صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني
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It brings my soul of many a parted year.

Again, yet once again,

O minstrel of the main !

Lo! festal face and form familiar throng Unto my waking eye;

And voices of the sky

Sing from these walls of death unwonted song.

Nay, cease not—I would call,
Thus, from the silent hall

Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:

Beam on me yet once more,

Ye blessed eyes of yore,

Startling life-blood through all my being cold.

Ah! cease not-phantoms fair
Fill thick the dungeon's air;

They wave me from its gloom-I fly—I stand
Again upon that spot,

Which ne'er hath been forgot

In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!

There, on each noon-bright hill,

By fount and flashing rill,

Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade; There gleam'd the sunset's fire,

On the tall taper spire,

And windows low, along the upland glade.

Sing, sing!-I do not dream

It is my own blue stream,

Far, far below, amid the balmy vale;-
I know it by the hedge

Of rose-trees at its edge,

Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:

There, there, mid clustering leaves,
Glimmer my father's eaves,

And the worn threshold of my youth beneath;-
I know them by the moss,
And the old elms that toss


Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray

Sing, sing!-I am not mad-
Sing! that the visions glad


May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but

*BENJAMIN B. THATCHER, author of "Indian Biography," ," "Indian Traits," and numerous contributions to our periodical literature, died in Boston on the 14th of July, 1840, in the thirty-second year of his age. He was a native of Maine, and was educated at Bowdoin College, in that state.

+ One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned from his youth, and was said to be occasionally insane in consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper told me) but that of a beautiful tamed bird. Of what name or clime it was, I know not-only that he called it fondly, his dove, and seemed never happy but when it sang to him.-MS. of a Tour through France.

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LOOK, white man, well on all around,
These hoary oaks, those boundless plains;
Tread lightly; this is holy ground:

Here Thunder, awful spirit! reigns.
Look on those waters far below,

So deep beneath the prairie sleeping, The summer sun's meridian glow

Scarce warms the sands their waves are heaping; And scarce the bitter blast can blow

In winter on their icy cover;
The Wind Sprite may not stoop so low,
But bows his head and passes over.
Perch'd on the top of yonder pine,
The heron's billow-searching eye
Can scarce his finny prey desery,
Glad leaping where their colours shine.
Those lakes, whose shores but now we trod,
Scars deeply on earth's bosom dinted,

Are the strong impress of a god,

By Thunder's giant foot imprinted. Nay, stranger, as I live, 'tis truth!

The lips of those who never lied,
Repeat it daily to our youth.

Famed heroes, erst my nation's pride,
Beheld the wonder; and our sages
Gave down the tale to after ages.
Dost not believe though blooming fair

The flowerets court the breezes coy,
Though now the sweet-grass scents the air,
And sunny nature basks in joy,

It is not ever so.

Come when the lightning flashes,
Come when the forest crashes,

When shrieks of pain and wo
Break on thine ear-drum thick and fast,
From ghosts that shiver in the blast;
Then shalt thou know and bend the knee
Before the angry deity.

But now attend, while I unfold

The lore my brave forefathers taught: As yet the storm, the heat, the cold, The changing seasons had not brought, Famine was not; each tree and grot Grew greener for the rain; The wanton doe, the buffalo,

Blithe bounded on the plain.

* WILLIAM J. SNELLING, author of "Truth," a satire, and for many years a writer for the journals, died in Boston, in 1849.

Twenty-eight miles from the Big Stone Lake, near the sources of the St. Peter's River, is a cluster of small lakes or ponds, lying much below the level of the surrounding prairie, and ornamented with an oak wood. The Dahcotahs cal. this place The Nest of Thunder, and say that here Thunder was born. As soon as the infant spirit could go alone, he set out to see the world, and, at the first step, placed his foot upon a hill twenty-five miles distant; a rock on the top of which actually seems to bear the print of a gigantic human foot. The Indians call the hill Thunder's Tracks. The Nest of Thunder is, to this day, visited by the being whose birth it witnessed. He comes clad in a mantle of storms, and lightnings play round his head.

In mirth did man the hours employ
Of that eternal spring;

With song and dance, and shouts of joy,
Did hill and valley ring.

No death-shot peal'd upon the ear,
No painted warrior poised the spear,
No stake-doom'd captive shook for fear;
No arrow left the string,

Save when the wolf to earth was borne;
From foeman's head no scalp was torn;
Nor did the pangs of hate and scorn

The red man's bosom wring. Then waving fields of yellow corn Did our bless'd villages adorn.

Alas! that man will never learn
His good from evil to discern.
At length, by furious passions driven,
The Indian left his babes and wife,
And every blessing Gon has given,

To mingle in the deadly strife.
Fierce Wrath and haggard Envy soon
Achieved the work that War begun;
He left, unsought, the beast of chase,
And prey'd upon his kindred race.
But HE who rules the earth and skies,
Who watches every bolt that flies;
From whom all gifts, all blessings flow,
With grief beheld the scene below.
He wept; and, as the balmy shower
Refreshing to the ground descended,
Each drop gave being to a flower,

And all the hills in homage bended. "Alas!" the good Great Spirit said, Man merits not the climes I gave; Where'er a hillock rears its head,

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He digs his brother's timeless grave:
To every crystal rill of water,
He gives the crimson stain of slaughter.
No more for him my brow shall wear

A constant, glad, approving smile;
Ah, no! my eyes must withering glare

On bloody hands and deeds of guile. Henceforth shall my lost children know The piercing wind, the blinding snow; The storm shall drench, the sun shall burn, The winter freeze them, each in turn. Henceforth their feeble frames shall feel A climate like their hearts of steel."

The moon that night withheld her light.
By fits, instead, a lurid glare
Illumed the skies; while mortal eyes
Were closed, and voices rose in prayer.
While the revolving sun

Three times his course might run,
The dreadful darkness lasted.
And all that time the red man's eye
A sleeping spirit might espy,
Upon a tree-top cradled high,

Whose trunk his breath had blasted. So long he slept, he grew so fast,

Beneath his weight the gnarled oak Snapp'd, as the tempest snaps the mast. It fell, and Thunder woke!

The world to its foundation shook,
The grisly bear his prey forsook,
The scowling heaven an aspect bore
That man had never seen before;
The wolf in terror fled away,
And shone at last the light of day.

'Twas here he stood; these lakes attest

Where first WAW-KEE-AN's footsteps press'd.
About his burning brow a cloud,

Black as the raven's wing, he wore;
Thick tempests wrapt him like a shroud,
Red lightnings in his hand he bore;
Like two bright suns his eyeballs shone,
His voice was like the cannon's tone;
And, where he breathed, the land became,
Prairie and wood, one sheet of flame.
Not long upon this mountain height
The first and worst of storms abode,
For, moving in his fearful might,

Abroad the GoD-begotten strode.
Afar, on yonder faint blue mound,
In the horizon's utmost bound,
At the first stride his foot he set;
The jarring world confess'd the shock.
Stranger! the track of Thunder yet

Remains upon the living rock.

The second step, he gain'd the sand
On far Superior's storm-beat strand :
Then with his shout the concave rung,
As up to heaven the giant sprung

On high, beside his sire to dwell;
But still, of all the spots on earth,

He loves the woods that gave him birth.-
Such is the tale our fathers tell.



WHEN on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptured still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life,
I glory in the sacred ties,
Which modern wits and fools despise,

Of husband and of wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
The tender look, the melting kiss,

Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloy'd.

Have I a wish?-'tis all for thee.
Hast thou a wish?-'tis all for me.

So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleased to see our happy days,
And bid us live-and love.

LINDLEY MURRAY, author of the "English Grammar," and other works, was a native of New York, though the greater portion of his life was passed in England.

If cares arise-and cares will comeThy bosom is my softest home,

I'll lull me there to rest; And is there aught disturbs my fair? I'll bid her sigh out every care,

And lose it in my breast. Have I a wish?'t is all her own; All hers and mine are roll'd in one,

Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity,

"Tis death to be disjoin'd.



O! FOR my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,
On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.
The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,

While flow'd its sparkling waters fair,
And went upon his pathway proud,

And threw a brighter lustre there; And smiled upon the golden heaven,

And on the earth's sweet loveliness, Where light, and joy, and song were given, The glad and fairy scene to bless! Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream, To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers,

While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to Heaven above,

While glow'd his fond and grateful breast, Who spread for him that scene of love, And made him so supremely blest! That scene of love!-where hath it gone? Where have its charms and beauty sped? My hours of youth, that o'er me shone, Where have their light and splendour fled? Into the silent lapse of years,

And I am left on earth to mourn; And I am left to drop my tears

O'er memory's lone and icy urn!
Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,

I shall be gather'd in my pall;
O, my dark hours on earth are few—
My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;
And I shall soon bid life adieu,

To seek enduring joys in heaven!

*Mr. SUTERMEISTER was born in Curaçoa, in the West Indies, and came to New York with his parents, when about four years old. He wrote many brief poems while a law student, but no collection of his writings has been published. He died in 1836, in the twenty-third year of his age.

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These add a bouquet to my wine!
These add a sparkle to my pine!
If these I tine,

Can books, or fire, or wine be good!



Mr wife! how calmly sleepest thou!
A perfect peace is on thy brow:
Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid,
Like stars behind a cloud, are hid;
Thy voice is mute, and not a sound
Disturbs the tranquil air around:
I'll watch, and mark each line of grace
That God hath drawn upon thy face.
My wife! thy breath is low and soft;
To catch its sound I listen oft;
The lightest leaf of Persian rose
Upon thy lips might find repose;—
So deep thy slumber, that I press'd
My trembling hand upon thy breast,
In sudden fear that envious death
Had robb'd thee, sleeping, of thy breath.
My wife! my wife! thy face now seems
To show the tenor of thy dreams:-
Methinks thy gentle spirit plays
Amid the scenes of earlier days;

Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him
Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim
And shadowy future strive to pry,
With woman's curious, earnest eye.
Sleep on! sleep on! my dreaming wife!
Thou livest now another life,
With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth;—
I will not call thee back to earth;
Sleep on, until the car of morn
Above the eastern hills is borne;
Then thou wilt wake again, and bless
My sight with living loveliness.

THERE are to me no hymns more sweet
Than those my mother sung,
When joyously around her feet
Her little children clung.
The babe upon his pillow slept-

My mother sang the while;-
What wonder if there softly crept

Across his lips a smile?

And I, a sick and pensive boy,

Oppressed with many pains,-
Oft felt my bosom thrill with joy
Beneath her soothing strains.
The stealing tear mine eye bedims,
My heart is running o'er,-
The music of a mother's hymns
Shall comfort me no more!

*Mr. MACKELLAR was born in New York in 1812, and is now a partner in the extensive stereotyping house of L. JOHNSON and Co., of Philadelphia. He is the author of "Droppings from the Heart," a collection of poems, per vaded by a spirit of piety and hopefulness, published in 1844, and "Tam's Fortnight Ramble," in 1848.





"Tis not a flower of instant growth, But from an unsuspected germ That lay within the hearts of both,

Assumes its everlasting form. As daisy-buds among the grass

With the same green do silent grow, Nor maids nor boys that laughing pass Can tell if they be flowers or noTill on some genial morn in May Their timid, modest leaflets rise, Disclosing beauties to the day

That strike the gazer with surprise : So soft, so sweet, so mild, so holy, So cheerful in obscurest shade, So unpretending, meek, and lowly,

And yet the pride of each green glade : So love doth spring, so love doth grow, If it be such as never dies: The bud just opens here below

The flower blooms on in paradise.



SPEAK gently: it is better far

To rule by love than fear-
Speak gently let not harsh words mar
The good we might do here.
Speak gently: Love doth whisper low
The vows that true hearts bind;
And gently Friendship's accents flow;
Affection's voice is kind.
Speak gently to the little child:

Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild-
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young for they

Will have enough to bear;
Pass through life as best they may,

"Tis full of anxious care. Speak gently to the aged one:

Grieve not the careworn heart;
The sands of life are nearly run-
Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor:
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word.

* See "Prose Writers of America" for a reviewal of Dr. CHEEVER'S prose writings. His poems are, for the most part, graceful expressions of elevated religious and social feeling.

Mr. BATES passed his earlier life at Indianapolis, in Indiana, but he has resided several years in Philadelphia, in the occupation of a broker. He published in that city, in 1849, a volume of poems entitled "The Eolian."

Speak gently to the erring: know,
They may have toil'd in vain;
Perchance unkindness made them so;
Oh, win them back again!

Speak gently: He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce with strife,
Said to them, "Peace! be still!"
Gentleness is a little thing

Dropp'd in the heart's deep well: The good, the joy which it may bring, Eternity shall tell.



SHE seldom spake; yet she imparted
Far more than language could-
So birdlike, bright, and tender hearted,
So natural and good!

Her air, her look, her rest, her actions,
Were voice enough for her:

Why need a tongue, when those attractions
Our inmost hearts could stir?

She seldom talked; but, uninvited,

Would cheer us with a song;

And oft her hands our ears delighted,

Sweeping the keys along.

And oft, when converse round would languish, Ask'd or unask'd, she read

Some tale of gladness or of anguish,

And so our evenings sped.

She seldom spake; but she would listen
With all the signs of soul;

Her cheek would change, her eye would glisten;
The sigh-the smile-upstole.

Who did not understand and love her,
With meaning thus o'erfraught?
Though silent as the sky above her,
Like that, she kindled thought.

Little she spake; but dear attentions
From her would ceaseless rise;

She check'd our wants by kind preventions,
She hush'd the children's cries;
And, twining, she would give her mother
A long and loving kiss-

The same to father, sister, brother,

All round-nor would one miss.

She seldom spake-she speaks no longer;
She sleeps beneath yon rose;

"Tis well for us that ties no stronger

Awaken memory's woes:

For oh, our hearts would sure be broken,
Already drain'd of tears,

If frequent tones, by her outspoken,
Still linger'd in our ears!

The Rev. SAMUEL GILMAN, D. D., a writer for the earlier volumes of the "North American Review," and the author of "Memoirs of a New England Village Choir," has resided many years in Charleston. His "History of a Ray of Light," "The Silent Girl," and a few other pieces, show that he might have been distinguished as a poet.

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