THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.

WELL do I love those various harmonies That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the summer-time, And in red autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Dr crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down With any of the ills of human life;

If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike;—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest-birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half-hid
Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge.

Lone whip-poor-will, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green. roving linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.

Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines

The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green

marge

Is seldom visited by human foot,
The ionely heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath-silence of the wilderness :
And you may find her by some reedy pool,

Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock,
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.

Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down
And seest the shining fishes as they glide,
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild screan
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.

And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ca. With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye With beautiful creations! Then pass forth, And find them midst those many-colour'd birds That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones Are sweeter than the music of the lute, Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darken'd woods-the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows

green

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,
And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo, from the distant hill,
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty—like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
'T were sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace in some green paradise like this.

The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods:-the aging sword

Hath never gather'd its red harvest here!
The peaceful summer-day hath never closed
Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here
Hath never left his sickle in the field,
To slay his fellow with unholy hand;
The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man.
And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,
Have never broke its Sabbath-solitude

JONES VERY is a native of the city of Salem. In his youth he accompanied his father, who was a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and he wrote his "Essay on Hamlet" with the more interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After his father's death, he prepared himself to enter college, and in 1832 became a student at Cambridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the same year was appointed Greek tutor in the university. While he held this office, a religious enthusiasm took possession of his mind, which gradually produced so great a change in him, that his

friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the poems in the small collection of his writings pub lished in 1839. His essays entitled Epic Poet ry," "Shakspeare," and "Hamlet," are fine specimens of learned and sympathetic criticism; and his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, simple, and poetical, though they have little range of subjects and illustration. They are religious, and some them are mystical, but they will be recognised by the true poet as the overflowings of a brother's soul.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years

When glow'd my cheek as red as thou,
And life's dark throng of cares and fears
Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow!
Thou blushest from the painter's page,

Robed in the mimic tints of art;
But Nature's hand in youth's green age
With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine,

The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee; And in thy look, my Columbine! Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head,

Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song

Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along.

Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, ts distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom

Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;
And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill;
And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE.

POET's hand has placed thee there,
Autumn's brown and wither'd scroll'
Though to outward eye not fair,
Thou hast beauty for the soul;
Though no human pen has traced
On that leaf its learned lore,
Love divine the page has graced,-
What can words discover more?

Not alone dim autumn's blast
Echoes from yon tablet sear,--
Distant music of the past
Steals upon the poet's ear.

Voices sweet of summer-hours,
Spring's soft whispers murmur by;
Feather'd songs from leafy bowers
Draw his listening soul on high.

THE HEART.

THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink,
Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well,
Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angel.

think,

Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains

While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows. But ever bright its crystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure And bless the cup that cheers their fainting scul While through this parchi g waste they seek their heavenly goal.

TO THE CANARY-BIRD.

I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears, Who make of thy lost liberty a gain; And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears Feel not that every note is born with pain. Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng, Past days of joy should through thy memory And each to thee their words of sorrow tell, While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song. The heart that on the past and future feeds, And pours in human words its thoughts divine, Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, Its song may charm the listening ear like thine, And men, with gilded cage and praise will try To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky.

THY BEAUTY FADES.

THY beauty fades, and with it too my love, For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower; Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour; And I had thought forever by thy side With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell; But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide, And every hope's wan look a grief can tell: For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway, Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all, Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay, With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall, And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies. For virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death

THE WIND-FLOWER.

THOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye
Upon the clouded smile of April's face,
Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by,
Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace.
Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith array'd,
More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king;
Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd,
As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring,
While other flowers still hide them from her call
Along the river's brink and meadow bare.
Thee will I seek beside the stony wall,
And in thy trust with childlike heart would share,
O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find

A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind.

ENOCH.

I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with Gon,
Like the translated patriarch of old ;-
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like DAVID turn'd a willing ear;
Gon walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.

MORNING.

THE light will never open sightless eyes, It comes to those who willingly would sce; And every object,-hill, and stream, and skies, Rejoice within the encircling line to be; "Tis day, the field is fill'd with busy hands, The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, The traveller with his staff already stands His yet unmeasured journey to begin; The light breaks gently too within the breast,Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,-it is no day To those who find on earth their place to stay.

NIGHT.

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose enly task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labours of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd, Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd; In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewilder'd falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

THE TREES OF LIFE.

For those who worship THEE there is no death, For all they do is but with THEE to dwell; Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath, It is but of THY glorious name to tell; Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, But in them both my soul doth ever flow; They come as viewless as the unseen wind, And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go; The trees that grow along thy living stream, And from its springs refreshment ever drink, Forever glittering in thy morning beam, They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink; And as more high and wide their branches grow They look more fa r within the depths below.

THE ARK.

THERE is no change of time and place with THEE; Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same; Within thy presence I rejoice to be, And always hallow thy most holy name; The world doth ever change; there is no peac Among the shadows of its storm-vex'd breast; With every breath the frothy waves increase, They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest; I thank THEE that within thy strong-built ark My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, And, though the night of death be long and dark, My hopes in CHRIST shall reach within the veil; And to the promised haven steady steer, Whose rest to those who love is ever near.

NATURE.

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small;
The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as ADAM was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

THE TREE.

1 LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen
To veil from view the early robin's nest,
I love to lie beneath thy waving screen,
With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppress'd;
And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,
I love to watch thy shadowy form below,
And through thy leafless arms to look above
On stars that brighter beam when most we need
their love.

THE SON.

FATHER, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand
Beneath the mingling line of night and day,
A listening servant, waiting thy command
To roll rejoicing on its silent way;

The tongue of time abides the appointed hou,
Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall;

The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, Then every drop speeds onward at thy call; The bird reposes on the yielding bough, With breast unswollen by the tide of song; So does my spirit wait thy presence now To pour thy praise in quickening life along, Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep While round the unutter'd word and love their vigils keep.

THE ROBIN.

THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go bv, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young unfinish'd cottage spy; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now, For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves; All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ, That else upon thy music borne along And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer Had learn'd that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share.

THE RAIL-ROAD.

THOU great proclaimer to the outward eye Of what the spirit too would seek to tell, Onward thou goest, appointed from on high The other warnings of the Lord to swell; Thou art the voice of one that through the world Proclaims in startling tones, "Prepare the way;" The lofty mountain from its seat is hurl'd, The flinty rocks thine onward march obey; The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, O'ertop the hills that on them frown'd before, Thou passest where the living seldom tread, Through forests dark, where tides beneath thee roar, And bidd'st man's dwelling from thy track remove, And would with warning voice his crooked paths reprove.

THE LATTER RAIN.

THE latter rain,-it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring, No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves, The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves The rain falls still,-the fruit all ripen'd drops, It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell, The furrow'd fields disclose the yellow crops, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

THE Rev. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE, whose ancestors, on the mother's side, have lived in Newton, near Boston, since the first settlement of the country, was born in Hanover, New Hampshire, on the fourth of April, 1810. He was prepared for college by his grandfather, the Rev. JAMES FREEMAN, D.D., and in the Boston Latin school, and graduated at Cambridge, in 1829. Becoming a Unitarian minister, he went to Louisville, Kentucky, in 1833, and there edited for several years "The Western Messenger," a monthly magazine of religion and literature. In 1839 he married ANNA, daughter of H. J. HEIDEKOPER, of Meadville, Pennsylvania. In 1840 he returned to Boston, and established a church, on the principles of free seats, congregational worship, and social intercourse, called the Church of the Disciples, of which he is still the pastor. In 1849, and again in 1852, he visited Europe. He published a very entertaining and instructive account of his first visit, under the title of "Eleven Weeks in Europe." He has also published two small books on "Forgiveness," and "Prayer;" some anti-slavery tracts, and articles in periodicals, besides taking part in a " Memoir of General WILLIAM HULL," and with Mr. EMERSON and Mr. CHANNING, in the "Memoirs of MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI."

In poetry, his longest production is "A Poem

delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, of Harvard College," in 1846. It is a spirited satire of the social phenomena of the day, in heroic coup. lets. A characteristic paragraph is the following, of our intellectual condition:

"And if our land's heroic day is filed,
Have we romance, art, poetry, instead?
There have been ages when the soul of Art
Was poured abroad upon a nation's heart;
When genius filled the waters, woods, and skies,
With forms of life and fair divinities,

There, through the leaves which shade the haunted stream,
The naiad's limbs in pearly lustre gleam;
And in green forest-depths the Grecian ear
The dryad's gentle voice was used to hear.
But modern bards expect no rights like these,
Nor watch for meanings in the streams and trees.
Our only dryads now are lumberers stout,
Our naiads, gentlemen who fish for trout.
We in our studies build the lofty verse,
Nor find our books in brooks--but the reverse;
Copy each other's copies in our songs,
Each stealing what to nobody belongs-
As in the story to our childhood taught,
Thieves came to rob a man-and he had nought."

He has contributed to volumes edited by his friends some fine translations from the German poets, and has printed in magazines occasional poems, some of which have much sweetness, di rectness, and force.

TRIFORMIS DIANA.

I.

So pure her forehead's dazzling white,
So swift and clear her radiant eyes,
Within the treasure of whose light

Lay undeveloped destinies,

Of thoughts repressed such hidden store
Was hinted by each flitting smile,

I could but wonder and adore,
Far off, in awe, I gazed the while.

I gazed at her, as at the moon,

Hanging in lustrous twilight skies, Whose virgin crescent, sinking soon, Peeps through the leaves before it flies: Untouched Diana, flitting dim, While sings the wood its evening hymn.

II.

Again we met. O, joyful meeting!

Her radiance now was all for me, Like kindly airs her kindly greeting, So full, so musical, so free; Within Kentucky forest aisles,

Within romantic paths, we walked, I bathed me in her sister siniles,

I breathed her beauty as we talked.

So full-orbed Cynthia walks the skies,
Filling the earth with melodies;
Even so she condescends to kiss

Drowsy Endymion, coarse and dull, Or fills our waking souls with bliss, Making long nights too beautiful.

III.

O fair, but fickle, lady-moon,

Why must thy full form ever wane? O love! O friendship! why so soon Must your sweet light recede again? I wake me in the dead of night,

And start-for through the misty gloom Red Hecate stares-a boding sight!Looks in but never fills my room.

Thou music of my boyhood's hour!

Thou shining light on manhood's way! No more dost thou fair influence shower, To move my soul by night or day.

O strange! that while in hall and street
Thy hand I touch, thy grace I meet,
Such miles of polar ice should part

The slightest touch of mind and heart!But all thy love has waned, and so,

I gladly let thy beauty go.