AN INDIAN MARCH. BENEATH tall branches, gray with eld Their labyrinthine course they held, While well the hindmost of the line, From view conceal'd betraying sign; Sending keen glances in the rear, Lifting bow'd herb and grassy spear, Or, doubling, when the oozy ground Yielded beneath the slightest foot, Like hunted foxes when the hound And hunter are in hot pursuit. The red-breast perch'd in arbour green, Sad minstrel of the quiet scene, While hymning, for the dying sun, Strains like a broken-hearted one, Raised not her mottled wing to fly, As swept those silent warriors by; The woodcock, in his moist retreat, Heard not the falling of their feet; On his dark roost the gray owl slept; Time with his drum the partridge kept; Nor left the deer his watering-place, So hush'd, so noiseless was their pace. A DESERTED HALL. UNDER the neglected arbour Near the ruin is a river, And the waves while flowing on, THE ERRAND OF WAN-NUT-HAY. TREADING upon the grassy sod Before her darkly lay: The grizzly wolf was on the tramp To gain the covert of his lair; Fierce eyes glared on her from the swamp, As if they ask'd her errand there; The feather'd hermit of the dell, Flew, hooting, to his oaken cell; And grape-vines, tied in leafy coil To gray-arm'd giants of the soil, Swung, like a vessel's loosen'd shrouds, Drifting beneath a bank of clouds. From the pine's huge and quaking cone Came sobbing and unearthly tone, While trunks decay'd, of measure vast, Fought for the last time with the blast, And near her fell with crashing roar, That shook the cumber'd forest floor. A FLORIDIAN SCENE. WHERE Pablo to the broad St. John His dark and briny tribute pays, The wild deer leads her dappled fawn, Of graceful limb and timid gaze; Rich sunshine falls on wave and land, The gull is screaming overhead, And on a beach of whiten'd sand Lie wreathy shells with lips of red. The jessamine hangs golden flowers On ancient oaks in moss array'd, And proudly the palmetto towers, While mock-birds warble in the shade; Mounds, built by mortal hand, are near, Green from the summit to the base, Is now a ruin, wild and lone, Who hurl'd defiance there to France, While the bright waters of St. John Reflected flash of sword and lance. But when the light of dying day Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time And the wan features of decay Wear soften'd beauty, like the clime, My fancy summons from the shroud The knights of old Castile again, And charging thousands shout aloud"St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!" When mystic voices, on the breeze That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, The spirits of the Yemassees, Who ruled the land of yore, seem nigh; For mournful marks, around where stood Their palm-roof'd lodges, yet are seen, And in the shadows of the wood Their tall, funereal mounds are green. An old Spanish fort. ISAAC MCLELLAN, JR. [Born about 1810.] MR. MCLELLAN is a native of the city of Portland. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine, where he was graduated in 1826. He subsequently studied the law, and for a few years practised his profession in Boston. He has recently resided in the country, and devoted his attention principally to agricultural pursuits. In the spring of 1830 he published "The Fall of the Indian;" in 1832, "The Year, and other Poems;" and in 1844 a third volume, comprising his later miscellaneous pieces in verse. His best compositions are lyrical. NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every hill they lie; On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle pour'd Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well. Then glory to that valiant band, O, few and weak their numbers were- But to their Gon they gave their prayer, To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo, And where are ye, O fearless men? And where are ye to-day? I call the hills reply again That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The bugle's wild and warlike blast The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, From their old graves shall rouse them not, THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.* WILD was the night; yet a wilder night The few that his stern heart cherish'd; They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dream'd of days when the nations shook, He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams He led again, in his dying dreams, Again Marengo's field was won, Made pale at his cannons' rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, In the rocky land they placed his clay, "The 5th of May came amid wind and rain. Na POLEON's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. The words 'tête d'armée,' (head of the army,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heady fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, NAPOLEON expired." -SCOTT's Life of Napoleon. THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. WELL do I love those various harmonies That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the summer-time, And in red autumn's ancient solitudes. If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down With any of the ills of human life; If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. In the last days of autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge. Lone whip-poor-will, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green, roving linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot, Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock, Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear LINES, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darken'd woods-the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green And lofty by the river's sedgy brink, And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar Of peace in some green paradise like this. The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods:-the raging sword Hath never gather'd its red harvest here! JONES VERY. [Born about 1810.] JONES VERY is a native of the city of Salem. In his youth he accompanied his father, who was a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and he wrote his " Essay on Hamlet" with the more interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After his father's death, he prepared himself to enter college, and in 1832 became a student at Cambridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the same year was appointed Greek tutor in the university. While he held this office, a religious enthusiasm took possession of his mind, which gradually produced so great a change in him, that his friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the poems in the small collection of his writings published in 1839. His essays entitled "Epic Poetry," "Shakspeare," and "Hamlet," are fine specimens of learned and sympathetic criticism; and his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, simple, and poetical, though they have little range of subjects and illustration. They are religious, and some of them are mystical, but they will be recognised by the true poet as the overflowings of a brother's soul. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BRIGHT image of the early years When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. The morning's blush, she made it thine, The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee; I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, With look of anger, leaps again, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; There shalt thou live and wake the glee LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE. POET's hand has placed thee there, Though no human pen has traced Not alone dim autumn's blast Voices sweet of summer-hours, THE HEART. THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink, think, Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows; But ever bright its crystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure. And bless the cup that cheers their fainting sou While through this parching waste they seek their heavenly goal. TO THE CANARY-BIRD. I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears, Who make of thy lost liberty a gain; And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears Feel not that every note is born with pain. Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng, Past days of joy should through thy memory And each to thee their words of sorrow tell, While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song. The heart that on the past and future feeds, And pours in human words its thoughts divine, Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, Its song may charm the listening ear like thine, And men with gilded cage and praise will try To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky. THY BEAUTY FADES. Tur beauty fades, and with it too my love, For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower; Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour; And I had thought forever by thy side With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell; But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide, And every hope's wan look a grief can tell : For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway, Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all, Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay, With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall, And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies. From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death THE WIND-FLOWER. Thor lookest up with meek, confiding eye A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind. ENOCH. I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with God, MORNING. THE light will never open sightless eyes, It comes to those who willingly would see; And every object,—hill, and stream, and skies, Rejoice within the encircling line to be; "Tis day,-the field is fill'd with busy hands, The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, The traveller with his staff already stands His yet unmeasured journey to begin; The light breaks gently too within the breast,Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,-it is no day To those who find on earth their place to stay. NIGHT. I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labours of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep. THE SPIRIT-LAND. FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd; In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewilder'd falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. THE TREES OF LIFE. For those who worship THEE there is no death, For all they do is but with THEE to dwell; Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath, It is but of THY glorious name to tell; Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, But in them both my soul doth ever flow; They come as viewless as the unseen wind, And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go; The trees that grow along thy living stream, And from its springs refreshment ever drink, Forever glittering in thy morning beam, They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink; And as more high and wide their branches grow, They look more fair within the depths below. |