THE

OF
POETRY.

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"Patriæ fumus igne alieno luculentior."
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NEW-YORK.
GEORGE DEARBORN, PUBLISHER,
NO. 38 GOLD STREET.

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1837.

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New-York:
Printed by Scatcherd & Adams,
No. 38 Gold Street.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The work here presented to the Public is compiled from the poetical writings of natives of the State of New-York. The chief object in making the collection was to give 'a local habitation and a name' to fugitive pieces, which, though deemed worthy of being thus preserved, have hitherto been circulated in the newspapers and periodicals solely. It was thought well, however, by way of giving completeness to the work, to embody with the rest specimens of those New-York poets whose writings have been already collected in another shape. The design of executing such a work only suggested itself to the Publisher a fortnight before the last sheet was put to press; and as he was desirous that The New-York Book should appear at the season when the annuals and other similar publications are most in request, those who have aided him in the compilation have perhaps vainly attempted to make up in industry for the want of time. Under the most favourable circumstances, however, it would be idle to attempt making such a collection what it ought to be in a single volume. The field of our Anthology is wider than any casual observer could conceive; and even in thus rapidly exploring it, the sources of so many new specimens have been indicated that it is hoped the reception of this volume will be such as to warrant the Publisher in soon following it up by another of the same character.
38 Gold Street, Dec. 24, 1836.

LIST OF WRITERS.

CONTENTS.

[Transcriber Note:
The following page number errors were corrected in the TOC:
Canzonet - page 301 corrected to 201
Fragment - page 2 corrected to 246
Rhyme & Reason - page 104 corrected to 144
The Mitchella - page 220 corrected to 217 ]

POEMS.

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THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

Ob: 1833, æt. 25.

Many a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a passing, sunny gleam, Many a bright tear in mine eye, Many a wild and wandering dream, Stolen from hours I should have tied To musty volumes by my side, Given to hours that sweetly wooed My heart from its study's solitude.

Oft when the south wind's dancing free Over the earth and in the sky, And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by, When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Over the hills and vales a Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice, Happier than man may ever be, Every fountain hath then a voice That sings of its glad festivity; For it hath burst the chains, that bound Its currents dead in the frozen ground, And flashing away in the sun has gone, Singing, and singing, and singing on.

Autumn hath sunset hours, and then Many a musing mood I cherish, Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween, Hath real sunset never seen, Sad as the faces of friends that die, And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, Visions the mind may not control, Waking as fancy does in sleep The secret transports of the soul, Faces and forms are strangely mingled, Till one by one they're slowly singled, To the voice and lip, and eye of her I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track From the green earth and misty sky, And spring and love I hurry back; Then what a dismal, dreary gloom Settles upon my loathed room, Darker to every thought and sense Than if they had never travelled thence.

Yet, I have other thoughts that cheer The toilsome day, and lonely night, And many a scene and hope appear, And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.

And though I may sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimmed by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil and study and care are mine.

THE SETTLER.

BY A. B. STREET.

His echoing axe the settler swung Amid the sea-like solitude, And rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood; Loud shriek'd the eagle as he dash'd From out his mossy nest, which crash'd With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd On the wolf's haunt below.

Rude was the garb, and strong the frame, Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: To form that garb, the wild-wood game Contributed their spoil; The soul, that warm'd that frame, disdain'd The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd Where men their crowds collect; The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd, This forest tamer deck'd.

The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers, The winds that swell'd their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast—the green arcade, The nestling vale—the grassy glade, Dark cave and swampy lair; These scenes and sounds majestic, made His world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorn'd a pleasant spot, 'Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low—the bleat—the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, The rose of Summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its Autumn fringe, Rude Winter brought his snow; And still the lone one labour'd there, His shout and whistle woke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side.

He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath; He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and sever'd root, Hurl'd whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, The grim bear hush'd his savage growl, In blood and foam the panther gnash'd His fangs, with dying howl; The fleet deer ceas'd its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race! When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who throng'd in Conflict's deadliest place, To fight—to bleed—to die. Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, By hope, through weary years were led, And witness'd York Town's sun Blaze on a Nation's banner spread, A Nation's freedom won.

THE WORST.

BY W. H. VINING.

Ob: 1822, æt. 28.

Oh, I have lived through keenest care, And still may live through more, We know not what the heart can bear, Until the worst be o'er; The worst is not when fears assail, Before the shaft has sped, Nor when we kiss the visage, pale And beautiful, though dead. Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope With danger and distress, The very impulse left by hope Will make despair seem less; Then all is life—acute, intense, The thoughts in tumult tost, So reels the mind with wildered sense, It knows not what is lost. But when that shuddering scene is past, When earth receives her own, And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last The heart is left alone; When all is gone—our hopes and fears All buried in one tomb, And we have dried the source of tears, There comes a settled gloom. Then comes the worst, the undying thought That broods within the breast, Because its loveliest one is not, And what are all the rest?

MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Written at West Point.

I'm not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirred By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing A little music in his soul still lingers Whene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers:

And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?

Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yon Azure fields—Thou who, once earthward bending, Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion On dewy Latmos to his arms descending— Thou whom the world of old on every shore, Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore:

Tell me—where'er thy silver barque be steering, By bright Italian or soft Persian lands, Or o'er those island-studded seas careering, Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands— Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, A lovelier spot than this the wide world over?

Doth Achelöus or Araxes flowing Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers— Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers, The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver, Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no turret gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition here— What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls—

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal, As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd As ever beat beneath a vest of steel, When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day Called forth chivalric host to battle fray:

For here amid these woods did He keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed— He who his country's eagle taught to soar, And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered, Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered, And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story.

And yet not rich in high-souled memories only, Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.

Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night— Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light, Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole— Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting, While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So—could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray— Would I too steal from this dark world away.

ANACREONTIC.

BY A. H. BOGART

Ob: 1826, æt. 22

The flying joy through life we seek For once is ours—the wine we sip Blushes like Beauty's glowing cheek, To meet our eager lip.

Round with the ringing glass once more! Friends of my youth and of my heart— No magic can this hour restore— Then crown it ere we part.

Ye are my friends, my chosen ones— Whose blood would flow with fervour true For me—and free as this wine runs Would mine, by Heaven! for you.

Yet, mark me! When a few short years Have hurried on their journey fleet, Not one that now my accents hears Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain, The startling thought ye scarce will brook, Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, Will soon break youthful friendship's chain— But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile? No—pour the wine again!

ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK.

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time, Ambition, that survives the battle route. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.

Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet— Vanquished and captive—dost thou deem that here— The glowing day star of thy glory set— Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?

For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate, Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late To crush the hordes who have the power, and will, To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.

Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder, Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings, That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;— Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?

Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces? Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king—to clown.

Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow? Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow By a sly cup or so of our fire waters? They are thy people's deadliest poison. They First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves, And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, And lives of misery, and early graves. For by their power, believe me, not a day goes, But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away? To the deep bosom of thy forest home, The hill side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws, For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Of the caged bird against his prison bars, That thou, the crowned warrior of the west, The victor of a hundred forest wars, Should'st in thy age, become a raree show Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile, Of a bound warrior in his agony, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty, Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy, Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow; Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow All question of thy noble family; For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.

[ From the German of Friedrich Kind. ]

BY D. SEYMOUR.

Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers? Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.

How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had.

I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields; But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee, And try if to my spells thy silence yields; Wert thou my brother once—and did those glances Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances? Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept? Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?

What, silent still!—wilt thou make no disclosure? Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still? Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure? Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will? Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered, On a new field of life and duty entered? Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine, Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone thine?

Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions, The murderer or the murdered to be? Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free? Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story, Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?

Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, The tear may tremble in a mother's eye, And as approaching death dries up life's fountains, Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh; Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying, Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing, And dream not that upon this little hill The dews of night upon thy skull distil.

Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany? Who made the field a desert, fired the city, Defiled the pure, and captive led the free? Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish, Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish? Then—God of righteousness! to thee belongs, Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.

The sun already toward the west is tending, His rays upon thy hollow temples strike; Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike. The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying; Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then; Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.

Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal Were hurried out of life; we are at peace; Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal, Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease. Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes, And may the perfume of the forest roses Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast! Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.

SONG.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

I know thou dost love me—ay! frown as thou wilt, And curl that beautiful lip Which I never can gaze on without the guilt Of burning its dew to sip. I know that my heart is reflected in thine, And, like flowers that over a brook incline, They toward each other dip.

Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light, 'Mid the careless, proud, and gay, I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night, And pilfer its thoughts away. I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour, And thy soul in secret shall own the power It dares to mock by day.

THE MINISINK.

BY A. B. STREET.

Encircled by the screening shade, With scatter'd bush, and bough, And grassy slopes, a pleasant glade Is spread before me now; The wind that shows its forest search By the sweet fragrance of the birch Is whispering on my brow, And the mild sunshine flickers through The soft white cloud and summer blue.

Far to the North, the Delaware Flows mountain-curv'd along, By forest bank, by summit bare, It bends in rippling song; Receiving in each eddying nook The waters of the vassal brook, It sweeps more deep and strong; Round yon green island it divides, And by this quiet woodland glides.

The ground bird flutters from the grass That hides her tiny nest, The startled deer, as by I pass, Bounds in the thicket's breast; The red-bird rears his crimson wing From the long fern of yonder spring, A sweet and peaceful rest Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound Of battle shook the gory ground.

Long will the shuddering hunter tell How once, in vengeful wrath, Red warriors raised their fiercest yell And trod their bloodiest path; How oft the sire—the babe—the wife Shriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife 'Mid havoc's fiery scathe; Until the boldest quail'd to mark, Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark.

At length the fisher furl'd his sail Within the shelter'd creek, The hunter trod his forest trail The mustering band to seek; The settler cast his axe away, And grasp'd his rifle for the fray, All came, revenge to wreak— With the rude arms that chance supplied, And die, or conquer, side by side.

Behind the footsteps of their foe, They rush'd, a gallant throng, Burning with haste, to strike a blow For each remembered wrong; Here on this field of Minisink, Fainting they sought the river's brink Where cool waves gush'd along; No sound within the woods they heard, But murmuring wind and warbling bird.

A shriek!—'tis but the panther's—nought Breaks the calm sunshine there, A thicket stirs!—a deer has sought From sight a closer lair; Again upon the grass they droop, When burst the well-known whoop on whoop Shrill, deafening on the air, And bounding from their ambush'd gloom, Like wolves the savage warriors come.

In vain upsprung that gallant band And seized their weapons by, Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand, Alas! 'twas but to die; In vain the rifle's skilful flash Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash; The hatchet hiss'd on high, And down they fell in crimson heaps, Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.

In vain they sought the covert dark, The red knife gash'd each head, Each arrow found unerring mark, Till earth was pil'd with dead. Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear Some voice and footstep meet her ear, Till hope grew faint with dread; Long did she search the wood-paths o'er, That voice and step she heard no more.

Years have pass'd by, the merry bee Hums round the laurel flowers, The mock-bird pours her melody Amid the forest bowers; A skull is at my feet, though now The wild rose wreathes its bony brow, Relic of other hours. It bids the wandering pilgrim think Of those who died at Minisink.

MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze, How pure it seems, from earth how free; What sweet and sad moralities Breathe from this air that comes to me.

Look down, my spirit! see below, Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail, Or wakes to tears that vainly flow, Or dreams of hopes that surely fail.

Why should'st thou linger there, and burn With passions like these fools of time? Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn, And soar to yon eternal clime.

Look round, my spirit! to these hills The earliest sunlight lends its ray; Morning's pure air these far heights fills, Here evening holiest steals away.

Thus when with firm-resolving breast, Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high, Shalt thou with earlier light be blest, More purely live, more calmly die.

This darkling dawn, doth it not bring Visions of former glory back? Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing, And soar with me on holier track.

Canst thou not with unclouded eye, And fancy-rapt, the scene survey, When darkness bade its shadows fly, And earth rose glorious into day?

Canst thou not see that earth, its Spring Unfaded yet by death or crime, In freshest green, yet mellowing Into the gorgeous Autumn's prime?

Dost thou not see the eternal choir Light on each peak that wooes the sky, Fold their broad wings of golden fire, And string their seraph minstrelsy?

Then what sublimest music filled Rejoicing heaven and rising earth, When angel harps the chorus swelled, And stars hymned forth creation's birth.

See how the sun comes proudly on His glorious march! before our sight The swathing mists, their errand done, Are melting into morning light.

He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly, He walks its sides, and shades retreat; He pours his flood of radiancy On streams and lowlands at its feet.

Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illume Each dim recess within my heart; From its deep darkness chase all gloom, And to its weakness strength impart.

Thus let thy light upon me rise, Here let my home for ever be; Far above earth, its toys and ties, Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!

SONG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Ob: 1820, æt. 25.

Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret That another awakened thy sigh, Or repine that some traces remain of it yet In the beam of that eloquent eye.

Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone Ere it taught me the way to adore, Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before?

And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won, It but fits it the better for bliss; As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun, Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.

THE DEAD OF 1832.

BY R. C. SANDS.

Ob: 1832, æt. 33.

Oh Time and Death! with certain pace, Though still unequal, hurrying on, O'erturning, in your awful race, The cot, the palace, and the throne!

Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar, Beyond the old and solemn deeps:

In crowds the good and mighty go, And to those vast dim chambers hie:— Where, mingled with the high and low, Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!

Dread Ministers of God! sometimes Ye smite at once, to do His will, In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes, Those—whose renown ye cannot kill!

When all the brightest stars that burn At once are banished from their spheres, Men sadly ask, when shall return Such lustre to the coming years?

For where is he [A]—who lived so long— Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And showed his fate, in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?

Where he—who backwards to the birth Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth Found out the handiwork of God? [B]

Where he—who in the mortal head, [C] Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness?

Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre, [D] Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire, The diapason of the soul?

Where he—who read the mystic lore, [E] Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep?

Where he—who with a poet's eye [F] Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty Classic, when in his numbers glazed?

Where—that old sage so hale and staid, [G] The "greatest good" who sought to find; Who in his garden mused, and made All forms of rule, for all mankind?

And thou—whom millions far removed [H] Revered—the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.

He too—the heir of glory—where [I] Hath great Napoleon's scion fled? Ah! glory goes not to an heir! Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!

But hark! a nation sighs! for he, [J] Last of the brave who perilled all To make an infant empire free, Obeys the inevitable call!

They go—and with them is a crowd, For human rights who thought and did, We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid.

All earth is now their sepulchre, The mind, their monument sublime— Young in eternal fame they are— Such are your triumphs, Death and Time.

TO A LADY

WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire, Prints on your lip the burning kiss; Why should he not your charms admire, And dip his beam each morn in bliss?

Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light The beam-haired coursers of the sky, I'd stay their course the livelong night To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.

Then let the dotard fondly spring, Each rising day, to snatch the prize; 'Twill add new vigour to his wing, And speed his journey through the skies.

ADDRESS TO A MUSQUITO.

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.—King Lear.

Thou sweet musician, that around my bed Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led, Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn? The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine, The hum of falling waters not more sweet, I own, indeed, I own thy song divine. And when next year's warm summer nights we meet, (Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.

Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse Such eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire? Some old musician? or did'st take a course Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump? Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full? Art a phrenologist, and is the bump Of song developed on thy little skull? At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute Drinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute?

Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song, Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long Still night? With song dost drive away dull care? Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver, A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer, Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, "In maiden meditation, fancy free?"

Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yore Charmed with their songs till men forgot to dine, And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine, They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, That thou may'st use, unharmed, thy little sting The very moment we begin to doze; Thou worse than Syren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, Thou living Vampyre, and thou Gallinipper!

Nature is full of music, sweetly sings The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things, Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore, 'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador, The world's free citizen thou roamest wild. Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll," Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole."

The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou, "The Fairies' midwife;"—thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low, The honey dew from many a lady's lip— (Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt) On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout" "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep;" And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the fore-finger of an alderman."

Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth. As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave, So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth, The living water, and the fresh air gave A portion of their elements to create Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate Meant thee to feed on music or on air. Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.

The hues of dying sunset are most fair, And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are By far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard; 'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline, To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note.

The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb, Then soar, and sing thy little life away! Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day, Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers.

INCONSTANCY.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Yes! I swore to be true, I allow, And I meant it, but, some how or other, The seal of that amorous vow Was pressed on the lips of another.

Yet I did but as all would have done, For where is the being, dear cousin, Content with the beauties of one When he might have the range of a dozen?

Young Love is a changeable boy, And the gem of the sea-rock is like him, For he gives back the beams of his joy To each sunny eye that may strike him.

From a kiss of a zephyr and rose Love sprang in an exquisite hour, And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows, Is this child of a sigh and a flower.

THE CALLICOON IN AUTUMN.

BY A. B. STREET.

Far in the forest's heart, unknown, Except to sun and breeze, Where solitude her dreaming throne Has held for centuries; Chronicled by the rings and moss That tell the flight of years across The seamed and columned trees, This lovely streamlet glides along With tribute of eternal song!

Now, stealing through its thickets deep In which the wood-duck hides, Now, picturing in its basin sleep Its green pool-hollowed sides, Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps, There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps, And foaming, hoarsely chides; Then slides so still, its gentle swell Scarce ripples round the lily's bell.

Nature, in her autumnal dress Magnificent and gay, Displays her mantled gorgeousness To hide the near decay, Which, borne on Winter's courier breath, Warns the old year prepare for death, When, tottering, seared, and gray, Ice-fettered, it will sink below The choking winding-sheet of snow.

A blaze of splendour is around, As wondrous and as bright As that, within the fairy ground, Which met Aladdin's sight. The sky, a sheet of silvery sheen With breaks of tenderest blue between, As though the summer light Was melting through, once more to cast A glance of gladness ere it passed.

The south-west airs of ladened balm Come breathing sweetly by, And wake amid the forest's calm One quick and shivering sigh, Shaking, but dimpling not the glass Of this smooth streamlet, as they pass— They scarcely wheel on high The thistle's downy, silver star, To waft its pendent seed afar.

Dream-like the silence, only woke By the grasshopper's glee, And now and then the lazy stroke Of woodcock [K] on the tree: And mingling with the insect hum, The beatings of the partridge drum, With frequently a bee Darting its music, and the crow Harsh cawing from the swamp below.

A foliage world of glittering dyes Gleams brightly on the air, As though a thousand sunset skies, With rainbows, blended there; Each leaf an opal, and each tree A bower of varied brilliancy, And all one general glare Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight With dazzling and unequalled light.

Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here The birch and maple twine, The beech its orange mingles near With emerald of the pine; And e'en the humble bush and herb Are glowing with those tints superb, As though a scattered mine Of gems, upon the earth were strewn, Flashing with radiance, each its own.

All steeped in that delicious charm Peculiar to our land, Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm, When Indian Summer's hand Has filled the valley with its smoke, And wrapped the mountain in its cloak, While, timidly and bland, The sunbeams struggle from the sky, And in long lines of silver lie.

The squirrel chatters merrily, The nut falls ripe and brown, And gem-like from the jewelled tree The leaf comes fluttering down; And restless in his plumage gay, From bush to bush loud screams the jay, While on the hemlock's crown The sentry pigeon guards from foes The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.

See! on this edge of forest lawn, Where sleeps the clouded beam, A doe has led her spotted fawn To gambol by the stream; Beside yon mullein's braided stalk They hear the gurgling voices talk, While, like a wandering gleam, The yellow-bird dives here and there, A feathered vessel of the air.

On, through the rampart walls of rock The waters pitch in white, And high, in mist, the cedars lock Their boughs, half lost to sight Above the whirling gulf—the dash Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash Their limits in their flight, Whose roar the eagle, from his peak, Responds to with his angriest shriek.

Stream of the age-worn forest! here The Indian, free as thou, Has bent against thy depths his spear, And in thy woods his bow; The beaver built his dome; but they, The memories of an earlier day, Like those dead trunks, that show What once were mighty pines—have fled With Time's unceasing, rapid tread.

THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend, Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue, Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, From the safron orchis and lupin blue, And those like the foam on my courser's bit.

One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, One hand of each on the bridle meet; And beneath the wrist that entwines me there An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. I will sing thee many a joyous lay, As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.

Our home shall be by the cool bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams Through the branches around our lodge that meet. Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.

A POET'S EPISTLE.

[Written in Scotland to Fitz-Greene Halleck, Esq.]

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity, I'll wad ye curse the vera city From which I write a braid Scots ditty Afore I learn it; But gif ye canna mak it suit ye, Ye ken ye'll burn it.

My grunzie's got a twist until it Thae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill it I doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it 'll keep the gait, Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet And write it straight.

Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather Wi' a hale sheet, of muir and heather O' burns, and braes, and sic like blether, To you a feast; But stop! ye will not light on either This time at least.

Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie, Then drap your lip and glower surly; Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly, Ye'll no be right; We've made our jaunt a bit too early For sic a sight.

What it may be when summer deeds Muir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weeds Sprinkling the gowan on the meads And broomy knowes, I dinna ken; but now the meads Scarce keep the cows.

For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted, A few bit pines and larches planted, And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntit As e'er thou sawest; Row but a sma' turf fence anent it, Hech! there's a forest.

For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle That would na float a shull bairn's coble, A cripple stool might near hand hobble Dry-baughted ever; Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble, And there's a river.

And then their cauld and reekie skies, They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes; The sun ye'd ken na if he's rise Amaist the day; Just a noon blink that hardly dries The dewy brae.

Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women, Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman, For luver's heart or blade of foeman O'er baith victorious; E'en common sense, that plant uncommon, Grows bright and glorious.

Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang, I've whistled out an unco sang 'Bout folk I ha' na been amang Twa days as yet; But, faith, the farther that I gang The mair ye'll get.

Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon, See Mungo's well, and set my shoon Where i' the dark Bauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon, At cutty sark.

And I shall tread the hallowed bourne Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn. What Yankee bluid But feels its free pulse leap and burn Where Wallace stood!

But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppin My braw Scots style to English loppin; I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppin I'd quit it quite: If so, I e'en must think o' stopping, And sae, gude night.

WEEHAWKEN.

BY R. C. SANDS.

Eve o'er our path is stealing fast; Yon quivering splendours are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing shore; His latest glories fringe the height Behind us, with their golden light.

The mountain's mirror'd outline fades Amid the fast extending shades; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That laves its rock-encumbered feet.

River and Mountain! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong; Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording Muse, What antique tales she can relate, Your banks and steeps to consecrate.

Yet should the stranger ask, what lore Of by-gone days, this winding shore, Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, If vocal made by Fancy's spell,— The varying legend might rehearse Fit themes for high, romantic verse.

O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod; Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark. Spoils, strangely won on distant waves, Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.

When the great strife for Freedom rose Here scouted oft her friends and foes, Alternate, through the changeful war, And beacon-fires flashed bright and far; And here, when Freedom's strife was won, Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—

Her son,—the second of the band, The Romans of the rescued land. Where round yon cape the banks ascend, Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend; There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.

There last he stood. Before his sight Flowed the fair river, free and bright; The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay, Before him in their glory lay,— Scenes of his love and of his fame,— The instant ere the death-shot came.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.

BY T. W. TUCKER.

Thou fragile thing That with a breath I could destroy, What mighty train of care and joy Do ye not bring?

Emblem of power! By thee comes public bane or good; The wheels of state, without thee, would Stop in an hour.

Tower, dome, and arch, Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste, Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'st The army's march.

The spreading seas For thee unnumbered squadrons bear, Ruler of earth, and sea, and air— When bended knees

Are bowed in prayer, Although to heaven is given each word, Thy influence in the heart, unheard, Is upmost there!

Fly! minion, fly! Thine errand is unfinished yet— The boon I covet,—to forget! Thou canst not buy.

THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET

Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot. The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand, Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below The silent river, with majestic sweep, Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. Talk ye of solitude?—It is not here. Nor silence.—Low, deep murmurs are abroad. Those towering hills hold converse with the sky That smiles upon their summits;—and the wind Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life, And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf, Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright, And nod to greet his coming!—And the brook, That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down From the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell; The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;— And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path, Send forth their perfume as an added gift. The river utters, too, a solemn voice, And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, When not a sound was heard along his shores, Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek Of some expiring captive,—and no bark E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves Are vocal often with the hunter's song;— Now visit, in their glad and onward course, The abodes of happy men—gardens and fields— And cultured plains—still bearing, as they pass, Fertility renewed and fresh delights.

The time has been,—so Indian legends say,— When here the mighty Delaware poured not His ancient waters through—but turned aside Through yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales. Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill, Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed The wealth of summer on its graceful slope. Thither the hunter chieftains oft repaired To light their council fires,—while its dim height, For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared— 'Tis said—to scale; save one white-haired old man, Who there held commune with the Indian's God, And thence brought down to men his high commands. Years passed away—the gifted seer had lived Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit. New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien, Who strove against each other. Blood and death Filled those green shades, where all before was peace, And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive E'en on the precincts of that holy spot Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest Again to seek the consecrated height, Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.— They watched him from afar. He laboured slowly High up the steep ascent—and vanished soon Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark As the last hues of sunset passed away. The night fell heavily—and soon were heard Low tones of thunder from the mountain top, Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills In deep and solemn peal,—while lurid flashes Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash Burst on the startled ear;—the earth, convulsed, Groaned from its solid centre—forests shook For leagues around,—and by the sudden gleam Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent From top to base—and where so late had smiled Green boughs and blossoms—yawned a frightful chasm, Filled with unnatural darkness.—From afar The distant roar of waters then was heard; They came—with gathering sweep—o'erwhelming all That checked their headlong course;—the rich maize field,— The low-roofed hut—its sleeping inmates—all— Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin. Morn looked upon the desolated scene Of the Great Spirit's anger—and beheld Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks:— And men looked on in silence and in fear, And far removed their dwellings from the spot, Where now no more the hunter chased his prey, Or the war-whoop was heard.—Thus years went on: Each trace of desolation vanished fast; Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. The river passed majestically on Through his new channel—verdure graced his banks;— The wild bird murmured sweetly as before In its beloved woods,—and nought remained,— Save the wild tales which chieftains told,— To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.

SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.

BY W. P. HAWES.

Down in the deep Dark holes I keep, And there in the noontide I float and sleep, By the hemlock log, And the springing bog, And the arching alders, I lie incog.

The angler's fly Comes dancing by, But never a moment it cheats my eye; For the hermit trout Is not such a lout As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook, No fisher's hook Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook; But here I lie, And laugh as they try; Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!

But when the streams, With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams, Then, then look out For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams.

TO MAY.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

Come, gentle May! Come with thy robe of flowers, Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May! For at the bidding of thy magic wand, Quick from the caverns of the breathing land, In all their green and glorious array They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May! Come with thy train, that high On some fresh branch pour out their melody; Or carolling thy praise the live-long day, Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling, 'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

Come, sunny May! Come with thy laughing beam, What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.

Come, holy May! When sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness, Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress, The drapery of dark winter cast away; To the bright eye and the glad heart appear, Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May! Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter, bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Bird of the lone and joyless night— Whence is thy sad and solemn lay? Attendant on the pale moon's light, Why shun the garish blaze of day?

When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone amid the silence there Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.

Thyself unseen—thy pensive moan Poured in no loving comrade's ear— The forest's shaded depths alone That mournful melody can hear.

Beside what still and secret spring, In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away.

Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee, Who will not trust its charms again!

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o'er: I, heedless of the warning, still Believe, to be deceived once more!

CHANSONETTE.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

They are mockery all, those skies! those skies! Their untroubled depths of blue; They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes! Which seem so warm and true; Each quiet star in the one that lies, Each meteor glance that at random flies The other's lashes through. They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring, Which her airs so softly woo; And the love to which we would madly cling, Ay! it is mockery too. For the winds are false which the perfume stir, And the lips deceive to which we sue, And love but leads to the sepulchre; Which flowers spring to strew.

THE CLOUDS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

The clouds have their own language unto me They have told many a tale in by-gone days, At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass, And leave their storied circles where they pass.

So, even so, to me the embracing clouds, With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here; And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear, And sunny brightness of yon arching sky, They have their language and their melody.

Have you not felt it when the dropping rain From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth In misty radiance, until cloud and spot Were blended in one brightness? Can you not

Look out and love when the departing sun Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical In his last splendour, and reflects upon Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"

Or giving back those tints indefinite, Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch Whereon the angel-spirits of the light Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march, When sank the whelming waters, and again Left the green islands to the sons of men?