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Enamell'd fields of green, where herding kine
Crop the wet grass, or in the shade recline;
The tapping woodbird, and the minstrel bee,
The squirrel racing on his moss-grown tree,
With clouds of pleasant dreams, demand in vain
Creative thought to give them life again.

I turn where, glancing down, the eye surveys
Art building up the wreck of other days;
For graves of silent tribes upheave the sod,
And Science smiles where savage PHILIP trod;
Where wing'd the poison'd shaft along the skies,
The hammer rings, the noisy shuttle flies;
Impervious forests bow before the blade,
And fields rise up in yellow robes array'd.
No lordly palace nor imperial seat

Grasps the glad soil where freemen plant their feet;

No ruin'd castle here with ivy waves,
To make us blush for ancestry of slaves;
But, lo! unnumber'd dwellings meet the eye,
Where men lie down in native majesty :
The morning birds spring from their leafy bed,
As the stern ploughman quits his happy shed;
His arm is steel'd to toil-his heart to bear
The robe of pain, that mortals always wear;
Though wealth may never come, a plenteous board
Smiles at the pamper'd rich man's joyless hoard;
True, when among his sires, no gilded heir
Shall play the fool, and damn himself to care,
But Industry and Knowledge lead the way,
Where Independence braves the roughest day.
Nurse of my country's infancy, her stay
In youthful trials and in danger's day;
Diffusive Education! 'tis to thee

She owes her mountain-breath of Liberty;
To thee she looks, through time's illusive gloom,
To light her path, and shield her from the tomb;
Beneath thine Ægis tyranny shall fail,
Before thy frown the traitor's heart shall quail;
Ambitious foes to liberty may wear

A patriot mask, to compass what they dare,
And sting the thoughtless nation, while they smile
Benignantly and modestly the while;
But thou shalt rend the virtuous-seeming guise,
And guard her from the worst of enemies.
Eternal Power! whose tempted thunder sleeps,
While heaven-eyed Mercy turns away and weeps;
Thou who didst lead our fathers where to send
Their free devotions to their God and friend;
Thou who hast swept a wilderness away,
That men may walk in freedom's cloudless day;
Guard well their trust, lest impious faction dare
Unlock the chain that binds our birthright fair;
That private views to public good may yield,
And honest men stand fearless in the field!
Once more I turn to thee, fair Nashaway!
The farewell tribute of my humble lay;
The time may come, when lofty notes shall bear
Thy peerless beauty to the gladden'd air;
Now to the lyre no daring hand aspires,
And rust grows cankering on its tuneless wires.

Our lays are like the fitful streams that flow From careless birds, that carol as they go; Content, beneath the mountain-top to sing, And only touch Castalia with a wing.

ANNE BOLEYN.

I WEEP While gazing on thy modest face,
Thou pictured history of woman's love!
Joy spreads his burning pinions on thy cheek,
Shaming its whiteness; and thine eyes are full
Of conscious beauty, as they undulate.
Yet all thy beauty, poor, deluded girl!
Served but to light thy ruin.-Is there not,
Kind Heaven! some secret talisman of hearts,
Whereby to find a resting-place for love?
Unhappy maiden! let thy story teach

The beautiful and young, that while their path
Softens with roses,-danger may be there;
That Love may watch the bubbles of the stream,
But never trust his image on the wave.

SUNRISE,

FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.

THE laughing hours have chased away the night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem :And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, Attendant on the day-the mountain-tops Have lit their beacons, and the vales below Send up a welcoming;-no song of birds, Warbling to charm the air with melody, Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks! The sunshine and the shade of poetry.

I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, Temple of Nature! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued; Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer-now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light, Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending, Questions the eye with ever-varying forms.

The sun comes up! away the shadows fling From the broad hills-and, hurrying to the west, Sport in the sunshine, till they die away. The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down, Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light Dances along with their perennial flow. And there is beauty in yon river's path, The glad Connecticut! I know her well, By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms: At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills, Sportfully hiding-then again with glee Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place. Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves, And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes and woods, And all that hold the faculty entranced,

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THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight;
I know her track through the balmy air,

By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn,
I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and round her flings
A shower of light from her crimson wings;
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstasy.

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,
Where bowering elms over waters meet;
She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip,
As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.

At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy,
And round the skirts of their deepen'd fold
She paints a border of purple and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has passed away.

She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream;
Then wheeling her flight through the gladden'd air,
The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere.

LOVE UNCHANGEABLE.

YES! still I love thee :-Time, who sets
His signet on my brow,
And dims my sunken eye, forgets

The heart he could not bow;Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas! that little knows

How love may sometimes last;
Like sunshine wasting in the skies,
When clouds are overcast.

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose,
Within its robe of light,

Can never touch a leaf that blows,

Though seeming to the sight;
And yet it still will linger there,
Like hopeless love without despair,-
A snow-drop in the sun!

A moment finely exquisite,
Alas! but only one.

I would not have thy married heart
Think momently of me,—

Nor would I tear the cords apart,

That bind me so to thee;

No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild,
Like dew upon the roses wild,

I would not have thee know,
The stream that seems to thee so still,
Has such a tide below!

Enough! that in delicious dreams

I see thee and forget-

Enough, that when the morning beams,

I feel my eyelids wet!

Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall The darkness, for creation's pall,

To meet thee,-and to love,-

I would not shrink from aught below, Nor ask for more above.

EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE."

I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell,
To gather flowers and food for afterthought,
As bees draw honey from the rose's cell,

To hive among the treasures they have wrought;
And there a cottage from a sylvan screen
Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green.

Around that hermit-home of quietude,
The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air,
And nothing ever ventured to intrude,

But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there,
Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew
Humming away to drink the morning dew.
Around the door the honeysuckle climbed,

And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed

Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell. Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood,

That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the

brink.

The green earth heaved her giant waves around,
Where through the mountain vista one vast
height
[bound
Tower'd heavenward without peer, his forehead
With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light,
While far below, the lake, in bridal rest,
Slept with his glorious picture on her breast.

EDMUND D. GRIFFIN.

[Born, 1804. Died, 1830.]

EDMUND DORR GRIFFIN was born in the celebrated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on the tenth day of September, 1804. During his infancy his parents removed to New York, but on account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was educated, until he was twelve years old, at various schools in the country. He entered Columbia College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the highest rank in the successive classes. During this period most of his Latin and English poems were composed. He was admitted to deacon's orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY.

"Deh! fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte."-FILICAIA.

WOULD that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,
Land of the orange grove and myrtle bower!
To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air,
Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power;
To look upon whose mountains in the hour
When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil
Of purple flows around them, would restore

The sense of beauty when all else might fail.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men! Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, The yellow harvests loads the scarce till'd plain. Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon

From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading

soon,

E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care

Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone, Infused in music, now constrains the soul With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. And now with passionate throbs that spurn conWould that thou wert less fair, at least more strong,

Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean!

after spending two years in the active discharge of the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, England, and Scotland, and returned to New York in the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an associate professor in Columbia College, but resigned the office after a few months, in consequence of ill health, and closed a life of successful devotion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on the first day of September, in the same year. His travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous writings were published in two large octavo volumes, in 1831.

Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, No memory of the brave, of what has been? Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then

That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence: Shades of departed heroes, rise again!

Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence!

O, Italy! my country, fare thee well!

For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me

dwell,

The fathers of my mind? whose fame impress'd E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest

With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest,

Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams? Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost: Too early lost, alas! when once so dear; I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, And urge the feet forbid to linger here. But must I rove by Arno's current clear,

And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, And wander on the mount, now waste and drear, Where CESAR's palace in its glory stood;

And see again Parthenope's loved bay,

And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay

That floats by night through Venice-never Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar- [more? It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee. Fare-fare thee well once more. I love thee not As other things inanimate. Thou art The cherish'd mistress of my youth; forgot Thou never canst be while I have a heart. Launch'd on those waters, wild with storm and wind, I know not, ask not, what may be my lot; For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought.

DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS.

THOUGH old in cunning, as in years,
He is so small, that like a child
In face and form, the god appears,

And sportive like a boy, and wild;
Lightly he moves from place to place,
In none at rest, in none content;
Delighted some new toy to chase-
On childish purpose ever bent.
Beware! to childhood's spirit gay

Is added more than childhood's power; And you perchance may rue the hour That saw you join his seeming play.

He quick is anger'd, and as quick

His short-lived passion's over past,
Like summer lightnings, flashing thick,
But flying ere a bolt is cast.
I've seen, myself, as 't were together,
Now joy, now grief assume its place,
Shedding a sort of April weather,

Sunshine and rain upon his face.
His curling hair floats on the wind,
Like Fortune's, long and thick before,
And rich and bright as golden ore:
Like hers, his head is bald behind.

His ruddy face is strangely bright,
It is the very hue of fire,
The inward spirit's quenchless light,
The glow of many a soft desire.
He hides his eye that keenly flashes,

But sometimes steals a thrilling glance
From 'neath his drooping silken lashes,

And sometimes looks with eye askance;
But seldom ventures he to gaze

With looks direct and open eye;
For well he knows-the urchin sly-
But one such look his guile betrays.

His tongue, that seems to have left just then
His mother's breast, discourses sweet,

And forms his lisping infant strain

In words scarce utter'd, half-complete; Yet, wafted on a winged sigh,

And led by Flattery, gentle guide, Unseen into the heart they fly,

Its coldness melt, and tame its pride.
In smiles that hide intended wo,

His ruddy lips are always dress'd,
As flowers conceal the listening crest
Of the coil'd snake that lurks below.
In carriage courteous, meek, and mild,

Humble in speech, and soft in look,
He seems a wandering orphan child,
And asks a shelter in some nook
Or corner left unoccupied :

But, once admitted as a guest,
By slow degrees he lays aside

That lowly port and look distress'dThen insolent assumes his reign,

Displays his captious, high-bred airs, His causeless pets and jealous fears, His fickle fancy and unquiet brain.

EMBLEMS.

YON rose, that bows her graceful head to hail The welcome visitant that brings the morn, And spreads her leaves to gather from the gale The coolness on its early pinions borne, Listing the music of its whisper'd tale,

And giving stores of perfume in returnThough fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide; Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride. Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high, Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes, And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky,

Daring the thunder that its height provokes, And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh,

[storm,

From noonday heats to guard the weary flocksThough strong he seem, must dread the bursting And e'en the malice of the feeble worm. The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, Gliding majestic on her silent way,

And sends her silvery beam serenely down, 'Mong waving boughs and frolic leaves to play, To sleep upon the bank with moss o'ergrown,

Or on the clear waves, clearer far than theySeems purity itself; but if again

We look, and closely, we perceive a stain.

Fit emblems all, of those unworthy joys

On which our passions and our hopes dilate: We wound ourselves to seize on Pleasure's toys, Nor see their worthlessness until too late; And Power, with all its pomp and all its noise, Meets oft a sudden and a hapless fate; And Fame of gentle deeds and daring high, Is often stain'd by blots of foulest dye. Where then shall man, by his Creator's hand Gifted with feelings that must have an aim, Aspiring thoughts and hopes, a countless band; Affections glowing with a quenchless flame, And passions, too, in dread array that stand, To aid his virtue or to stamp his shame: Where shall he fix a soul thus form'd and given? Fix it on God, and it shall rise to Heaven.

TO A LADY.

LIKE target for the arrow's aim,

Like snow beneath the sunny heats, Like wax before the glowing flame,

Like cloud before the wind that fleets, I am 't is love that made me so, And, lady, still thou sayst me no. The wound's inflicted by thine eyes,

The mortal wound to hope and me, Which naught, alas, can cicatrize,

Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind, That make me such; ah, then be kind! My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite; Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense, My wishes-ne'er did passion light

A flame more pure or more intense. Love all these arms at once employs, And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys.

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THE VISION OF DEATH.

THE moon was high in the autumn sky,
The stars waned cold and dim,
Where hoarsely the mighty Oregon
Peals his eternal hymn;

And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads
Far over the river's brim.

An impulse I might not defy,

Constrain'd my footsteps there,

When through the gloom a red eye burn'd
With fix'd and steady glare;
And a huge, misshapen form of mist
Loom'd in the midnight air.

Then out it spake: "My name is Death!"
Thick grew my blood, and chill-

A sense of fear weigh'd down my breath,
And held my pulses still;

And a voice from that unnatural shade
Compell'd me to its will.

66

Dig me a grave! dig me a grave!"
The gloomy monster said,

"And make it deep, and long, and wide,

And bury me my dead."

A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet,
And rusted mattock laid.

With trembling hand the tool I spann'd,
"T was wet with blood, and cold,
And from its slimy handle hung

The gray and ropy mould;

And I sought to detach my stiffen'd grasp,
But could not loose my hold.

"Now cautiously turn up the sod;
Gon's image once it bore,

And time shall be when each small blade
To life He will restore,
And the separate particles shall take
The shape which first they wore."
Deeply my spade the soft earth pierced,
It touch'd the festering dead;
Tier above tier the corpses lay,

As leaves in autumn shed;

The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings,
And scream'd, above my head.

O, then I sought to rest my brow,
The spade I held, its prop;

"Toil on! toil on!" scream'd the ugly fiend, "My servants never stop!

Toil on! toil on! at the judgment-day
Ye'll have a glorious crop !"

Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes,
"T was horrible to see

How the grave made bare her secret work,
And disclosed her depths to me;

While the ground beneath me heaved and roll'd
Like the billows of the sea.

The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth-
"Ye like not this, I trow:

Six thousand years your fellow-man
Has counted me his foe,
And ever when he cursed I laugh'd,
And drew my fatal bow.
"And generations all untold

In this dark spot I've laid—
The forest ruler and the young

And tender Indian maid;
And moulders with their carcasses
Behemoth of the glade.

"Yet here they may no more remain ;
I fain would have this room:
And they must seek another rest,

Of deeper, lonelier gloom;
Long ages since I mark'd this spot
To be the white man's tomb.
"Already his coming steps I hear,

From the east's remotest line,
While over his advancing hosts

The forward banners shine:
And where he builds his cities and towns,
I ever must build mine."

Anon a pale and silvery mist

Was girdled round the moon:

Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes,
On midnight's solemn noon.
"Ha!" mutter'd the mocking sprite, "I fear
We've waken'd them too soon!

"Now marshal all the numerous host

In one concentred band,

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