morning, Lord, is thine-

Let silence sanctify thy praise,
Let heaven and earth in love combine
And morning stars their music raise ;-
For 't is the day-joy-joy--ye dead,
When death and hell were captive led..

« السابقةمتابعة »