Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.- And savage men, who through the thickets peer And can ye deem it strange Its early clusters crushed In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host A draught of deadly wine. O, ye who boast In your free veins the blood of sires like these, Lose not their lineaments! Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart—or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core From manly virtue-or the tempting world Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, Turn ye to Plymouth's beach-and on that rock Kneel in their foot prints, and renew the vow They breathed to God. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, All quiet along the Potomac to-night— ETHELIN ELIOT BEERS. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat No rumor of the foe's advance No troubled thought at midnight haunts No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms, Their shivered swords are red with rust, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, She claims from war its richest spoilThe ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. Shines sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! While fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone When many a vanished year hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Can dim one ray of holy light THEODORE O'HARA. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. THE CREOLE LOVER'S SONG. IGHT wind, whispering The palms and the still ald be. The feathery bamboo moves, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl doth to the moon complain The scents that are swooning Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, And steal from the orange groves The breath of a thousand loves, To bear her ere she sleep. Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, And the lone bird's tender song that rings from the The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, ceiba tree; The fire-fly's light and the glow Of the moonlit waters low All things that to-night belong, And can do my love no wrong, Bear her this hour for me. Speed thee, speed thee, wind of the deep, for the cyclone comes in wrath, The distant forests moan: Thou hast but an hour thine own, Ere the hounds of tempest leap, And follow upon thy path. Whisperer, tarry a space, she waits for thee in the She leans from her casement there, And over her mantle white. Spirit of air and fire, to-night my herald be; And fold her ever the nigher, Wind, wind of the Carib sea. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? ་ Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, THE ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode : (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. EXPECTATION, H, never sit we down, and say There's nothing left but sorrow! We walk the wilderness to-day, The promised land to-morrow. And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow, We'll sow the golden grain to-day, And harvest comes to-morrow. Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Triumph and toil are twins; and aye GERALD MASSEY. A PSALM OF LIFE. ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 'Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem." Life is real life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Still achieving, still pursuing, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. HOSE evening bells! those evening bells! And so 'twill be when I am gone— THE MAGICAL ISLE. HERE'S a magical isle in the River of Time, Where softest of echoes are straying ; And the air is as soft as a musical chime, Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime When June with its roses is swaying. 'Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue, And music forever is flowing: While the low-murmured tones that come trembling through Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten, it too, There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle, Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile, Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile, And leave us to know.'tis but dreaming. And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past, cast; There are tresses and ringlets of hair. There are fragments of song only memory sings, Hallowed tokens that love used to wear. E'en the dead-the bright, beautiful dead-there arise, With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold: Though their voices are hushed, and o'er their sweet eyes, The unbroken signet of silence now lies, They are with us again, as of old. In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there, And, with joy that is almost a pain, We delight to turn back, and in wandering there, Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair, We behold our lost treasures again. Oh! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show. And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow, TRUE NOBILITY. "OWE'ER it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good; |