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All that the hand of taste could do, Banners floating of every hue, Flowery wreath and sparkling gem, Girdled her round from stern to stem; The fairest of the land was there, With snowy robe and raven hair, Bright eyes that beam'd expression's fire, Beauty, all that hearts desire; The flower of youthful chivalry, With the young love's idolatry, Offer'd homage at the shrine Of woman's loveliness divine; While the sweet and blithesome song, Uprose from the joyous throng; And the barque moved on in light, Graceful as the queen of night, Beautiful isles sprinkled the bay, Silver'd o'er with the moonbeam's ray; Verdure-clad isles, where shrubs and flowers, The foliage of trees and bowers, With fanciful dwellings woven between, An air of enchantment breathed o'er the scene; The beauties of nature blended with art, Delight the most soothing gave to the heart; The air around them was freighted with balm; The harp's soft notes added grace to the charm; As it broke from the covert of a flowery grove, With woman's sweet voice-the tones that we love!
They passed the island-alone on the sea
No mortal hand can e'er attain,
How fades the world before me now!
It seems to me a floating speck,
Oh no! I have a hope afar,
It twinkleth yet, the Bethlehem star,
Spring up, my soul! and catch the ray,
"T will burn in life's expiring day,
LOUISA P. SMITH,
Or Providence, (formerly Miss Hickman.) Her volume of poems was published the present year.
FLY on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
"A bird peculiar to the east. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground "
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard
Fly on-nor seek a place of rest,
In the home of "care-worn things,"
The fields of upper air are thine,
I would never wander-bird, like thee,
With wing and spirit once light and free-
There are many things like thee, bright bird,
Our air is with them for ever stirr'd,
And happiness, like thee, fair one!
Is ever hovering o'er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,
On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of "living waters" springs.
I'VE pleasant thoughts that memory brings, in moments free
Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair; Her smile was like the star-light of summer's softest skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone, from out her witching
Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell Of sudden music, notes of mirth, that of wild gladness tell;
She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and of mirth,
And her thoughts were those wild, flowery ones, that linger not on earth.
A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face,
And her light spirit saw no ill, in all beneath the sun.
I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my
'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue. And her smile came gently over me, like spring's first scented
And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares.
I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny days,
With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant
That have gone the way of all the earth on time's resistless wings.
J. G. WHITTIER,
EDITOR of the American Manufacturer, a newspaper of Boston. He is one of the most youthful of our poets, but his verses show a more than common maturity of powers.
THE SICILIAN VESPERS.
SILENCE o'er sea and earth
With the veil of evening fell,
Till the convent tower sent deeply forth
One moment-and that solemn sound
But a sterner echo pass'd around;
The startled monks throng'd up,
The peasant heard the sound,
As he sat beside his hearth;
And the song and the dance were hush'd around, With the fireside tale of mirth.
The chieftain shook in his banner'd hall,
As the sound of fear drew nigh;
And the warder shrank from the castle wall,
Wo-wo-to the stranger then;
At the feast and flow of wine,
For the waken'd pride of an injured land
From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band;
Wo!-wo!-to the sons of Gaul!
Proud beings fell that hour,
With the young and passing fair,
And the flame went up from dome and tower;
The stranger priest at the altar stood,
Wo!-wo! to the sons of Gaul;
They were gather'd darkly, one and all,