In vain, in vain the hero calls- In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud : Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, Of ignorance hath brooded long, The sons of science and of song. Thy sun hath set-the evening storm And spread its pall upon the sky! And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! TO THE DYING YEAR. THOU desolate and dying year! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career, Like thine, is bounded to a span; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth. Sad alteration! now how lone, How verdureless is nature's breast, Where ruin makes his empire known, In autumn's yellow vesture dress'd; The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet Broke on the breath of early day, Thou desolate and dying year! As beauty stretch'd upon the bier, In death's clay-cold and dark caress; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill. Yet, yet the radiance is not gone, Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the golden dawn, When skies were brilliant and serene; O! still a melancholy smile Gleams upon Nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while, Ere ruin spreads his mantle there! Thou desolate and dying year! Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear, And knelt beside the bed of death; How many hearts, that lightly sprung When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung, Have yielded life's expiring sigh, And, pillow'd low beneath the clay, Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn; The proud, the gentle, and the gay, Gather'd unto the mouldering urn; While freshly flow'd the frequent tear For love bereft, affection fled; For all that were our blessings here, The loved, the lost, the sainted dead' Thou desolate and dying year! The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons, impressive and serene, Of deep and stern morality; Thou teachest how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by nature, rear'd by truth, Withers, like thee, in dark decay. Promise of youth fair as the form Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, Whose origin is from on high, From the pure fountains of the sky; That ray which glows and brightens still, Unchanged, eternal and divine; Where seraphs own its holy thrill, And bow before its gleaming shrine. Thou desolate and dying year! Prophetic of our final fall; Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear; A brilliancy upon thy prime, Unto the expanded grave of time. Time! Time in thy triumphal flight, How all life's phantoms fleet away; Thy smile of hope, and young delight, Fame's meteor-beam, and Fancy's ray: They fade; and on the heaving tide, Rolling its stormy waves afar, There, in disorder, dark and wild, Are seen the fabrics once so high; Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of eternity! And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms That gather'd round the brow of Time. Thou desolate and dying year! Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear, And leave the spirit to repine. Its fresh and sparkling waters on, Which destiny hath overspread; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight Where the death-wing of time hath sped! O! thus hath life its even-tide Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief; Which heralds man unto the tomb! TO THE AUTUMN LEAF. THOU faded leaf! it seems to be On field, on flower, and spray; It promised fair; how changed the scene So fares it with life's early spring; Her fond, delusive lay: Then the young, fervent heart beats high, With bright, unceasing play; Is beauty in her morning pride, And hope illumes its placid tide: When hope and bliss have died! And valour's laurel wreath must fade; Must lose the freshness, and the bloom On which the beam of glory play'd; The banner waving o'er the crowd, And warning tone in thy decay ; Of joy's beclouded ray; Life, rapture, hope, ye are as brief And fleeting as the autumn leaf! THE LAST SONG. STRIKE the wild harp yet once again! Be hush'd in death for evermore. Creative fancy, be thou still; And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue; Which plays its pensive strings along! The saddest and the latest lay; The hours of youth and song have pass'd, JOY AND SORROW. Joy kneels, at morning's rosy prime, She wanders forth to muse and weep. Joy loves to cull the summer-flower, Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; When the frail bud hath lost its worth, And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest, Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, To wither on her wither'd breast. 66 GEORGE P. MORRIS. [Born, 1801.] THIS popular song-writer is a native of Philadelphia. In common with many prominent authors of the present time, he commenced his literary career by contributions to the journals. When about fifteen years of age he wrote verses for the New York Gazette," and he subsequently filled occasionally" the poet's corner" in the "American," at that time under the direction of Mr. JOHNSON VERPLANCK. In 1823, with the late Mr. WoodWORTH, he established the "New York Mirror," a weekly miscellany which for nearly nineteen years was conducted with much taste and ability. In 1827 his play, in five acts, entitled "Brier Cliff, a tale of the American Revolution," was brought out at the Chatham Theatre by Mr. WALLACK, and acted forty nights successively. I have been informed that its popularity was so great that it was played at four theatres in New York, to full houses, on the same evening, and that it yielded the author a profit of three thousand five hundred dollars, a larger sum, probably, than was ever paid for any other dramatic composition in the United States. In 1836 General MORRIS published a volume of amusing prose writings under the title of "The Little Frenchman and his Water Lots;" in 1838 The Deserted Bride and other Poems," of which an enlarged edition, illustrated by WIER and CHAPMAN, appeared in 1843; and in 1844 a complete collection of his "Songs and Ballads." The composition which is understood to rank highest in his own estimation is the poetry of "The Maid of Saxony," an opera with music by Mr. CHARLES HORN, produced at the Park Theatre in 1842. In 1843, in conjunction with Mr. WILLIS, he reestablished "The Mirror," and he is now associated with that popular author in conducting "The Home Journal." If there is any literary work which calls for a special gift of nature, perhaps it is the song. In terms of a sounder theory, I may say, that its successful accomplishment, beyond almost any other composition, demands an intelligent insight into the principles upon which its effect depends, and a capacity, if not to combine with imposing strength, yet to select with the nicest judgment. Other productions often gratify long and highly, in spite of considerable defects, while the song, to succeed at all, must be nearly perfect. It implies a taste delicately skilled in the fine influences of language. It has often shunned the diligence of men who have done greater things. Starting from some common perception, by almost a crystalline process of accretion, it should grow up into a poem. Its first note should find the hearer in sympathy with it, and its last should leave him moved and wondering. Throughout, it must have an affi | nity to some one fixed idea. Its propriety is, not so much to give expression to a feeling existing in the bosom of the author, as to reproduce that feeling in the heart of the listener. The tone of the composition ought therefore to be, as much as is possible, below the force of the feeling which it would inspire. It should be simple, entire, and glowing. The distinction and difficulty of the song are illustrated by the genius of JoNSON, MARLOWE, and DRYDEN; by the fame of MOORE, and the failure of BYRON. Several of the songs of MoRRIS, whether judged of by their success, or by the application of any rules of criticism, are nearly faultless. They are in a very chaste style of art. They have the simplicity which is the characteristic of the classic models, and the purity which was once deemed an indispensable quality in the lyric poet. They are marked by neatness of language, free from every thing affected or finical; a natural elegance of sentiment, and a correct moral purpose. His best effusions have few marks of imitation; they are like each other, but no English song can be named from which, in character and tone, they are not different. "The Chieftain's Daughter" is an example of the narrative song, in which the whole story is told, in a few lines, without omission and without redundancy; "When other friends are round thee," is a beautiful expression of affection; "Land, Ho!" is an exceedingly spirited and joyous nautical piece; and in "Near the Lake," the very delicate effect which the author has contemplated is attained with remarkable precision. In sentiment, as in sound, there are certain natural melodies, which seem to be discovered rather than contrived, and which, as they are evolved from time to time by the felicity or skill of successive artists, are sure to be received with unbounded popularity. The higher and more elaborate productions of genius are best appreciated by the thoughtful analysis of a single critic; but the appropriate test of the merit of these simple, apparently almost spontaneous effusions, is the response which they meet with from the common heart of man. The melodies of MoZART and AUBER, doubtless, enchanted their ears who first heard them played by the composers, but we know them to be founded in the enduring truth of art, only because they have made themselves a home in the streets of every city of Europe and America, and after long experience have been found to be among the natural formulas by which gaiety and melancholy express themselves in every rank and in every land. The song of " Woodman, spare that Tree," has touched one of those cords of pervading nature which fraternize multitudes of different nations. THE WEST. Ho! brothers-come hither and list to my story- more; And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling The children who cluster like grapes at the door, Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; The land of the heart is the land of the west. Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho! Talk not of the town, boys,-give me the broad prairie, Where man like the wind roams impulsive and Behold how its beautiful colours all vary, [free; Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing; With proud independence we season our cheer, And those who the world are for happiness ranging, Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the west. Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho! Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger, We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own; We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, And care not a fig for the king on his throne; We never know want, for we live by our labour, And in it contentment and happiness find; We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour, And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; You know how we live, boys, and die in the west! Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho! "LAND-HO!" Up, up, with the signal! The land is in sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd, And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last. In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, To soothe us in absence of those left behind. Land-land-ho! All hearts glow with joy at the sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! The holiest spot on the face of the earth! Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care, Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair! One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells, To woman-God bless her!-wherever she dwells! THE PILOT'S ON BOARD!-and, thank Heaven, all's right! So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER. UPON the barren sand A single captive stood, Around him came, with bow and brand, The red men of the wood. Like him of old, his doom he hears, Rock-bound on ocean's rim: The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, And breathed a prayer for him. Above his head in air, The savage war-club swung, The frantic girl, in wild despair, Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb, Subdued by that heroic maid Who breathed a prayer for him. "Unbind him?" gasp'd the chief, 66 Obey your king's decree!" He kiss'd away her tears of grief, And set the captive free. "Tis ever thus, when in life's storm, Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him. "WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE." When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine, When other bays have crown'd thee, More fresh and green than mine, Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it throbs, throbs only, Beloved one, for thee! Yet do not think I doubt thee, This heart still turns to thee. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.* WOODMAN, spare that tree! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Cut not its earth-bound ties; Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters play'd. My mother kiss'd me here; My father press'd my handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. *After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare that tree, at Boulogne, says Mr. Henry Russell, the vocalist, an old gentleman, among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, but was the tree really spared?" "It was," said I. "I am very glad to hear it," said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. I never saw such excitement in a concert-room. AN ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Yet none of all the swains who sought her, The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain, And many follow'd in her train, To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart, they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter. One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest; He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which cannot falter, Her hand was given at the altar, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter. How seldom learn the worldly gay, With all their sophistry and art, To woman's fond, devoted heart: |