I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes Of Eden's virgin queen; And when the fiend's art on the trustful heart Had fastened its mortal spell, In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear To the trembling earth I fell. When the waves that burst o'er the world accurs'd Their work of wrath had sped, And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, With the wond'rous gleams of my bridal beams, I bade their terrors cease, As I wrote, on the roll of the storm's dark scroll, Like a pall at rest on a senseless breast, Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright Of Heaven's redeeming plan, As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born- Equal favor I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend; E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend. Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, As the rose in the garden of Kings; At the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, Conceals all the pride of her charms, Till I bid the bright hours chase night from her bowers, And lead the young day to her arms; And when the gay Rover seeks Eve for his lover, And sinks to her balmy repose, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fanned west, From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, When the cynosure star of the mariner Is blotted from out of the sky; And guided by me through the merciless sea, I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, What glories must rest on the home of the blest, Ever bright with the Deity's smile! WILLIAM PITT PALMER A Death-Bed. HER suffering ended with the day; Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun, in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning-gate, And walked in Paradise. JAMES ALDRICH, A Christmas Hymn. It was the calm and silent night! And now was queen of land and sea. Held undisturbed their ancient reign, Centuries ago. 'T was in the calm and silent night! His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; Fallen through a half-shut stable-door, Oh, strange indifference! low and high The earth was still, but knew not why; One that shall thrill the world forever Centuries ago! It is the calm and solemn night! The darkness, charmed and holy now! For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, Centuries ago! ALFRED DOMETT, The Ivy Green. O, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has hel How closely he twineth, how tight he clings And he joyously twines and hugs around A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, For the stateliest building man can raise Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. The Polish Boy. CHARLES DICKENS WHENCE Come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence come they? From yon temple, where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. |