REVEREND WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.*

THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OF THE SABBATH SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK, CELEBRATING TOGETHER THE 4TH OF JULY, 1839.

-

O, SIGHT sublime! O, sight of fear!
The shadowing of infinity!
Numbers, whose murmur rises here

Like whisperings of the mighty sea!
Ye bring strange visions to my gaze;

Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims; The sea of glass, the throne of days, Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns. Ye rend the air with grateful songs

For freedom by old warriors won : O, for the battle which your throngs May wage and win through DAVID'S SON! Wealth of young beauty! that now blooms Before me like a world of flowers; High expectation! that assumes

The hue of life's serenest hours; Are ye decaying? Must these forms, So agile, fair, and brightly gay, Hidden in dust, be given to worms

And everlasting night, the prey?

Are ye immortal? Will this mass
Of life, be life, undying still,
When all these sentient thousands pass
To where corruption works its will?
Thought! that takes hold of heaven and hell,
Be in each teacher's heart to-day!
So shall eternity be well

With these, when time has fled away.

TO THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA.

"LEAP forth to the careering seas," O, ship of lofty name!

And toss upon thy native breeze

The stars and stripes of fame!
And bear thy thunders o'er the deep
Where vaunting navies ride!
Thou hast a nation's gems to keep--
Her honour and her pride!
O! holy is the covenant made

With thee and us to-day;
None from the compact shrinks afraid,
No traitor utters nay!

We pledge our fervent love, and thou
Thy glorious ribs of oak,
Alive with men who cannot bow
To kings, nor kiss the yoke!

Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea,

Which deeds of hell deform; And look! her hands are spread to thee Where Afric's robbers swarm.

The Reverend WILLIAM B. TAPPAN is a native of Beverly, in Massachusetts, and now resides in Boston. He is the author of eight or nine volumes of poems, most of which are of a religious character.

Go! lie upon the Egean's breast,
Where sparkle emerald isles-
Go! seek the lawless Suliote's nest,
And spoil his cruel wiles.
And keep, where sail the merchant ships,
Stern watch on their highway,
And promptly, through thine iron lips,
When urged, our tribute pay;
Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power,
Wherever tyrants bind,

In pride of their own little hour,
A freeborn, noble mind.

Spread out those ample wings of thine!—
While crime doth govern men,
'Tis fit such bulwark of the brine

Should leave the shores of PENN;
For hid within thy giant strength

Are germs of welcome peace,
And such as thou, shall cause at length
Man's feverish strife to cease.
From every vale, from every crag,
Word of thy beauty's past,
And joy we that our country's flag
Streams from thy towering mast-
Assured that in thy prowess, thou

For her wilt win renown,

Whose sons can die, but know not how
To strike that pennon down.

JAMES NACK.*

SPRING IS COMING.

SPRING is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are chirping, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escaped from winter's keeping.
In delighted freedom rushing,
Dance along in music gushing,
Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd,
Smile in animation gladden'd;
All is beauty, all is mirth,
All is glory upon earth.

Shout we then with Nature's voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Spring is coming, come, my brother,
Let us rove with one another,
To our well-remember'd wild-wood,
Flourishing in nature's childhood;
Where a thousand flowers are springing,
And a thousand birds are singing;
Where the golden sunbeams quiver
On the verdure-girdled river;
Let our youth of feeling out,
To the youth of nature shout,
While the waves repeat our voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

*Mr. NACK is deaf and dumb, and has been so from his childhood; yet his poetical writings, in almost every variety of measure, are distinguished for more than common melody of versification. A volume of his poems, with a memoir by PROSPER M. WETMORE, was published in New York, in 1836.

REVEREND GEORGE B., CHEEVER.

TO MY SICK AND SUFFERING BROTHER, ON HIS FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

I WISH, dear N., my heart could weave
A strain of simple melody,

Where love in every line should leave

Its own dear tones for thee.

And, sooth, if love could teach the soul
The language of APOLLO's lyre,
My thoughts would all be musical,
My words all wing'd with fire.

The wish, I know, is sadly vain:

Thoughts rise, and fond affections throng, But with the sweetest, white-stoled train There comes no tone of song.

I would chain down the airy crowds,

And keep them while I seek sweet words; Alas! they change like summer-clouds,

They droop like prison'd birds.

How can I paint their changeful dyes,
Or stay them in their flight?
They come like birds from Paradise,
They fly away as light.

The simplest birthday wish is shy;

All Love's best thoughts, of the same race;
For, while I'm sure I have them nigh,
They 've fled, and left no trace.

Dear brother, thou wilt then forgive,
Nor think me less affectionate,
If, while to meet thy wish I strive,
It comes a day too late.

For, were my soul all melody,

My words the same they use in heaven,
This earnest heart could never be

More freely to thee given.
We're one; our mother's equal care;

One in our mutual sympathies,—
And, more than all, in mutual prayer,
By endless, holy ties.

I've rock'd thee in thy cradle,-play'd

With thee in childhood's frolic hours, With thee have roam'd through grove and glade, And pluck'd the vernal flowers.

We've shared old winter's wild delight,

We've gather'd nuts in summer-woods, We've proudly watch'd our breeze-borne kite Among the sailing clouds.

But not in such gay sympathy

Our mutual love has tenderest grown,― For oft must grief's sad harmony

Interpret its deep tone.

When sickness blanch'd thy rosy cheek,

And brought thy buoyant spirit low, How dear thou wast from week to week, I trembled then to know.

Author of "God's Hand in America," "Travels in the East," Editor of "Common-Place Book of American Poetry," etc.

Our youngest, brightest household flower!
It was a melancholy thing

To see thee droop from hour to hour,
In patient suffering.

O, then I felt the privilege

To breathe my silent, humble prayer;—
We wept o'er pains whose wasting edge
My frame could better bear.

I watch'd thy restless sleep,—I tried
To woo thee to thy wonted smile,
And every way, when by thy side,
Thy sufferings to beguile.

These duties were love's natural sphere:

Our drooping flower I cherish'd so, That still the more it ask'd my care, The dearer still it grew.

This day, did fancy paint what's true,

I'm with thee in our own dear home, To talk of such scenes past, and view The heavenly life to come.

This day 't is yet thy being's dawn,

But, ah, how full the mingled scene,
On memory's pictured tablets drawn,
Calm now, and all serene:
Serene, because a blessed faith

Throws o'er each melancholy line
That marks affliction's rugged path,
The gleam of Love Divine.

Through all it sees thy Father's form,

His gracious, guiding hand beholds; And, in the gloomiest of the storm,

Some bright design unfolds.

Amidst the sufferings of years

Thou seest thou didst not walk alone; Where all was agony and tears,

There most His mercy shone.

'Twas thus he drew thy careless heart
Up to a holier world above,
And bade thee choose that better part,
A Saviour's wondrous love...
There is a gayer-colour'd scene

Of laughing health, and dimpled ease,
Thy bounding heart, that knew no pain,
Was wild as any breeze.

The house was merry with thy song,

Thy fawn-like step danced free and wild; And of the happy schoolboy throng

Thou wast the happiest child. All elements to thee look'd gay,

All seasons minister'd delight;"T was constant motion every day,

"T was gentle sleep at night. How soon a cloud of dreary hue

Chased the bright jubilee away!
Yet, wast thou happier then than now?
Dear, patient brother, say.

I know thine answer well. In vain
Are youth, and health, and spirits given,
If, strangers still to care and pain,
We never think of Heaven.

What soothes the soul, betrays;-select
The best possessions earth can grant,
Our thankless heart may still reject
Its heavenly Visitant.

A life all ease is all abused ;

O, precious grace! that made thee wise
To know,-affliction, rightly used,
Is mercy in disguise.

The pleasures of the happiest boy
Are not so bright as fugitive;—
But, O! the endless, heavenly joy
Thy Saviour's smile can give!
For this my fervent thanks I raise,

That He, whose love is wisdom too,
Makes thee partaker of his grace,

By trials here below.

Should health and active power return,
And life put on a brighter glow,
Be often at his cross, and learn
His goodness best to show.

"Tis only He who gives the boon
By grace can make it truly good;
And I would have thy life be one
Of ceaseless gratitude.

In active health or sad disease,

O, ne'er forget that precious word—
"He shall be kept in perfect peace,
Whose soul is stay'd on God."
If still thy feeble frame decay,

Thou art beyond its weak control,—
The vision of eternal day

Lifts up thy strengthen'd soul. CHRIST holds thee in his powerful hand; Soon, every foe and fear subdued, Thy feet shall press the shining land, Beyond Death's narrow flood. Yet, if his blessed will reserve

Thy faith for trials long and late, Remember then, "they also serve, Who only stand and wait."

Yet, mark me! When a few short years
Have hurried on their journey fleet,
Not one that now my accents hears
Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship's chain-
But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?
No-pour the wine again!

CATHERINE H. ESLING.*

BROTHER, COME HOME.

COME home!

Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep,
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee,
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine, Come where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, Where cherish'd memory rears her altar's shrine; Brother, come home.

Come home!

Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days,
Come to the ark, like the o'er-wearied dove,
Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays,
Come to the fireside circle of thy love;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

It is not home without thee, the lone seat
Is still unclaim'd where thou wert wont to be,
In every echo of returning feet,

In vain we list for what should herald thee;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring,
Watch'd every germ the full-blown flowers rear,
Seen o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring
Its icy garlands, and thou art not here;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep,
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee,
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody;
Brother, come home.

The maiden name of Mrs. ESLING was CATHERINE H. WATERMAN. She resides in Philadelphia, and has been for several years a frequent contributor to the periodicals of that city. She has also edited two or three annuaries. No collection of her metrical compositions has been published.

2 P2

JOHN B. VAN SCHAICK.*

JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND STILL.

THE day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers
Flash'd the red sunbeams gloriously back,
And the wind-driven banners, and the steel
Of her ten thousand spears caught dazzlingly
The sun, and on the fortresses of rock
Play'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'd
To the stern men who girded by its light.
Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breath
Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon,
Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet,
Wild spices, and the trees of gum were shook
By the rude armour on their branches hung.
Suddenly in the camp, without the walls,
Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war
Gather'd around their kings, and "JOSHUA!
From Gilgal, JOSHUA!" was whisper'd low,
As with a secret fear, and then, at once,
With the abruptness of a dream, he stood
Upon the rock before them. Calmly then
Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare,
And hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd:
"God of this people hear! and let the sun
Stand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moon
Rest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased:
And, lo! the moon sits motionless, and earth
Stands on her axis indolent. The sun
Pours the unmoving column of his rays
In undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still;
The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face;
The clouds and vapours, that at night are wont
To gather and enshroud the lower earth,
Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them
Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand,
Glancing o'er mountain-tops, and shining down
In broken masses on the astonish'd plains.
The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds;
The weary birds go to their leafy nests,
But find no darkness there, and wander forth
On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest;

[up,

The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews,
Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, midday heat,
Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart.
On with thy armies, JOSHUA! The LORD
Gon of Sabaoth is the avenger now!
His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath
Poureth the beams of the retarded sun,

With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight.
The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky;
Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice,
Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels.
On! till avenging swords have drunk the blood
Of all JEHOVAH's enemies, and till
Thy banners in returning triumph wave;
Then yonder orb shall set mid golden clouds,
And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth,
Show in the heavens the glorious bow of Gon,
Shining, the rainbow-banner of the skies.

For many years editor of "The Daily Advertiser," of Albany, New York. He died in 1839, at the age of thirty-six years.

ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER.

THE DEVOTED.†

STERN faces were around her bent,

And eyes of vengeful ire,

And fearful were the words they spake,
Of torture, stake, and fire:

Yet calmly in the midst she stood,
With eye undimm'd and clear,

And though her lip and cheek were white,
She wore no sign of fear.

"Where is thy traitor spouse?" they said;
A half-form'd smile of scorn,
That curl'd upon her haughty lip,

Was back for answer borne;-
"Where is thy traitor spouse?" again,
In fiercer tones they said,

And sternly pointed to the rack,
All rusted o'er with red!

Her heart and pulse beat firm and free,
But in a crimson flood,

O'er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow,
Rush'd up the burning blood;
She spake, but proudly rose her tones,
As when in hall or bower,

The haughtiest chief that round her stood
Had meekly own'd their power.

"My noble lord is placed within
A safe and sure retreat"-
"Now tell us where, thou lady bright,
As thou wouldst mercy meet,
Nor deem thy life can purchase his-
He cannot 'scape our wrath,
For many a warrior's watchful eye
Is placed o'er every path.

"But thou mayst win his broad estates,
To grace thine infant heir,

And life and honour to thyself,

So thou his haunts declare."

She laid her hand upon her heart;

Her eye flash'd proud and clear, And firmer grew her haughty tread"My lord is hidden here!

"And if ye seek to view his form,

Ye first must tear away,

From round his secret dwelling-place,
These walls of living clay!"

They quail'd beneath her haughty glance,
They silent turn'd aside,

And left her all unharm'd amidst

Her loveliness and pride!

* Born in Wilmington, Delaware, in 1807, and died in Michigan, in 1831. She was a member of the Society of Friends. A volume of her writings was published in 1836. + It was a beautiful turn given by a great lady, who being asked where her husband was, when he lay concealed for having been deeply concerned in a conspiracy, resolutely answered that she had hidden him. This confession caused her to be carried before the governor, who told her that naught but confessing where she had hidden him, could save her from the torture. “And will that do ?” said she. "Yes," replied the governor, "I will pass my word for your safety, on that condition." "Then," replied she, "I have hidden him in my heart, where you may find him.”

HUGH PETERS.*

A GOOD-NIGHT TO CONNECTICUT.

THE boat swings from the pebbled shore,
And proudly drives her prow;
The crested waves roll up before:
Yon dark-gray land, I see no more,
How sweet it seemeth now!
Thou dark-gray land, my native land,
Thou land of rock and pine,
I'm speeding from thy golden sand;
But can I wave a farewell hand

To such a shore as thine!

I've gazed upon the golden cloud

Which shades thine emerald sod;
Thy hills, which Freedom's share hath plough'd,
Which nurse a race that have not bow'd

Their knee to aught but Gon;
Thy mountain floods which proudly fling
Their waters to the fall-

Thy birds, which cut with rushing wing
The sky that greets thy coming spring,

And thought thy glories small.

But now ye've shrunk to yon blue line
Between the sky and sea,

I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine,
I feel my bosom cling to thine-

That I am part of thee.

I see thee blended with the wave,
As children see the earth
Close up a sainted mother's grave:
They weep for her they cannot save,

And feel her holy worth.

Thou mountain land-thou land of rock,
I'm proud to call thee free;
Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock,

And nerved like those who stood the shock
At old Thermopyla.

The laurel wreaths their fathers won,
The children wear them still-
Proud deeds those iron men have done,
They fought and won at Bennington,
And bled at Bunker Hill.

There's grandeur in the lightning stroke

That rives thy mountain ash;
There's glory in thy giant oak,
And rainbow beauty in the smoke
Where crystal waters dash:
There's music in thy winter blast

That sweeps the hollow glen;
Less sturdy sons would shrink aghast
From piercing winds like those thou hast
To nurse thine iron men.

And thou hast gems; ay, living pearls;
And flowers of Eden hue:

Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls,
Of fairy forms and elfin curls,

And smiles like Hermon's dew:

They've hearts like those they're born to wed,

Too proud to nurse a slave;

HUGH PETERS was a native of Connecticut. He was drowned, near Cincinnati, in 1832, aged about thirty years.

They'd scorn to share a monarch's bed,
And sooner lay their angel head
Deep in their humble grave.

And I have left thee, home, alone,
A pilgrim from thy shore;
The wind goes by with hollow moan,
I hear it sigh a warning tone,

"You see your home no more."
I'm cast upon the world's wide sea,
Torn like an ocean weed;
I'm cast away, far, far from thee,
I feel a thing I cannot be,

A bruised and broken reed.
Farewell, my native land, farewell!
That wave has hid thee now-
My heart is bow'd as with a spell.
This rending pang!-would I could tell
What ails my throbbing brow!
One look upon that fading streak

Which bounds yon eastern sky; One tear to cool my burning cheek; And then a word I cannot speak"My native land-Good-bye."

FREDERICK W. THOMAS.*

'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE.

"TIs said that absence conquers love!

But, O! believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.

Lady, though fate has bid us part,

Yet still thou art as dear,
As fix'd in this devoted heart
As when I clasp'd thee here.
I plunge into the busy crowd,
And smile to hear thy name;
And yet, as if I thought aloud,

They know me still the same.
And when the wine-cup passes round,
I toast some other fair,-

But when I ask my heart the sound,
Thy name is echo'd there.

And when some other name I learn,
And try to whisper love.

Still will my heart to thee return,
Like the returning dove.

In vain! I never can forget,

And would not be forgot;
For I must bear the same regret,
Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek
Its favourite bower to die,
So, lady, I would hear thee speak,
And yield my parting sigh.
"Tis said that absence conquers love!
But, O, believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.

* Author of "East and West," "Clinton Bradshaw," "The Emigrant," &c.