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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 COTTAGE LOVERS.
The mist of the morn is still grey on the mountain ;
The pheasant now springs from his dew-spangled nest ;
The horn of the huntsman sounds far o'er the hill,
How sweet is the woodbine o'er yon lattice creeping,
The dash of a light oar is heard on the lake,
And hark, the wood echoes the wood cutter's stroke ;
Oh! come, dearest, come, to the cot of thy lover,
The bright face of one at the lattice is seen,
On the stern of the skiff she is seated in haste,
ART thou a husband ?-hast thou lost
The partner of thy joys—thy woes ;
And share the dire conflicting throes
Till e'en to thee 't was bliss to close
Art thou a father ?-hath thy son,
The prop of thy declining life,
And left thee to a world of strife?
The remnant of thy journey here;
Or gray-hair'd sorrows to revere?
To gaze upon the face of one,
Recalling ages long since gone ?
When life ran frolic through each vein;
To live the hours of youth again.
Art thou a lover?—is the theme
Of all thy raptures torn from thee;
And woke to actual agony ?
The form as light as gossamer;
Say, does the grave worm fatten there?
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;
And burst to view a fairy boat;
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.
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,
Triumphant to her throne on high.
The morning flings her rosy ray,
Unveils her to the gaze of day;
morning mists to heaven's blue steep,
Are gone, their holy rest to keep.
The forests far, which bound the scene,
Like hills of everlasting green;
Each tree, that lifts its arms in air,
Or hangs its pensive head from high,
Or whispering with the hours gone by.
Let silence sanctify thy praise,
And morning stars their music raise ;-
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
In purity and peace divine;
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 fall 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.