RICHARD HENRY DANA.

OF THE

UNIVERSITY

017

CALIFORNIA

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,
Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord
With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,
One spirit did ye urge,-

The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead
From out thy gloomy cells

A tale of mourning tells,

Tells of man's woe and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird! and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more!

Come, quit with me the shore

For gladness, and the light

Where birds of summer sing!

THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET.

THOUGH I am humble, slight me not,
But love me for the Poet's sake;
Forget me not till he's forgot;

I care or slight with him would take.

For oft he pass'd the blossoms by,

And gazed on me with kindly look;
Left flaunting flowers and open sky,
And woo'd me by the shady brook.

And like the brook his voice was low:
So soft, so sad the words he spoke,
That with the stream they seem'd to flow:
They told me that his heart was broke ;-

They said, the world he fain would shun,
And seek the still and twilight wood,-
His spirit, weary of the sun,

In humblest things found chiefest good ;

That I was of a lowly frame,

And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name, But flutter'd out its idle hour;

That I was kind to old decay,

And wrapt it softly round in green,
On naked root and trunk of gray
Spread out a garniture and screen :—

They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me;
That on his manhood fell a blast,

And left him bare, like yonder tree;

That spring would clothe his boughs no more, Nor ring his boughs with song of bird,Sounds like the melancholy shore

Alone were through his branches heard.

Methought, as then, he stood to trace
The wither'd stems, there stole a tear,
That I could read in his sad face-

Brothers! our sorrows make us near.

And then he stretch'd him all along,
And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song.
How glad was I to tend his rest!

Then happier grew his soothed soul.

He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play Upon my face, as in it stole,

Whispering-" Above is brighter day!"

He praised my varied hues, the green,
The silver hoar, the golden brown;
Said-Lovelier hues were never seen;
Then gently press'd my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,

He call'd them trees, in fond conceit: Like silly lovers in their suits

He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,
Could I but chase away his care,
And clothe me in a thousand hues,
To bring him joys that I might share.

He answer'd, earth no blessing had
To cure his lone and aching heart;
That I was one, when he was sad,
Oft stole him from his pain, in part.

But e'en from thee, he said, I go,
To meet the world, its care and strife,
No more to watch this quiet flow,
Or spend with thee a gentle life.

And yet the brook is gliding on,
And I, without a care, at rest;
While back to toiling life he's gone,

Where finds his head no faithful breast.

Deal gently with him, World! I pray;
Ye cares! like soften'd shadows come;

His spirit, well-nigh worn away,
Asks with ye but awhile a home.

O, may I live, and when he dies
Be at his feet a humble sod;
O, may I lay me where he lies,

To die when he awakes in God!

LYDIA HOWARD HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Born at Norwich, Connecticut, 1791-died 1865.

YE

INDIAN NAMES.

say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave;

That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave;

That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout:
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curl'd,

Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins,

That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves
Before the autumn's gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreath'd it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within its rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust:

Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1791-died 1875.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

(TO TWO SWALLOWS IN A CHURCH.)
GAY, guiltless pair!

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,

Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep!

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

In

And join the choirs that sing

yon blue dome not rear'd with hands!

Or, if ye stay,

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power!