Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival; And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded With banner-folds of glory their dark pall. Who will believe-not I-for in deceiving Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream; I cannot spare the luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem. Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower; With look, like patient JOB's, eschewing evil; With motions graceful as a bird's in air; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clinch'd fingers in a captive's hair? That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat o' mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee? And underneath that face like summer's ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear. Love-for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred of missionaries and cold water; Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne. CONNECTICUT. AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea That murmurs at their feet, a conquer'd wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Where breathes no castled lord or cabin'd slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they Nor even then, unless in their own way. [pray, Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, A "fierce democracie," where all are true To what themselves have voted-right or wrongAnd to their laws, denominated blue; (If red, they might to DRACO's code belong ;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the west. A justice of the peace, for the time being, They bow to, but may turn him out next year: They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things; and should PARK appear From his long tour in Africa, to show [know. The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-We They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and de: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching The A B C from WEBSTER'S spelling-book; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook," And what the moralists call overreaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes As GABRIEL on the devil in Paradise. But these are but their outcasts. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear, Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Of life's best angel, health, is on her gales Through sun and snow-and, in the autumn time, Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. Her clear, warm heaven at noon, the mist that shrouds Her twilight hills,-her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. And when you dream of woman, and her love; Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove; The mother, smiling in her infant's bower; Forms, features, worshipp'd while we breathe or move, Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour, Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find them there. ALNWICK CASTLE. HOME of the Percy's high-born race, A gentle hill its side inclines, Lovely in England's fadeless green, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Gaze on the Abbey's ruin'd pile : Does not the succouring ivy, keeping One solitary turret gray Still tells, in melancholy glory, The Percy's proudest border story. The music of the trump and drum; Wild roses by the abbey towers Are gay in their young bud and bloom: They were born of a race of funeral flowers That garlanded, in long-gone hours, A Templar's knightly tomb. He died, the sword in his mailed hand, On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, Where the Cross was damp'd with his dying breath, When blood ran free as festal wine, And the sainted air of Palestine Was thick with the darts of death. Wise with the lore of centuries, What tales, if there be "tongues in trees," Of beings born and buried here; And traced upon the chapel walls From him who once his standard set Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons; To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons. That last half stanza-it has dash'd Men in the coal and cattle line; These are not the romantic times So dazzling to the dreaming boy: Has call'd "the era of good feeling :" And leave off cattle-stealing; The Douglas in red herrings: The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come to-day the turban'd Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die: And not a sabre blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry. You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the arm'd pomp of feudal state? Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And one, half groom, half seneschal, MAGDALEN. A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet The Spirit of the buried Time, And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright Alone illumed my cradle-bed; My banner where Bolivar led, Or manhood's pride was on my brow. In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, And waited but the sea wind's wings, Her battle, in its frown or smile, Or die with those of Scio's isle; The scene of my boy-years behind, To-day there is a change within me, There is a weight upon my brow, And Fame, whose whispers once could win me From all I loved, is powerless now. There ever is a form, a face Of maiden beauty in my dreams, To ocean of the mountain streams- My heart-the fabled clock of death, Beats with the same low, lingering tone: And this, the land of Magdalen, Seems now the only spot on earth Where skies are blue and flowers are green; And here I'd build my household hearth, And breathe my song of joy, and twine A lovely being's name with mine. In vain! in vain! the sail is spread; To sea! to sea! my task is there; But when among the unmourned dead They lay me, and the ocean air Brings tidings of my day of doom, Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, In smile and voice, in eye and heart TWILIGHT. THERE is an evening twilight of the heart, We gaze upon them as they melt away, In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow; Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born; We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue, Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few. And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye, Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. "Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, [green. Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, [now; Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar, And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor bearer of our parting breath, A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. ין MARCO BOZZARIS.* AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour In dreams, through camp and court, he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; At midnight, in the forest shades, BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke; To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, BOZZARIS cheer his band: "Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires; They fought-like brave men, long and well; Bleeding at every vein. And the red field was won: Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! *He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain." Come in consumption's ghastly form, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prison'd men: Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas. BOZZARIS! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells: For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears: And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. [Born, 1796.] known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His "Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published a volume entitled "The Outcast, and other Poems," most of the contents of which had previously been printed; and, in 1841, "Sketches from a Student's Window," a collection of poems and prose writings that had originally appeared in "The Token" and other periodicals. SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of | he published most of the poems of which he is Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years. In this series Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is question. able whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully. BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS. I. I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's newHow the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. II. Ere the old world yet had found the new, But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch- Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the And the other with blossoms encircled its brow,- gold, And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds roll'd. wretch! But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks, 'Tis as true as the fairy tales told in the books. |