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Yes, thou art fair, and fain would I,
Were mine no love, no kindred true,
Alone here live, alone here die,
Were I but worthy too for you,
For oh! were mortals half so fair
And beautiful as their abodes,
Woman a cherub's face would wear,
And man-the majesty of gods.
Each morning sun a rainbow builds
Of pink, across thy daimond foam,
That every tossing billow gilds
With pearls, to deck its ocean home.
Too soon it fades, unseen by all,
Save the rude woodman of the hill,
Or, when for water to the fall,
Trips the glad damsel of the mill.
Methinks, at winter's dazzling night,
Thine were a lovelier scene than now,
For then the very air is white
With the pure stars and purer snow.
And trees, like crystal chandeliers,
In nature's blue cathedral arch,
Light by the moon their gems of tears,
Where, like a queen bride, thou dost march.
And, oft, with a peculiar awe,
Thou com'st the moss-green rocks to lash: When the soft vernal breezes thaw The long chain'd river, at one crash Of thunder, it breaks up and roars, Till echoing caverns wake from sleep, As at a mammoth's voice,-and pours An ice-piled deluge down thy steep.
Fall of the forest! on a wild
Romantic pilgrimage I come
To see thy face, for, from a child,
My footsteps ever loved to roam
Places untrod-yet, why hast thou,
In sylvan beauty, roll'd so long,
And not a poet's tongue, ere now,
Has told his lyre thy praise in song.
A NATIVE of Lebanon, Connecticut. He is a printer, and at present resides in Boston.
GRAVE of waters gone to rest!
Jewel, dazzling all the main!
Father of the silver crest!
Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping 'mid the wavy roar,
Sailing 'mid the angry storm,
Ploughing ocean's oozy floor,
Piling to the clouds thy form!
Wandering monument of rain,
Prison'd by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,
Is it, that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,
To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth
Shall unchain and gladden thee!
Roamer in the hidden path,
'Neath the green and clouded wave!
Trampling, in thy reckless wrath,
On the lost, but cherish'd brave;
Parting love's death-link'd embrace-
Crushing beauty's skeleton-
Tell us what the hidden race
With our mourned lost have done!
Floating Sleep! who in the sun
Art an icy coronal;
And, beneath the viewless dun,
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining Death upon the sea!
Wend thee to the southern main;
Bend to God thy melting knee,
Mingle with the wave again!
THIS young writer published a volume of poetry at Hanover, New Hampshire, in 1826. Most of it was composed at the age of fifteen. The following is one of his earliest pieces.
THERE was a Lyre, 't is said, that hung
High waving in the summer air;
An angel hand its chord had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.
Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain,
Than ever shell of Mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.
When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell
Bright with the tears, that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,
Waved lightly his soft azure wing;
What touch such music could inspire!
What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,
The birds, that sweetly warbled by,
And the soft echo from the hills,
Were heard not where that harp was nigh.
When the last light of fading day
Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay,
While night had darken'd all the rest,
Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,
That harp its plaintive murmurs sigh'd
Along the dewy breeze of even;
So clear and soft they swell'd and died,
They seem'd the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,
And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,
Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play.
But soon the bloom of summer fled-
In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast-
The tempest's fury raged along-
Oh! for some angel, as they pass'd,
To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shriek'd-how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seem'd too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm.
It loudly shriek'd-but ah! in vain-
The savage wind more fiercely blew;
Once more-it never shriek'd again,
For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrill'd with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,
Was dreadful-but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer play'd
Gently upon its shatter'd form,
And the light zephyrs o'er it stray'd,
That lyre they could not wake or warm.
Is a native of Newburyport, and was graduated at Cambridge in 1824. He published in 1826 a volume entitled "The Grave of Byron and Other Poems." He has evidently high powers as a poet, which require only the developement that study and a mature taste will afford, to be duly appreciated. He shows deep sentiment, reminding us occasionally of Percival.
I KNEW young Julian well;-that gentle youth, Whose heart was as a maiden's ;-by my side He grew together with me, and in truth His boyish sports were mine, whether we plied The evening smoothness of the summer tide, Or met the sunbeam on the mountain's brow; I loved him well;-alas, for me! he died, When the first Autumn winds began to blow Foliage whose bright tints mock'd the soft-hued sunset glow.
He was indeed a strange and dreamy boy,
Wild as an Indian huntress, and as proud
As his young country's eagles; and his joy
Was even like theirs to listen to the loud
Clang of the tempest or the rattling cloud;
Yet loved all human kind, he was so mild:
What here is writ he gave me ere he bow'd
His head upon my bosom, as he smiled
His lingering life away, most like a slumbering child.
Free as the untamed thunder-levin rolling
Athwart the blackness of this drooping sky;-
Free as the winds controll'd not, yet controlling,
Free as the martyr's last prayer when to die
Is glorious gain;-free as despair's deep sigh,
Or as the waters when their chainless surge,
Lash'd to wild wrath, speaks to the storm on high,
Rise up, my soul, while proud hopes onward urge,
And perish in the whelming tempest, or emerge
To high and perilous emprise ;-throw off
The bondage of all such as war with thought,
And trample on the fool's unmeaning scoff;
Why should'st thou bow to wealth, who art unbought?
What carest thou for forms, who art untaught
To smile when thou should'st frown ?-thou wilt not sell
The holy birthright of thy race for aught;-
Rise, then, my slumbering spirit, rise and dwell
Enshrined in quenchless thought, fearless of earth or hell.
The idols of my heart are fading fast,
And my own fragile being will not long
Endure the fatal memory of the past,