« السابقةمتابعة »
CHARLES WEST THOMPSON.*
THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST.
THE road of life is but a game,
And make a proper deal.
Some men assume the part of trade,
While some to wealth incline,
The diamond of the mine.
In clubs some take an active part-
With eager zeal pursue;
And, given to wine, their ruin prove,
Their disappointment rue.
All have their different parts assign'd,
Each on the one below him leans-
The very ace of trumps.
Some men will shuffle through their day, Unmindful how their partners play;
Unmoved they seem to stand,
And throw their cards with a most bold
The daring spirits take the lead,
A heart had gain'd the rub.
"Tis only he, who, void of guile,
And tells his heart the same
Author of "The Sylph, and Other Poems," Philadelphia.
O WAVE that glidest swiftly
While coldly on thy shore
Or dost thou weep, O river,
And is this bounding wave
Or, if they must be shed,
Where bounds a brighter wave, But our pleasures, with his troubles, Are buried in the grave.
THE BURIAL OF THE WITIILACOCHEE. HOLLOW ye the lonely grave,
Make its caverns deep and wide; In the soil they died to save
Lay the brave men side by side. Side by side they fought and fell,
Hand to hand they met the foe; Who has heard his grandsire tell Braver strife or deadlier blow! Wake no mournful harmonies,
Shed no earthly tear for them; Summer dew and sighing breeze Shall be wail and requiem. Pile the grave-mound broad and high, Where the martyr'd brethren sleep; It shall point the pilgrim's eye
Here to bend-but not to weep. Not to weep! O, no! the grief Springing from a blow like this, May not seek a fond relief
In the drops that mothers kiss. But the kindling heart shall bear Hence the lesson stern and high With as proud a flame to dare
With as calm a throb to die.
Judge CHARLTON, of Georgia. A volume of his poems was published in Boston. in 1838.
REVEREND CHARLES W. EVEREST.*
How blest the farmer's simple life!
How pure the joy it yields! Far from the world's tempestuous strife, Free, mid the scented fields! When morning woos, with roseate hue, O'er the far hills away, His footsteps brush the silvery dew,
To greet the welcoming day. When Sol's first beam in glory glows, And blithe the skylark's song, Pleased, to his toil the farmer goes,
With cheerful steps along.
And sunbeams fierce are cast,
To warn the listening train.
His loved ones come in joy to greet,
And claim their sire's caress.
Then, when the evening prayer is said,
And Heaven with praise is blest, How sweet reclines his weary head
On slumber's couch of rest!
Nor deem that fears his dreams alarm, Nor cares, with carking din: Without, his dogs will guard from harm, And all is peace within.
O ye, who run in folly's race,
To win a worthless prize,
Learn, from the simple tale we trace,
Ho! monarch! flush'd with glory's pride!
MINSTREL, SING THAT SONG AGAIN.
MINSTREL, Sing that song again,
Plaintive in its solemn flow;
Loved and cherish'd long ago:
Rises through the vista dim-
At the day's departing hymn!
Floating in its fragrance by;
Of Meriden, Connecticut. Author of "Babylon," &c.
As the witching cadence fell
Soft as spring's departing breath:
Slumbers as the bride of Death! Minstrel, chide thou not my tearsThou hast waked a mournful theme; Memory roves the slumbering years, Like some dear, forgotten dream: Day will come, with joy and gladness— Cares once more will fling their blight; Chide not, then, my spirit's sadnessMinstrel, let me weep to-night!
GEORGE W. PATTEN.*
TO S. T. P.
SHADOWS and clouds are o'er me; Thou art not here, my bride! The billows dash before me
Which bear me from thy side; On lowering waves benighted, Dim sets the weary day; Thou art not here, my plighted, To smile the storm away. Where nymphs of ocean slumber, I strike the measured stave, With wild and mournful number, To charm the wandering wave. Hark to the words of sorrow
Along the fading main! ""Tis night-but will the morrow Restore that smile again?" Mid curtain'd dreams descending, Thy gentle form I trace; Dimly with shadows blending, I gaze upon thy face; Thy voice comes o'er me gladly,
Thy hand is on my brow;
I wake the wave rolls madly
Beneath the ploughing prow!
With passion's murmur'd word, And bid her bless him nightlyHim of the lute and sword. And her, of dreams unclouded, With tongue of lisping tale, Whose eye I left soft shrouded
'Neath slumber's misty veil,When morn at length discloses
The smile I may not see, Bear to her cheek of roses
A father's kiss for me.
A lieutenant in the United States army, formerly of Rhode Island. He is the author of numerous metrica pieces in the periodicals.
MICAH P. FLINT.*
LINES ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.
Ox yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
There is a little infant laid.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
Around the little stranger's grave,
In sounds that seem like sorrow's own,
In all their solemn cadence sweep,
How we whose hearts had hail'd her birth,
Consign'd her to her mother earth!
We heap'd the soft mould on her breast;
Upon her lonely place of rest.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
In one almost too good to die.
But, midst the tears of April showers,
Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd,
MICAH P. FLINT was a son of the late Reverend TIMOTHY FLINT. He was the author of a volume entitled "The Hunter, and other Poems," and of many brief pieces in the magazines.
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.*
THE FREE MIND.
HIGH walls and huge the body may confine, And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design,
And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways: Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control! No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose: Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honey'd fruits and flowers; It visits home, to hear the fireside tale,
Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. "Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star!
THE ARMIES OF THE EVE.
Nor in the golden morning
Its sunny light and smile,
But when the stars are wending
O, then those starry millions
Their streaming banners weave, To marshal on their wildering way The Armies of the Eve:
The dim and shadowy armies
Of our unquiet dreams, Whose footsteps brush the feathery fern And print the sleeping streams.
We meet them in the calmness
Of high and holier climes;
We greet them with the blessed names Of old and happier times.
And, marching in the starlight
Above the sleeping dust,
In beauteous ranks they roam,
Of our eternal home.
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, author of a volume of "Poems," published in 1815, at Boston. The sonnet quoted above was written during his despotic imprisonment for the expression of opinions.
+ Mr. CURRY was formerly associated with Mr. GtLAGHER in the editorship of "The Hesperian," at Cincinnati.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.*
DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill,
The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
The tree you would seek in vain;
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
And of all the boys that were schoolmates then,
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends-yet I hail Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.
MATTHEW C. FIELD.†
THERE's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
In his early day to be pluck'd away,
All the joy that love and affection sheds,
Mr. ENGLISH, of Philadelphia, is best known as an original, forcible, and sometimes humorous, writer of prose.
The late M. C. FIELD, of New Orleans, was a frequent contributor to the southern journals under the signature of "PHAZMA." He died at sea, on a voyage to Boston, for the benefit of his health, November 15, 1841, aged thirty-two years.
And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads
He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough,
While the eyes of the night are weeping.
Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone,
We were early friends-oh, time still tends
In the old churchyard we have wandered oft,
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
And we wonder'd then, if, when we were men, Aught in life could our fond thoughts smother; But alas! again-we dream'd not when
Death should tear us from each other.
On the very spot where the stone now stands, We have sat in the shade of the willow, With a life-warm clasp of each other's hands, And this breast has been his pillow.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!
Now poor Tom lies cold in the churchyard old,
There's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
In his early day to be pluck'd away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him, And naught but the light of a gladdening ray Beam'd out on the road before him. Poor Tom!
TO MY SHADOW.
SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men,
Light calls you forth, yet, lying at my feet,
THESE lovely shores! how lone and still
A hundred years ago,
The unbroken forest stood above,
The waters dash'd below:
The waters of a lonely sea,
Where never sail was furl'd,
A hundred years! go back; and lo!
His prow is westward set
The lonely bird, that picks his food
Where rise the waves, and sink,
At their strange coming, with shrill scream,
And the savage from his covert looks,
A hundred years are past and gone,
Below, as o'er its ocean breadth
I look around to where the sky
This kingdom-all is mine.
This bending heaven, these floating clouds, Waters that ever roll,
And wilderness of glory, bring
Their offerings to my soul.
My palace, built by Gon's own hand,
Pillar'd and roof'd with green.
My festal lamps are stars.
Though when in this, my lonely home,
I hear no fond “good-night”—think not
O, no! I see my father's house,
The hill, the tree, the stream,
And in these solitary haunts,
I feel His presence in these shades,
JOHN M. HARNEY, M.D.
ON A FRIEND.
DEVOUT, yet cheerful; pious, not austere;
That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt,
If faults he has, (as man, 'tis said, must have,)
I flatter not absurd to flatter where
* Doctor HARNEY, I believe, was a native of Kentucky. His principal poetical work, "Crystalina, a Fairy Tale," was published in New York in 1816. He was the author of several other poems, the best known of which is "The Fever Dream."