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When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and thruws
His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! The woods and vales of England! is there not Far down the decp ravine the whirlwinds come, A magic and a marvel in their names ?
And bow the forests as they sweep along; Is there not music in the memory
While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, Of their old glory!-is there not a sound,
The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, As of some watchword, that recalls at night
Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! All that gave light and wonder to the day?
And when the tumult of the air is fled, In these soft words, that breathe of loveliness, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, And summon to the spirit scenes that rose
There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Rich on its raptured vision, as the eye
Around the steep which bears the hero's name: itung like a tranced thing above the page
The stars look down upon them; and the same That genius had made golden with its glow
Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave The page of noble story-of high towers,
Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And castled halls, envista'd like the line
And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, Of heroes and great hearts, that centuries
The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave! Had led before their hearths in dim arrayOf lake and lawn, and gray and cloudy tree,
Mount of the clouds! when winter round the
The hoary mantle of the dying year, That rock'd with banner'd foliage to the storm
throws Above the walls it shadow'd, and whose leaves,
Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Rustling in gather'd music to the winds,
Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! Seem'd voiced as with the sound of many seas !
”T is then we view thee with a chilling fear, The woods and vales of England! O, the founts,
Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue;
When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, The living founts of memory! how they break And gush upon my stirr'd heart as I gaze!
· Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own bue, I hear the shout of reapers, the far low
| To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded Of herds upon the banks, the distant bark
0! wild, enchanting horn!
Till a new melody is bornThan thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons,
Wake, wake again, the night Though ours to linger upon fount and sky,
Is bending from her throne of beauty down, Wilder, and peopled with great spirits, who
With still stars burning on her azure crown, Walk with a deeper majesty than thine,
Intense and eloquently bright.
Night, at its pulseless noon!
When the far voice of waters mourns in song, Amid thy wood and mount, where every hill And some tired watch-dog, lazíly and long Is eloquent with beauty, and the tale
Barks at the melancholy moon. And song of centuries, the cloudless years
Hark! how it sweeps away, When fairies walk'd thy valleys, and the turf
Soaring and dying on the silent sky, Rung to their tiny footsteps, and quick flowers
As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, Sprang with the lifting grass on which they trod
With lone halloo and roundelay!
Swell, swell in glory out!
As boyhood's old remember'd shout.
O! have ye heard that peal,
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, And spirits from the skies come down at night,
Like some near breath around you stral ! To chant immortal songs to Freedom there !
Or have ye in the roar Thine is the rock of other regions, where
Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, The world of life, which blooms so far below, Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies, Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, Where wings and tempests never svar ? Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow I Beneath the far-off'mountain, distant, calm, and slow.
Go, go-no other sound,
No music that of air or earth is born, Thine is the summit whers the clouds repose, Can match the mighty music of that horn, Or, eddying wildly, rouni duy cliffs are borne; On midnight's fathomless profound !
ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME
IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT.
Sail on, thou lone, imperial bird,
Of quenchless eye and tireless wing; How is thy distant coming heard,
As the night's breezes round thee ring! Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun
In his extremest glory. How! Is thy unequallid daring done,
Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now? Or hast thou left thy rocking dome,
Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine, To find some secret, meaner home,
Less stormy and unsafe than thine ? Else why thy dusky pinions bend
So closely to this shadowy world, And round thy searching glances send,
As wishing thy broad pens were furl'd? Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest,
Thy eyry desolate, though high;
Or soaring in the upper sky.
On thine interminable flight,
And makes the north's ice-mountains hright. So come the eagle-hearted down,
So come the high and proud to earth, When life's night-gathering tempests frown
Over their glory and their mirth • So quails the mind's undying eye,
That bore, unveil'd, fame's noontide sun; So min seeks solitude, to die,
His high place left, his triumphs done. So, round the residence of power,
A cold and joyless lustre shines, And on life's pinnacles will lower
Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, O, the mellow light that pours
From God's pure throne-the light that saves! It warms the spirit as it soars,
And sheds deep radiance round our graves.
The jewell's crown and sceptre
of Greece have pass'd away; And none, of all who wept her,
Could bid her splendour stay.
Of iron-sandall'd crime-
The conqueror stalks sublime!
To nod above my land;
Graves open round his hand !
And sculptured heroes all,
To Art's high festival;
Whose pathway was on thrones,
On yet unburied bones,
So lofty-yet so cold!
In yet a nobler mould.
In thy victorious days,
Before the astonish'd gaze ;
The living on the dead,
Before some sainted head!
Would I the light forego
And Art herself lies low!
Than consecrated bust, Some loftier mean of memory
To snatch us from the dust. And ours a sterner art than this,
Shall fix our image here, The spirit's mould of loveliness
A nobler BELVIDERE! Then let them bind with bloomless flowers
The busts and urns of old,
A sacrifice less cold!
And wreathe the living brow, Kindling with Virtue's mantling blood,
And pay the tribute now!
Their statues shall arise,
Our fadeless memories!
And Art goes in to die,
The Pantheon of the sky!
THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA.
Italia's vales and fountains,
Though beautiful ye be,
And forests more than ye;
From out your cloudy years, Like hills on distant stormy skies,
Seem dim through Nature's tears, Still, tell me not of years of old,
Or ancient heart and clime; Ours is the land and age of gold,
And ours the hallow'd time!
GEORGE W. DUANE.
[Born 1799. Died 1859.)
The Right Reverend GEORGE W.DOANE, D.D., , Bishop Doane's « Songs by the Way," a collec LL.D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in tion of poeins, chiefly devotional, were published 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Sche in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced nectady, when nineteen years of age, and imme- during his college life. He has since, from time to diately after commenced the study of theology. He time, written poetry for festival-days and other oc was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBART, in 1821, casions, but has published no second volume. His and priest hy the same prelate in 1823. He offi- | published sermons, charges, conventional addressciated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, es, literary and historical discourses, and other puband, in 1824, was appointed professor of belles let lications in prose, amount to more than one hun. tres and Oratory in Washington College, Connec- dred, and fill more than three thousand octavo ticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon pages. His writings generally are marked by reafter was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Bos. | finement and elegance, and evince a profound ton. He was consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of devotion to the interests of the Protestant EpiscoNew Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. | pal Church.
ON A VERY OLD WEDDING-RING.
THE DEVICE-Two hearts united.
I LIKE that ring—that ancient ring,
Of massive form, and virgin gold, As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old. I like it—for it wafts me back,
Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days,
The men and days of deeds sublime.
| Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,
Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God, In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,
These two the world's rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires,
Their strength might fail, mið life's bleak weather
Kind souls! they slumber now together.
« Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" Thine, when the dark storm howls along,
As when the cloudless sunbeams shine.
Thine, and thine only, and forever;
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Of heartfelt, holy love the token:
But most I like it, as it tells
The tale of well-requited love; How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdain'd to roveHow warmly he his suit preferr'd,
Though she, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,
He won his “fair and blooming bride."
How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hoursHow, then, the white-robed maiden train
Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers-
They stood, in all their youthful pride,
Which bind the husband to his bride:
JEREMIAH xxtil. 29.
All this it tells; the plighted trotl:
The gift of every earthly thing-
For this I like that ancient ring.
them, No mortal change, no mortal ciance, Till death," shall e'er in sinder tear them.
SLEDGE of the Lord, beneath whose stroke
«STAND AS AN ANVIL, WHEN IT IS
But, beam on whomse'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendours may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heartWhat power, the trembling tear to start! The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day :
u Stand, like an anvil," when the stroke
Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast: Storms but more deeply root the oak,
Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. . “Stand like an anvil," when the sparks
Fly, far and wide a fiery shower; Virtue and truth must still be marks,
Where malice proves its want of power. “Stand, like an anvil," when the bar
Lies, red and glowing, on its breast : Duty shall be life's leading star,
And conscious innocence its rest. "Stand like an anvil," when the sound
Of ponderous hammers pains the ear: Thinc, but the still and stern rebound
Of the great heart that cannot fear. “Stand, like an anvil;” noise and beat
Are born of earth, and die with time: The soul, like God, its source and seat,
Is solemn, still, serene, sublime.
THAT SILENT MOON.
'Twas an hour of fearful issues,
When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom,
By that old Thessalian flood; When, lifting high each sword of flame, They call'd on every sacred name, And swore, beside those dashing waves, They never, never would be slaves ! And, O! that oath was nobly kept :
From morn to setting sun Did desperation urge the fight
Which valour had begun; Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood Ran down and mingled with the food, And all, from mountain-cliff to wave, Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave. 0, yes, that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly had been sworn,
The sveman's fetters spurn;
Caat silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky, O! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth ! How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
The happy eves of days gone by; Again to bring, mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years. And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,
Or couch, whence pain has baigsh'd sler : O! softly beams her gentle eye On those who mourn, and those who die!
Sweet Robin, I have heard them say, That thou wert there, upon the day, The Christ was crown'd in cruel scorn; And bore away one bleeding thorn, That, so, the blush upon thy breast, In shameful sorrow, was imfressed; And thence thy genial sympathy, With our redeemed humanity. Sweet Robin, would that I might ve, Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee; Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, The bleeding blazon of the cross; Live, ever, with thy loving mind, In fellowship with human kind; And take my pattern still from thee, In gentleness and constancy. * I have somewhere met with an old legend, that a robia hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn, from our desi Saviour's crown, and dyed his bosom with the blood; and that from that time robins have been the friends of mau
"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?!!
Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts What is that, Mother!—The lark, my child
He had twined about with his infant arts, The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, In the golden orb of his little star: And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
Till, risen with CARIST, we come to be, As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE.
Tais placid lake, my gentle girl, Proudly careering his course of joy;
Be emblem of thy life, Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
As full of peace and purity, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
As free from care and strife; His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
No ripple on its tranquil breast He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. i
That dies not with the day, Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
No pebble in its darkest depths, Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
But quivers in its ray.
And see, how every glorious form What is that, Mother!—The swan, my love!-
And pageant of the skies, He is floating down from his native grove,
Reflected from its glassy face, No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
A mirror'd image lies; He is floating down, by himself to die;
So be thy spirit ever pure, Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
To God and virtue given, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
And thought, and word, and action bear Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
The imagery of heaven. Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.
« Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is." JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYX, 1656.
BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
Lift not thou the wailing voice,
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,
Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;
Heaven its book of comfort opeth;
But, as one who alway hopeth,
Ours be, then, no thought of grieving!
All their toils and troubles leaving:
Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,