« السابقةمتابعة »
Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye,
Child of the storm,
When from thy home on high,
Cleaving the sky ?
It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed;
Gone out the light
That in thine eye-ball flamed,
Was proudly aimed!
Like the young dove forsaken, is the look
Of thy sad eye,
Who in some lonely nook,
Beside the brook.
While somewhat sterner in thy downward gaze
Doth seem to lower,
And deep disdain betrays,
And scorned his praise.
not me insult thy fallen dignity,
Gazing with vulgar eye
To hear thy cry;
And answereth to thee, as I turn to go,
It is a stain
On man !—Thus, even thus low
Work thee such wo!
R. H. WILDE,
Or Georgia. We are not acquainted with the writer, except by a few articles in verse, which have appeared in the newspapers.
“?T is many moons ago—a long-long time
When first ye came, your numbers were but few,
He loved us too, and taught us many things,
“ My life is like the summer rose
My life is like the autumn leaf
My life is like the track of feet
SAMUEL BARTLETT PARRIS
Was the son of the Rev. Martin Parris of Mansfield, and was born at Kingston, Massachusetts, January 30th, 1806. He received his early education from his father, and exhibited a most extraordinary and precocious aptitude for learning. He began the study of languages at the age of six. At ten years of age he was examined for admission to college, and the professors held him in their arms while he construed Virgil, Cicero, and the Greek Testament. He was pronounced fit for admission, but on account of his youth he returned home and did not enter the university for two years. He was graduated at the age of fifteen, and entered upon the study of medicine the year after. He received a medical degree in 1825, and began his practice at Attleborough in Massachusetts. He died September 21st, 1827, at the age of 21. A collection of his writings in verse and prose was published a few months since.
ON A SPRIG OF JUNIPER,
FROM THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON, PRESENTED TO THE
The meadow may boast of its thousand dyes, For their varied splendors are far before thee;
But still more fair in the patriot's eyes Is the humblest branch from the trunk that bore thee; For the place where it grows is a sacred spot, With remembrance of high achievements fraught.
Thou didst not thrive on the blood of the slave, Whom the reeking sword of oppression slaughter'd;
But the grateful tears of the good and brave,
Say, where wert thou half an age ago,
Where our land, by the word of its haughty foe,
When our fathers spared no pain nor toil,
And seal'd with their blood on their native soil
Perhaps thou wast by the side of thy sire, Whose branch to the breeze had for ages trembled,
Where gather'd around the council-fire The chiefs of the tawny tribes assembled Or it might have shaded the hunter's track On the lonely banks of the Potomac.
And long on the place of the hero's sleep
But a grateful nation his name shall keep,
*This was written soon after La Fayette visited the tomb of Washington.
When lifeless and bare, of its leaves forsaken,
For in distant ages the day shall come,
And the arch of the proud mausoleum
Ah! soon must branches like thine be spread
For now from the sorrows of earth have fled,
0! sadly, in tears sunk down, that day, The sun, in the distant west declining
But still in a holier splendor they
WILLIAM CUTTER, OF Portland. The following piece is from the Legendary.
THE VALLEY OF SILENCE.
Has thy foot ever trod that silent dell ?-
•Adams and Jefferson.