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Hath lost its splendor, ceased to play ;
Where sleeps the spirit, that of old
Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill
Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,
In vain in vain the hero calls —
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Thy sun hath set—the evening storm
I saw her in life's morning bloom,
In youth and beauty brightly gay, And little thought the savage tomb
So soon would steal her charms away: I saw her when her eye was bright
As the blue vestment of the sky, And little thought the fearful night
Of the death angel was so nigh!
And it was mine to see her fade,
To see her wither day by day; And it was mine to see her laid
Beneath the cold, repulsive clay; And then the sad funereal bell
Bore the death music to my ear'T was hope's and love's expiring knell,
Yet I was left to linger here.
It little boots my spirit now,
To think that she was fair and kind ; White were the lilies on her brow,
And stainless was her gentle mind. Her's was the holy, heavenly love,
Which beacons life's beclouded way, Such as the seraphs feel above,
Where heaven's eternal sunbeams play. She moved along in loveliness,
As woman moved at Eden's birth,
The weary wilderness of earth.
Nor worth, nor innocence could save
Her bonny blossoms from the grave !
And many sorrow'd o'er her lot,
And many wept beside her bier-
And time full early chased the tear;
Its verdure o'er her, fresh and green,
As if the loved one ne'er had been !
Yet there was one that loved her well,
On whom her trusting heart relied,
Nor cared for all the world beside :
That image dwells for ever more,
Till life's last agony is o'er.
FREDERIC S, HILL,
Of Boston, at present one of the editors of the Boston Daily Advertiser. Of the share which Mr Hill has had in the present work, we have spoken in the preface. His volume entitled “ The Harvest Festival, with other poems,” which he published in 1826, is an immature performance, but abounds with beauties. However lightly he may be disposed to think of these hasty effusions, we deem them worthy of an honorable place in our collection. The extracts which we give, will show that he possesses the true feeling of a poet.
I LOVE sometimes to tune my simple lute, And, as an echo to its softer strains, Give utterance to the thoughts that often rush Like an o'erflowing current through my soul. What though my name, unknown amid the host Of those who crowd around Apollo's shrine, Shine not emblazon'd on the rolls of Fame ? What though my wandering feet have never trod The flowery Parnassus,-nor my lips Imbibed poetic inspiration from The pure Castalian spring ?-still in the hour When clouds of disappointment lower around, And veil the scenes of beauty sketch'd by hope In all her rainbow hues, the chord I touch, May waken memory from her trance, and soothe The throbbing of my heart. Sweet Poesy ! Thy full outpourings can assuage the breast That heaves in tumult. O, if thou appear,Thy loosen'd tresses floating wide, thine eye Beaming with an unearthly brightness, then The rapt enthusiast in his ecstacy, Forgets the chilling atmosphere of earth, The selfish heartlessness of those around, And thinks he wanders in thy sun-light sphere, Holding “high converse with thy chosen ones. Up from the barren heath on which he treads, The bloom of the primeval Eden springs; Transparent waters meet him in his path, And figures leap out even from the air, Clothed in light drapery, and beautiful As Houris in the Moslem Paradise.
Seek'st thou the spirit who with magic wand Can work these wonders ? Come then; let us stand Here, on the precipice that overhangs That everlasting deep. O God! it is A sight too soleron to look out upon, Unless with reverence for thy majesty, And for thy greatness, awe. See how the waves Come surging onward-heaving, heaving on, As if a consciousness of their own might VOL. III.
Gave a new impulse to them. See! they strike
But night comes on: let us begone-we'll climb
Still shall we on?-Aye, even to yon crags. How fearfully Earth's bosom quakes! It heaves With tremulous throbbing, and sends forth deep tones, Like thunder from a necromatic cave, Or nature's groans of agony. Gaze now At yonder mighty burst of waters—seeE'en the gigantic rocks, that look as firm As adamantine pillars, based below The centre dark-have yielded, and retired To make free course for the fierce torrent’s plunge, As did the waves for Israel's fugitives, When the Red Sea was smitten by the rod That had been given to Israel's chosen judge. The white mist rises from the cataract In rolling clouds, like the unceasing smoke Of incense going to the throne of God,