The primrose-bells each morning ope Had that witch ne'er crossed the sea Many years my direst pain Has made the wave-rocked isle complain. THE CONTINENTS. I HAD a vision in that solemn hour, Last of the year sublime, Whose wave sweeps downward, with its dying power Rippling the shores of Time! On the bleak margin of that hoary sea My spirit stood alone, Watching the gleams of phantom History Then when the bell of midnight, ghostly hands I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient lands The crowned deities, whose reign began In the forgotten Past, When first the glad world gave to sovereign Man First queenly ASIA, from the fallen thrones The dust of ruin to her mantle clung While the majestic sorrows of her tongue From Tyre to Indus roll'd: "Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of wo, From its lost childhood, like the arctic glow In the red desert moulders Babylon, "Gone are the deities who ruled enshrined And Brahma's wailings fill the odorous wind The ancient gods amid their temples fall, And shapes of some near doom Trembling and waving on the Future's wall, More fearful make my gloom!" Then from her seat, amid the palms embower'd That shade the Lion-land, Swart AFRICA in dusky aspect tower'd The fetters on her hand! Backward she saw, from out her drear eclipse, And the deep anguish of her mournful lips "Wo for my children, whom your gyves have bound Through centuries of toil; The bitter wailings of whose bondage sound Leave me but free, though the eternal sand Though the rude splendours of barbaric land But mock my crownless brow!" There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown, A ringing, as of arms, When EUROPE rose, a stately Amazon, Stern in her mailed charms. And like a seer, who reads the awful stars, "I hear new sounds along the ancient shore, Of tides, that broke on many a system hoar, I see a gleaming, like the crimson morn And warning throes, my bosom long has borne, O radiant-brow'd, the latest born of Time! Before the splendours of thine eye sublime, Pure, as the winds of thine own forests are, And day's bright oriflamme, the morning star, "I bear no weight," so rang thy jubilant tones, "Of memories weird and vast No crushing heritage of iron thrones, But mighty hopes that learn'd to tower and soar "Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb, The ancient lights expire; I wave a torch, that floods the lessening gloom With everlasting fire! Crown'd with my constellated stars, I stand THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. GUSTY and raw was the morning, A fog hung over the seas, Were torn by the mountain trees; Rode down to the Paso del Mar. The pescador, out in his shallop, Loom over the waste of the tide; Where the faint, moving speck of the rider Stout PABLO of San Diego Rode down from the hills behind; Good reason had he to be gone! The fury was hot in his brain, When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; The gray mule stood firm as the headland : Rang faint through the mist afar, KUBLEH: A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT. THE black-eyed Children of the Desert drove Their flocks together at the set of sun. The tents were pitch'd; the weary camels bent Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand; The hunters quarter'd by the kindled fires The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain, And all the stir and sound of evening ran Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air Bore its full burden of confused delight Across the flowery plain, and while, afar, The snows of Koordish mountains in the ray Flash'd roseate amber, Nimroud's ancient mound Rose broad and black against the burning west. The shadows deepen'd and the stars came out, Sparkling through violet ether; one by one Glimmer'd the ruddy camp-fires on the plain, And shapes of steed and horseman moved among The dusky tents, with shout and jostling cry, And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran To hold the thongs, while every rider drove His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door Tether'd the horse he loved. In midst of all Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch— The foal of wondrous Kubleh-to the Sheik A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls. But when their meal was o'er-when the red fires Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bay'dWhen Shammar hunters with the boys sat down To cleanse their bloody knives, came ALIMAR, The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love Are sweeter than Balsora's nightingales— Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood Like war itself: who knows not ALIMAR? "Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw- "Gon is great! In Bagdad's stables, from the marble floor- "Who ever told, in all the Desert Land, The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell Whence came she, whence her like shall come again? O Arabs, like a tale of SCHEREZADE Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried On the hot eve of battle, is her story. "Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say, Did SOFUK find her, by a lonely palm. The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eye Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs Were lean with thirst. He check'd his camel's pace, And while it knelt, untied the water-skin, And when the wild mare drank, she follow'd him. Thence none but SOFUK might the saddle gird Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear About her shining head, that brook'd no curb From even him; for she, alike, was royal. Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace, Than some impassion'd Almée's, when the dance Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air. Her light, free head was ever held aloft; Between her slender and transparent ears The silken forelock toss'd; her nostril's arch, Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread, Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neck Curved to the shoulder like an eagle's wing, And all her matchless lines of flank and limb Seem'd fashion'd from the flying shapes of air By hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rang From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears. "The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her: SOFUK before the Shammar bands she bore To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not To bid her welcome; and the savage Koord, Chased from his bold irruption on the plain, "The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her: "And SOFUK loved her. She was more to him Than all his snowy-bosom'd odalisques. For many years, beside his tent she stood, The glory of the tribe. "At last she died: To save his treasure, though himself were lost, "They dug her grave O Arabs, though the world be doom'd to live CHARLES G. EASTMAN. [Born, MR. EASTMAN was educated at the University of Vermont, and has been for several years engaged as a journalist, at Burlington, Woodstock, and Montpelier. He now resides in the latter town, where he is editor of "The Vermont Patriot," the leading gazette of the democratic party in the state. In 1848 he published a collection of "Poems," nearly all of which had previously appeared in various literary miscellanies. They are chiefly lyrical, and the author displays in them THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR. While his hale old wife with busy care A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye- The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor Was turning the spinning-wheel; Still the farmer sat in his easy chair, MILL MAY. THE strawberries grow in the mowing, MILL MAY, Where the clover is growing, MILL MAY. We'll pick the ripe clusters among the deep grass, And your lip the strawberry leave on it, MILL MAT, HER GRAVE IS BY HER MOTHER'S. HER grave is by her mother's, Where the strawberries grow wild, And there they've slept for many a year, The mother and the child. She was the frailest of us all, And, from her mother's breast, So frail, alas! she could not bear How hard we strove to save her, love Some thirteen summers from her birth, We laid her by her mother, Where the strawberries grow wild, And there they sleep together well, The mother and the child! R. H. STODDARD. [Born, about 1826.] MR. STODDARD is a young man, who has within a year or two appeared before the public as a poet. The first poem to which his name was attached attracted notice by a purity and quiet grace of language, which, though echoing at times the masters of song whom he studied, would have suggested a greater range of opportunity and experience than he actually possessed. In the autumn of 1848 he collected a number of his effusions, most of which had previously been published in the Knickerbocker and Union Magazine, into a small volume, with the title of "Foot-Prints." This essay was well received; notwithstanding some traces of unconscious imitation, natural to a young writer, it gave evidence of a clear and vigorous fancy and a correct appreciation of the harmonies of sound and rhythm. Perhaps the most individual trait displayed in its pages is a capacity for finished and picturesque description. His landscapes have a sharp and distinct outline, in which none of the minor features are omitted-a keen perception of form, in striking contrast to the more glowing coloring and careless outline of young writers in general. Mr. STODDARD's best poems, from which the following selections are taken, have been written since the appearance of his volume. They give evidence of growing power and a capacity of attaining high excellence in a school of poetry of which we have few modern specimens. The poem of "Leonatus," in its daintiness of metre and language, reminds one of the old English songwriters, whose purity of diction Mr. STODDARD evidently endeavours to emulate. Fortunately for him, he has the industry and untiring enthusiasm without which lasting success is impossible, his literary studies being prosecuted entirely in the scanty intervals of severe physical labour. Mr. STODDARD is a native of Hingham, Massachusetts, but has resided several years in the city of New York. He was about twenty-one years of age when he published his "Foot-Prints." LEONATUS. A LEAF FROM "CYMBELINE." I. THE Orphan LEONATUS, His father died when he was small: A legacy unto his son; Other fortune he had none What need of more, what could he claim As precious as a soldier's fame? II. The fair boy LEONATUS, He was now a dainty youth, His brow was smooth, and fair, and high, He was soft and low of speech; A shower of tresses rich and bright, Like the sunny locks of Spring Falling o'er its snowy wing. III. The sweet boy LEONATUS, It was his duty evermore By peep of day he might be seen, JV. The brave boy LEONATUS, He tripp'd along the kingly hall, From room to room, with messages; He stopp'd the butler, clutch'd his keys, And dragg'd him with his hand so small Into the dusty vaults, where wine In bins lay beaded and divine; He pick'd a flask of vintage fine, Came out, and clomb the garden wall, And pluck'd from out the sunny spots Peaches and luscious apricots, |