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B. B. THATCHER.*
Sing, sing !-I might have knelt
And pray'd; I might have felt
Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.
I might have press'd to this COME to my breast, thou lone
Cold bosom, in my bliss, And weary bird !-one tone
Each long-lost form that ancient hearth beside; Of the rare music of my childhood !-dear
O heaven! I might have heard, Is that strange sound to me;
From living lips, one word, Dear is the memory
Thou mother of my childhood,-and have died. It brings my soul of many a parted year.
Nay, nay, 'tis sweet to weep, Again, yet once again,
Ere yet in death I sleep; O minstrel of the main!
It minds me I have been, and am again,Lo! festal face and form familiar throng
And the world wakes around; Unto my waking eye;
It breaks the madness bound, And voices of the sky
While I have dream'd, these ages, on my brain. Sing from these walls of death unwonted song. And sweet it is to love Nay, cease not, I would call,
Even this gentle dove, Thus, from the silent hall
This breathing thing from all life else apart:of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:
Ah! leave me not the gloom Beam on me yet once more,
Of my eternal tomb Ye blessed eyes of yore,
To bear alone-alone!-come to my heart, Startling life-blood through all my being cold. My bird !—Thou shalt go free;
And come, O come to me Ah ! cease not-phantoms fair
Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows; Fill thick the dungeon's air;
So shall I learn, at least, They wave me from its gloom-I fly-I stand
One other year hath ceased, Again upon that spot,
And the long woe throbs lingering to its close. Which ne'er hath been forgot In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!
WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.* There, on each noon-bright hill,
By fount and flashing rill,
THE ARCHED STREAM
It went within my inmost heart,
The overhanging Arch to see,
The liquid stream became a part
Of my internal harmony.
So gladly rush'd the full stream through,
Pleased with the measure of its flow, Of rose-trees at its edge,
So burst the gladness on the view, Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:
It made a song of mirth below. There, there, mid clustering leaves,
Yet gray were those o'erarching stones,
And sear and dry the fringing grass,
That out of Autumn's bosom pass.
And over it the heavy road, Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray
Where creaks the wain with burden'd cheer, Sing, sing! I am not mad
But gaily from this low abode
Then Nature said: My child, to thee,
From the gray arch shall beauty flow, * BENJAMIN B. THATCHER, author of "Indian Biogra
Thou art a pleasant thing to me, phy," "Indian Traits," and numerous contributions to
And freely in my meadows go. our periodical literature, died in Boston on the 14th of July, 1840, in the thirty-second year of his age. He was
Thy verse shall gush thus freely on, a native of Maine, and was educated at Bowdoin College, in that state.
Some poet yet may sit thereby, + One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned And cheer bimself within the sun from his youth, and was said to be occasionally insane in My life has kindled in thine eye. consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper told me) but that of a beautiful tamed bird. or what name or clime it was, I know not--only that he called it * Mr. CHANNING is a nephew of the late Dr. W. E fondly, his dove, and seemed never happy but when it | CHANNING. He published a volunie of Poenis in 1843, sang to him.--MS. of a Tour through France.
and another in 1817.
W. J. SXELLING."
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.
TIIE BIRTH OF TIIUNDER. 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;
But bows his head and passes over.
The heron's billow-searching eye
Can scarce his finny prey descry,
Scars deeply on earth's bosom dinted,
By Thunder's giant foot imprinted. Nay, stranger, as I live, 't is truth!
The lips of those who never licd,
Famed heroes, erst my nation's pride,
The flowerets court the breezes coy,
It is not ever so.
When shrieks of pain and wo
The lore my brave forefathers taught:
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.
Alas! that man will never learn
The Indian left his babes and wife,
To mingle in the deadly strife.
Refreshing to the ground descended,
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,
He digs his brother's timeless grave:
A constant, glad, approving smile;
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.”
* WILLIAM J. SNELLING, author of "Truth," a satire, and for many years a writer for the journals, died in Bog. ton, in 1819.
+ 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 enl. this plice 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.
The moon that night withheld her light.
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 bis weight the gnarled oak Snapp'd, as the tempest snaps the mast.
It sell, and Thunder woke!
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?_'tis all her own; All hers and mine are rollid in one,
Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity,
"T is death to be disjoin'd.
JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER.*
The world to its foundation shook,
Black as the raven's wing, he wore;
Red lightnings in his hand he bore;
The first and worst of storms abode,
Abroad the God-begotten strode.
The jarring world confess'd the shock.
Remains upon the living rock.
On high, beside his sire to dwell;
Such is the tale our fathers tell.
FADED HOURS. 0! 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,
The glad and fairy scene to bless !
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; 0, 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!
TO MY WIFE.
When on thy bosom I recline,
To call thee mine for life,
Of husband and of wife.
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.
So soft our moments move,
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.
* 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 inspirings has been published. He died in 1836, in the twenty-thira year of his age.
Old wine to drink !
Within the tun;
Of India's sun !
Peat whiskey hot,
Old wood to burn!
And ravens croak;
The knotted oak,
A faggot too, perhap,
While the oozing sap
Old books to read !
Time-honour'd tomes !
Of Oxford's domes ;
Old Homer blind,
Nor leave behind
Old friends to talk!
So rarely found !
Bring Walter good :
For every mood.) * In earlier editions, the above poem has been attri. buted to HENRY CAREY, the elegant essayist, whose writings are pubiisbed under the signature of “ John Waters ; " but I learn that he is not the author of it.
THE SLEEPING WIFE. My 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.
THE HYMNS MY MOTHER SUNG.
Than those my mother sung,
Her little children clung.
My mother sang the while ;
Across his lips a smile ?
Oppressed with many pains,
Beneath her soothing strains.
My heart is running o'er, - •
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.
GEORGE B. CHEEVER, D.D.*
Speak gently to the erring: know,
They may have toil'd in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so;
Oh, win them back again!
To bend man's stubborn will,
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.
THE LOVE THAT LASTS. '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 no Till 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.
SAMUEL GILMAN, D. D.
THE SILENT GIRL.
Far more than language could-
So natural and good !
Were voice enough for her:
Our inmost hearts could stir ?
Would cheer us with a song;
Sweeping the keys along.
Ask'd or unask'd, she read
And so our evenings sped.
With all the signs of soul;
The sigh-the smile-upstole.
With meaning thus o'erfraught?
Like that, she kindled thought.
From her would ceaseless rise ;
She hush'd the children's cries;
A long and loving kiss
All round—nor would one miss.
She sleeps beneath yon rose;
Awaken memory's woes :
Already drain'd of tears,
Still linger'd in our ears !
Speak gently: it is better far
To rule by love than fearSpeak 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.
Its love be sure to gain;
It may not long remain.
Will have enough to bear;
"Tis full of anxious care. Speak gently to the agéd one:
Grieve not the careworn heart;
Let such in peace depart.
Let no harsh tone be heard;
Without an unkind word.
* See “Prose Writers of America” for a reviewal of Dr. CHEEYER's prose writings. His poems are, for the most part, graceful expressions of elevated religious and social
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."
* 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 poel.