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How calm is Innocence!—Its glow
Is resting on that cheek's bright hue,
That forehead fair of stainless snow,
And that full eye of cloudless blue,
Like morning on some sleeping sea,
Or hope on dreams of ecstacy.
So full and clear its rising beams
Through that soft veil of Beauty shine,
A pictured soul the vision seems
În purity and peace divine;
And thoughts sink lovelier there to rest,
Like day-beams on the rainbow's breast.
Thine is the smile, whose splendors pour
O'er all those lineaments their dyes,
And tell how deep the boundless store
Of treasured joys from whence they rise
As the blue tints of ocean show
How deep its bosom heaves below.
The rays, which palace in the sky,
Or gild the glittering gems of night,
Are wandering in that clear full eye,
Or lingering on that living light,
As if from heaven they came to bear
Those thoughts like holy treasures there.
Yet on those features' purple light,
That look of peace, that soul of love,
There is a charm far, far more bright,
A soft reflection from above,
Come down from its own sphere to bless
That form with deeper loveliness.
Like some celestial dream, its glow,
Of heaven is on that sainted air,
Soft-mingling with the silent flow
Of holy thought, which rises there; "T is God's own spirit's blessed ray, The dawnings of eternal day.
Oh lives there one cold breast can view
That wealth of charms, the unconscious light
Of that full soul, whose thoughts beam through,
And heavenward take their viewless flight,
Yet give one wish a fleeting birth
On this world's pride, the toys, of earth!
Thou art to me the loveliest glow,
That mantles o'er life's chequered sky,
A living spring whose stream shall flow
Along the track of years gone by,
And with far murmurings deep and clear,
Make music still on memory's ear.
Farewell I go to foreign skies,
To distant lands, to scenes afar,
Yet there, that one dear form shall rise
Unfading as the morning star,
And smile upon that desert still,
The same as on my native hill.
SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD.
AUTHOR of The Sisters of St Clara, The Lay of Melpomene, Mina, and The Cities of The Plain. He is a native of Massachusetts, and now a resident of Philadelphia. Mr Fairfield has been the subject of considerable notice in many of the newspapers, but with the particulars of his life we are not acquainted. He is a poet of talent.
HOWE'ER the sceptic scoffs, the poet sighs,
Hope oft reveals her dimly shadow'd dreams,
And seraph joy descends from pale blue skies,
And, like sweet sunset on wood-skirted streams,
Peace breathes around her stilling harmonies,
Her whisper'd music,-while her soft eye beams-
And the deep bliss, that crowns the household hearth,
From all its woes redeems the bleeding earth.
Like woods that shadow the blue mountain sky,
The troubled heart still seeks its home in heaven,
In those affections which can never die,
In hallowed love and human wrongs forgiven!
From the fair gardens of the blest on high
The fruit of life is yet to lost man given,
And 'mid the quiet of his still abode
Spirits attend him from the throne of God.
The mild deep gentleness, the smile that throws
Light from the bosom o'er the high pale brow,
And cheek that flushes like the May-morn rose;
The all-reposing sympathies, that glow
Like violets in the heart, and o'er our woes
The silent breathing of their beauty throw—
Oh! every deed of daily life doth prove
The depth, the strength, the truth of woman's love!
When harvest days are pass'd, and autumn skies
The giant forests tinge with glorious hues,
How o'er the twilight of our thought sweet eyes
The fairy beauty of the soul diffuse!
The inspiring air like spirit voices sighs
'Mid the close pines and solitary yews,
Though the broad leaves on forest boughs look sere,
And naked woodlands wail the dying year.
Yet the late season brings no hours of gloom,
Though thoughtful sadness sighs her evening hymn,
For hearth-fires now light up the curtain'd room,
And love's wings float amid the twilight dim;
Lost loved ones gather round us from the tomb,
And blest revealments o'er our spirits swim,
And Hopes, that droop'd in trials, soar on high,
And link'd affections bear into the sky.
Then, side by side, hearts, wedded in their youth,
In their meek blessedness expand and glow,
And, though the world be faithless, still their truth
No pause, no change, no soil of time may know!
They hold communion with the world, in sooth,
Beyond the stain of sin, the waste of wo,
And the deep sanctities of well-spent hours
Crown their fair fame with Eden's deathless flowers.
Frail as the moth's fair wing is common fame,
Brief as the sunlight of an April morn;
But love perpetuates the sacred name
Devoted to his shrine; in glory born,
The boy-god gladly to the lone earth came
To vanquish victors and to smile at scorn,
And he will rise, when all is finish'd here,
The holiest seraph of the highest sphere.
As fell the prophet's mantle, in old time,
On the meek heir of Israel's sainted sage,
Woman! so falls thy unseen power sublime
On the lone desert of man's pilgrimage;
Thy sweet thoughts breathe, from love's delicious clime,
Beauty in youth, and faith in fading age;
Through all earth's years of travail, strife and toil,
His parch'd affections linger round thy smile.
In the young beauty of thy womanhood
Thou livest in the being yet to be,
Yearning for blessedness ill understood,
And known, young mother! only unto thee.
Love is her life; and to the wise and good
Her heart is heaven-'t is even unto me,
Though oft misguided and betrayed and grieved,
The only bliss of which I'm not bereaved.
Draw near, ye whom my bosom hath enshrined!
O Thou! whose life breathes in my heart! and Thou
Whose gentle spirit dwelleth in my mind,
Whose love, like sunlight, rests upon thy brow!
Draw near the hearth! the cold and moaning wind
Scatters the ruins of the forest now,
But blessings crown us in our own still home-
Hail, holy image of the life to come!
Hail, ye fair charities! the mellow showers
Of the earth's springtime! from your rosy breath
The way-worn pilgrim, though the tempest lowers,
Breathes a new being in the realm of death,
And bears the burden of life's darker hours
With cheerlier aspect o'er the lonely heath,
That spreads between us and the unfading clime
Where true Love triumphs o'er the death of Time.
Or New York, is the author of "The Legend of Rocks, and other poems," published in 1827. His poetry is quite respectable, but the most remarkable fact concerning it, is that the author is deaf and dumb. He lost the faculty of speech and hearing, by disease at an early age. His writings show that he has as nice a perception of the harmonies of verse, as those in whom the senses are perfect. This we apprehend must be owing to a knowledge of sound, accent, and quantity in language, which he has retained by memory. The deaf and dumb by birth have never, we think, in any instance, arrived at any distinct notion of these qualities of speech. This author is still very young. On the peculiarities of his situation, he may be expected to write with a full degree of feeling and earnestness. For this reason we have selected the passage which follows, as the most interesting.
AND am I doom'd to be denied for ever
The blessings that to all around are given?
And shall those links be reunited never,
That bound me to mankind till they were riven
In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever
From social intercourse, the doom of heaven
Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain,
That the decree may be recall'd again.
Amid a throng in deep attention bound,
To catch the accents that from others fall,
The flow of eloquence, the heavenly sound
Breathed from the soul of melody, while all
Instructed or delighted list around,
Vacant unconsciousness must me enthrall!
I can but watch each animated face,
And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.