At still midnight, Thy symphonies prevail! Where the forest ocean, in quick commotion, Is waving to and fro, Thy form is seen, in the masses green, Dimly to come and go. From thy covert peeping, where thou layest sleeping Beside the brawling brook, Thou art seen to wake, and thy flight to take Fleet from thy lonely nook. Where the moonbeam has kiss'd The sparkling tide, In thy mantle of mist Thou art seen to glide. Far o'er the blue waters Melting away, On the distant billow, As on a pillow, Thy form to lay. Where the small clouds of even Are wreathing in heaven Their garland of roses, The senses beguiling, And thy vapour of mystery o'er nature ascending, The things that have birth, And the embryos that float in the future are blending. And the wings of the wind are left behind, Then shall the hunter who waits for thee, O'er the frozen flood, And the trackless snows his spirit goes, Where the hermit bear, in his sullen lair, SPIRIT OF DREAMS! all thy visions are true, Who the shadow hath seen, he the substance snall view! Thine the riddle, strange and dark, Thou, the war-chief hovering near, When each valiant bosom heaves; Through the veins when hot and glowing Rage like liquid fire is flowing; Round and round the war pole whirling, Furious when the dancers grow; When the maces swift are hurling Promised vengeance on the foe⚫ Thine assurance, SPIRIT true! Glorious victory gives to view! When of thought and strength despoil'd, Lies the brave man like a child; When discolour'd visions fly, Painful o'er his glazing eye, And wishes wild through his darkness rove, When the dizzy senses spin, When rays are flashing athwart the gloom, WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY. [Born, 1799. Died, 1847.] WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, on the ninth of July, 1799; was graduated at Cambridge in 1816; and in 1820 became pastor of a Unitarian Society in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he resided until his death, on the twenty-eighth of May, 1847. He was a voluminous and elegant writer in theology, natural history, literary and historical criticism, and poetry. HYMN OF NATURE. Gon of the earth's extended plains! That lowers upon the vale below, GoD of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summon'd up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. Gon of the forest's solemn shade! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. Gon of the light and viewless air! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, Breathe forth the language of thy power. Gon of the fair and open sky! How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee. Gon of the rolling orbs above! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun, GoD of the world! the hour must come, Her incense fires shall cease to burn; TO WILLIAM. WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER. Ir seems but yesterday, my love, I saw thee move with active bound, Far on the sunny plains, I saw That cleaves the morning sky; Waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint That health had painted there. And then, in all my thoughtfulness, Thanks for that memory to thee, My little, lovely boy,That memory of my youthful bliss, Which time would fain destroy. I listen'd, as the mariner Suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes From off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness!- That death would not forbear to lay His icy hand on thee; In childhood's opening bloom, While many a sad and weary soul Was longing for the tomb! Was mine a happiness too pure For erring man to know? Or why did Heaven so zoon destroy It sunk away as soon As when, in quick and cold eclipse, I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd ; I saw thy light and graceful form And shudder'd as I cast a look The mournful cloud was gathering there, Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death I knew those marble lips to mine And when I could not keep the tear I never trusted to have lived It ought not so to be; I hoped that thou within the grave With trembling hand, I vainly tried Thy dying eyes to close; With pain and grief oppress'd, Yes, I am sad and weary now; Is earlier bless'd than mine; MONADNOCK. UPON the far-off mountain's brow In thunder on his breast descending; But there once more redeem'd he stands, And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending, I've seen him when the morning sun Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; Bathed in the evening's crimson light. His weary watch in silence keeping. And there, forever firm and clear, His lofty turret upward springs; No sovereign but the King of kings. The proudest works of human hands Outlasts the mightiest of them all. That flashes, and expires in blazing. Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands Unchanged, though years are passing o'er hını; And time withdraws his powerless hands, While ages melt away before him. So should it be-for no heart beats The soothing words that make us blest. And more than this-his deep repose Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow; He hath no weary eyes to close, No cause to hope or fear to-morrow. Farewell! I go my distant way; Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day, May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form Inspire in me the firm endeavour— Like thee, to meet each lowering storm, Till life and sorrow end forever. THE WINTER NIGHT. 'Tis the high festival of night! And mark the heaven's reflected glow And where the streams, with tinkling clash, The glittering ripples hurry past; And floating sparkles glance afar, And see, beyond, how sweetly still From every mountain's towering head The idler, on his silken bed, DEATH. LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold The bright, young thoughts of early days And let me hear that gentle tread I go, but let no plaintive tone The moment's grief of friendship tell : And let no proud and graven stone Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven! Let sorrow all its tears dismiss; For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this? AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light' The wind breathes low; the withering leaf So gently flows the parting breath, How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed! "T is like the peace the Christian gives How mildly on the wandering cloud "Tis like the memory left behind When loved ones breathe their last. GRENVILLE MELLEN. [Born, 1799. Died, 1841.] GRENVILLE MELLEN was the third son of the iate Chief Justice PRENTISS MELLEN, LL. D., of Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. He was educated at Harvard College, and after leaving that seminary became a law-student in the office of his father, who had before that time removed to Portland. Soon after being admitted to the bar, he was married, and commenced the practice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a pleasant village near his native town. Within three years-in October, 1828-his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child followed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was clouded with melancholy. I believe Mr. MELLEN did not become known as a writer until he was about twenty-five years old. He was then one of the contributors to the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette." In the early part of 1827, he published a satire entitled "Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two years afterward, "Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a collection of prose sketches, which had previously been printed in the periodicals. «The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," appeared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. It is in the measure of the " Faery Queene," and has some creditable passages; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above mediocrity. In the "Buried Valley" he describes the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the White Mountains, by which the Willey family were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem entitled “The Rest of Empires,” in the same collection, he laments the custom of the elder bards to immortalize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts their prostitution of the influence of poetry with the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, in the following lines, which are characteristic of his best manner : "We have been taught, in oracles of old, Of the enskied divinity of song; That Poetry and Music, hand in hand, Came in the light of inspiration forth, And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens. And were those peerless bards, wb se strains have come In an undying echo to the world, Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles, And made melodious all the hills of Rome, Were they inspired 1-Alas, for Poetry! It was the menial service of the bard- "But other times have strung new lyres again, After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. MELLEN removed to New York, where he resided nearly all the remainder of his life. He wrote much for the literary magazines, and edited several works for his friend, Mr. COLMAN, the publisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Miscellany, but it was abandoned after the publication of a few numbers. His health had been declining for several years; his disease finally assumed the form of consumption, and he made a voyage to Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he would derive advantage from a change of climate, and the sea air. He was disappointed; and learning of the death of his father, in the following spring, he returned to New York, where he died, on the fifth of September, 1841. Mr. MELLEN was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in the long period of physical suffering which preceded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher reputation in his lifetime than his works will preserve. They are without vigour of thought or language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and unintelligible. In his writings there is no evidence of creative genius; no original, clear, and manly thought; no spirited and natural descriptions of life or nature; no humour, no pathos, no passion; nothing that appeals to the common sympathies of mankind. The little poem entitled "The Bugle," although "it whispers whence it stole its spoils," is probably superior to any thing else he wrote. It is free from the affectations and unmeaning epithets which distinguish nearly all his works. |