A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and GoD o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

THE night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

O no! from that blue tent above

A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,

'The shield of that red star

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars:

I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possess'd.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars,
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if DIANA, in her dreams,
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke ENDYMION with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dream'd not of her love.
Like DIAN's kiss, unask'd, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassion'd gaze.

It comes-the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity-
In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.
O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto its own.

Responds as if, with unseen wings,

A breath from heaven had touch'd its strings;

And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stay'd so long?"

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are number'd,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumber'd
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour-wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,-
By the road-side fell and perish'd,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,-
Folded their pale hands so meekly,—

Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saintlike,
Looking downward from the skies.
Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

THE BELEAGURED CITY.

I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleagured the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flow'd between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
"The mist-like banners clasp'd the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaim'd the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamp'd beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen
And with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.
And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears atar

The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

THE sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear

The blue-bird prophesying Spring.
So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where, waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new-the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves-
There are no birds in last year's nest.
All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight,
And learn from the soft heavens, above
The melting tenderness of night.
Maiden! that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth-it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,

For, O! it is not always May!

Enjoy the spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest,
For Time will teach thee soon the truth-
There are no birds in last year's nest.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

YES, the year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and blear'd! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;

Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of wo,

A sound of wo!

Through woods and mountain-passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing; Pray for this poor soul,
Pray,-pray!

The hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;— But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!

There he stands, in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crown'd with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised LEAR,
A king,-a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
Loveth her ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,

And the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies,

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist nor stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone,

Vex not his ghost!

Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie Eleyson!
Christe Eleyson!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowingOnward through life he goes: Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted-something done. Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of Life

Our fortunes must be wrought, Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought

EXCELSIOR.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flash'd like a faulchion from its sheatn,
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch! Beware the awful avalanche !"

This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint BERNARD
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star!
Excelsior!

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all.
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

MAIDENHOOD.

MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies,
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou, whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,

As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet!
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance.
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.
Then, why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafen'd by the cataract's roar?

O, thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,

May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumber'd
Birds and blossoms many-number'd ;-
Age, that bough with snows encumber'd
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth.
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

MR. LUNT is a native of the pleasant town of Newburyport, near Boston, from which, for a long period, his ancestors and relatives "followed the sea." He was educated at Cambridge, and soon after leaving the university entered upon the study of the law, and, being admitted to the bar, practised his profession in Newburyport until 1849, when, being appointed by President Taylor United States Attorney for Massachusetts, he removed to Boston. He has been a representative of the people in the state Senate and House of Assembly, and has held various other offices.

When he was about nineteen years of age, he

wrote "The Grave of Byron," a poem in the Spenserian measure, which has considerable merit; and, in 1839, appeared a collection of his later productions, of which the largest is a metrical essay entitled Life," in which he has attempted to show, by reference to the condition of society in different ages, that Christianity is necessary to the development of man's moral nature. More recently he has published "The Age of Gold and other Poems;" "Lyric Poems, Sonnets, and Miscellanies;" and two or three other small volumes, besides "Julia," a satire, and a novel in prose, entitled "Eastford," under the pseudonym of WESLEY BROOKE.

AUTUMN MUSINGS.

COME thou with me! If thou hast worn away
All this most glorious summer in the crowd,
Amid the dust of cities, and the din,
While birds were carolling on every spray;
If, from gray dawn to solemn night's approach,
Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts,
Toiling and panting for a little gold;
Drudging amid the very lees of life

For this accursed slave that makes men slaves;
Come thou with me into the pleasant fields:
Let Nature breathe on us and make us free!
For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high,
With the great Spirit of the Universe;
It shall pervade thy soul; it shall renew
The fancies of thy boyhood; thou shalt know
Tears, most unwonted tears dimming thine eyes;
Thou shalt forget, under the old brown oak,
That the good south wind and the liberal west
Have other tidings than the songs of birds,
Or the soft news wafted from fragrant flowers.
Look out on Nature's face, and what hath she
In common with thy feelings? That brown hill,
Upon whose sides, from the gray mountain-ash,
We gather'd crimson berries, look'd as brown
When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns ago;
This pleasant stream, with the well-shaded verge,
On whose fair surface have our buoyant limbs
So often play'd, caressing and caress'd;
Its verdant banks are green as then they were;
So went its bubbling murmur down the tide.
Yes, and the very trees, those ancient oaks,
The crimson-crested maple, feathery elm,
And fair, smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold,
Look like familiar faces of old friends.
From their broad branches drop the wither'd leaves,
Drop, one by one, without a single breath,
Save when some eddying curl round the old roots
Twirls them about in merry sport a while.
They are not changed; their office is not done;

The first soft brecze of spring shall see them fresh
With sprouting twigs bursting from every branch,
As should fresh feelings from our wither'd hearts.
Scorn not the moral; for, while these have warm'd
To annual beauty, gladdening the fields
With new and ever-glorious garniture,
Thou hast grown worn and wasted, almost gray
Even in thy very summer.
"Tis for this

We have neglected nature! Wearing out
Our hearts and all our life's dearest charities
In the perpetual turmoil, when we need
To strengthen and to purify our minds
Amid the venerable woods; to hold

Chaste converse with the fountains and the winds!
So should we elevate our souls; so be
Ready to stand and act a nobler part
In the hard, heartless struggles of the world.

Day wanes; 't is autumn eventide again;
And, sinking on the blue hills' breast, the sun
Spreads the large bounty of his level blaze,
Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees,
And throwing blacker shadows o'er the sheet
Of this dark stream, in whose unruffled tide
Waver the bank-shrub and the graceful clm,
As the gay branches and their trembling leaves
Catch the soft whisper of the coming air:
So doth it mirror every passing cloud,
And those which fill the chambers of the west
With such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones,
Blazon'd with orient gems and barbarous gold.
I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes;

I see those eyes swelling with precious tears;
But, if thou couldst have look'd upon this scene
With a cold brow, and then turn'd back to thoughts
Of traffic in thy fellow's wretchedness,
Thou wert not fit to gaze upon the face
Of Nature's naked beauty; most unfit
To look on fairer things, the loveliness
Of earth's most lovely daughters, whose glad forms
And glancing eyes do kindle the great souls
Of better men to emulate pure thoughts,
And, in high action, all ennobling deeds