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No tears were shed-no mutter'd prayer
But when his native hills are bright
WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY,
A NATIVE of Exeter, New Hampshire, was graduated at Cambridge, in 1816. He is now settled in the ministry at Springfield, in Massachusetts. His poems, which have appeared anonymously in various periodicals, show superior talent and good taste.
God of the earth's extended plains !
The dark green fields contented lie :
Where man might commune with the sky:
That lowers upon the vale below,
With joyous music in their flow.
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Hath summon’d up their thundering bands ;
Till calm'd by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, “Depart in peace.'
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air !
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry ternpests blow ; All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry
Breathes forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's wings; Each brilliant star, that sparkles through
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's 'unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! thy hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return! Her crumbling altars must decay!
Her incense fires shall cease to burn! But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.
And this is death! how cold and still, And yet how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile, But far too beautiful for tears.
The sparkling eye no more is bright, The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight I stand and gaze upon the dead.
But when I see the fair wide brow, Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never look'd so fair as now, When life and health were laughing there
I wonder not that grief should swell So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel That need not, cannot be suppress’d.
I wonder not that parents' eyes In gazing thus grow cold and dim,
That burning tears and aching sighs
The spirit hath an earthly part,
And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.
And yet why mourn? that deep repose Shall never more be broke by pain; Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
shall never weep again. For think not that the blushing flower Shall wither in the church-yard sod,
’T was made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God.
Once more I gaze—and swift and far The clouds of death in sorrow fly,
I see thee like a new-born star.
The star hath rays serene and bright,
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
Then let the burthen'd heart be free,,
And parents calmly bend to see
Thrice happy—that their infant bears
And only breathed life's morning airs
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
My memory warmly treasures yet
But no, that look is not the last,
Where love no more deplores the past,
T. W. STONE.
The following is the only specimen we have seen of the writings of this author.
THE BAY OF NAPLES..
See how the peaceful ripple breaks
The slumbering spirit of each flower,
And oft arrests the wandering eye,
Let us unfold the swelling sail,
What sounds resound along the shores !
But, ah! 't is past; a deeper brown
In shadowy grandeur, now appears
years In her once highly favor'd clime; Sad on the ruins of the past Dark melancholy broods alone; VOL. III.