By wanton tyranny or reckless hate.
He muttered out his imprecations, and
By turns his prayers, when reason flashed his soul.
His eyes glared crazily. His long white locks
Flowed o'er his tattered robe, as he turned toward
The vine-hung window, or was gently fanned
By the soft breeze that passed the willing door.
The swell of rustling groves, which kindled up
The glee of thousands, was to him Siroc,
Breathing out death and his sad requiem.
For, he was reft of nature's richest gift,
Sweet Liberty, dearer to him than life.
His scant philosophy was spent.
He died a victim to the cruel hand
Of one, whose rank possessed him of the power
To indulge his wicked curiosity
At virtue's peril. The proud prince had made
His house a prison; but the Lord prepared
A home for him in Heaven, where his sout,
Wearied with earth, should rest in peace, and where The gates of Paradise are open flung
To all who tread the golden streets above.
OUT, out from the bounds of my walled habitation !
Abroad let me sail, and con the creation!
In its wide extent, the horizon I'll scan,
And the dome of the earth my fancy shall span.
Light, light ply the glistening blade of the oar,
Nor sever the shrub-shades that lie 'long the shore ;
For every plash on the still water mars
The beauty that sleeps on this river of stars.
On, on let the boat in its willingness glide,
Nor hasten its motion o'er the silvery tide :
The spirit of song delights here to hover,
To inflame the glad soul of the midnight rover.
List, list to that horn, as its mellow notes, pealing
From the highlands, are borne on the light wind that's stealing:
How the thrill wakes the soul to the memory dear
Of patriot saints in a far distant sphere !
Mark, mark too that monument* pointing the skies,
In snowy simplicity see it arise,
At once the pure emblem of patriot love,
And guide to the patriot's rest place above.
Look, look how the moon-rays, abroad spread so bright,
Behind the high hills like a canvass of light,
Display Nature's pencillings! See how the trees,
Rich with dew-pearls, glitter, when mov'd by the breeze.
Calm, calm is the scene, and how peaceful my motion-
All nature is fulgent,- how fit to devotion !
While the myriad lamps burn brightly and o'er
This scroll of God's goodness,— I'll read and adore !
Sweet, sweet are my musings, but there's a thick cloud
In chase of the moon, with darkness to enshroud
The earth and its beauties. Make quick for the shore!
I must lay by my shell, and take to my oar.
*The monument erected to the memory of the Polish patriot Kosciuszko, by the cadets of the United States Military Academy at West Point, A. D. 1828.
There's beauty in the violet's vest,
There's hinny in the haw.
FELLOW! there is a healthful loveliness
In summer-wandering, when the press of cares
And weightier duties gives a needful place
To those which flow from leisurable times.
"Tis sweet to trace the wild-flower's redolence
To its expanding emanant. 'Tis sweet
To cull the pebblets from the glassy rill
That winds the hillock. "Tis a thrilling charm
To list the mellow carrollings of birds,
Echoing messages of Heaven from 'midst
Their verdant hiding-places, when the sun
In its red glory rising up-
a world
A winning beauty in the jessamine,
When it expires and falls beneath the feet,
Scattering the dew-drops bright: how like the man,
Whose rich benevolence has prompted him
To deeds of over-sacrifice; he dies
His spirit, rising like a perfume cloud
To Heaven, shakes the cumbrous body off,
To speed its upward flight, and leaves the gems
Of character, a richer legacy
Than gold, to his fond heirs. There's beauty too
In every opening flower; their petals are
The scrolls, their tints the record of a tongue,
Intelligible to the humble one,
Who willing sits to learn from Nature's book.
A passing loveliness pervades the hive,
Which glows with skill in architecture.
The curious drapery of the web, which roofs
The hawthorn's odors in, or net-like hangs
To snare the careless fly, displays a rare,
Unrivalled ingenuity. 'Tis strange
That man should ever to his fellow cry
Who'll show us any good?' when he may sit
At his own door or 'neath his vine, and pluck
The verdant blade that points to Heaven, or snuff
The fragrance from the new-blown flower, nor lack
A fruitful theme of meditation sweet.
Our God, who sits enthroned amidst the roll-
Of the shechina, numbers up our hairs,
And bears the sparrow on his breath; and shall
We, then, disdain to count his mercies o'er -
Nor read his wisdom in that providence,
That throws alike the mountain up, and floats
The lingering particles on the sun-streams?
THE sepulchre but closed
Upon a father's form, gaped wide for that
Of the dear son he left to fill the chasm
In a fond mother's heart. And quick sent forth
From Hell's mysterious court, insatiate Death
The minister of grief to Earth arrived,
And put his seal upon his placid brow.
The chill sweat betokened dissolution.
Those deep blue eyes that erst were wont to dart
With sympathetic fire, amidst the cares
And sorrows which so rent his mother's soul,
Had lost their lustre. And the heart that beat
So manful in behalf of her, grew slow
To obey his spirit's mandates.
The soul of his fond mother, with a force
Unwonted. For, the silver cord that bound
Their souls in one to earth, was severed far.
Though loving and beloved by all, her cup
Of life was bitterness indeed. The hope
And comfort of declining years had fled.
The paths of life which once with beauty glowed,
Had e'en been stripped of every irid tint,
And nought but blackness clad the scene before—
Darkness and clouds hung round futurity.
The lonely burial-day arrived.
Upon a bier, the cold, pale corse of youth,
And yet lingering loveliness and beauty,
In aromated grave-clothes wrapt, was borne,
Far from the hearth of former cheerfulness,
Made glad by radiations of his heart
So pure and heavenly. The widowed mother
Followed. Incontinent of grief, she wept.
And multitudes sought much to comfort her
In vain. For, through the weakness of the flesh,
Her willing spirit drooped to Nature's balm.
The dark funereal train moved slowly on
Unto the gate of Nain, which opened toward
The burial-place of his loved ancestors.
And soon the relics of those blasted hopes
Were to have been shut up from earthly eyes
Forever. The widow's tears flowed wildly.
But Oh! a harbinger of life approached
God, manifest in flesh
And bade her weep no more. The sweet command
Lit up a peaceful halo round her brow.
He came, and touched the sable bier.
As if by inspiration, they that bore
The car of death halted. 'Young man, arise !'
In accents tender, yet imperative,
Burst from his sacred lips. The dead sat up
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