ALBERT G. GREENE. [Born, 1802.] MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since remained. One of his earliest metrical compositions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university. His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sun Whose fame had ne'er been bent Its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say My days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed Their own liege lord and master born,- "And what is death? I've dared him oft "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,- Bid each retainer arm with speed,- Up with my banner on the wall,— The banquet board prepare,- With many a martial tread, Along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, Carved oaken chair of state, With girded falchion, sate. "Fill every beaker up, my men, Pour forth the cheering wine; There's life and strength in every drop,Thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?— "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,And let me hear your faithful steel Clash once around my board: I hear it faintly-Louder yet!— What clogs my heavy breath? Up all, and shout for RUDIGER, " Defiance unto Death!"" Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel, -And rose a deafening cry That made the torches flare around, And shook the flags on high"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?— Slaves, traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have left me ye To meet him here alone! But I defy him:-let him come!" Came flashing halfway up; And, with the black and heavy plumes TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE. THE dawn has broke, the morn is up, And there thy poised and gilded spear Upon that steep and lofty tower Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel, While all around thee slept. For years, upon thee, there has pour'd And through the long, dark, starless night, By day and night the same, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, No chilling blast in wrath has swept But thou hast watch'd its onward course, Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes How oft I've seen, at early dawn, Or twilight's quiet hour, Come darting round thy tower, Or bid ye both,-good-night. And when, around thee or above, No breath of air has stirr'd, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight Till, after twittering round thy head The whole delighted company Have settled on thy back. Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, Men slander thee, my honest friend, They have no right to make thy name Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known But when thou changest sides, canst give Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course Art touch'd by many airs from heaven Which they do never know, Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod Through one more dark and cheerless night The morning light has burst. And unto earth's true watcher, thus, Bright symbol of fidelity, Still may I think of thee: And may the lesson thou dost teach But still, in sunshine or in storm, Whatever task is mine, May I be faithful to my trust, ADELHEID. WHY droop the sorrowing trees, Drearily, wearily, They ever seem crying, "Adelheid! Adelheid!" evening and morn: Adelheid! Adelheid! where has she gone?" With their arms bending there, Icy and chill, Trembling and glistening, With the snow round their feet, With the warm breath of Spring Now the foliage is stirr'd; On the pathway below them A footstep is heard. OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man He used to wear a long, black coat, His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray- Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd; Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, For thirty years or more. But good old GRIMES is now at rest, He had no malice in his mind, His neighbours he did not abuse-- He wore large buckles on his shoes, His worldly goods he never threw Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, OH, THINK NOT THAT THE BOSOM'S LIGHT. Ou think not that the bosom's light To feel its warmth and share its glow. To those who gather near the shrine. Doth not more clear and brightly burn Than that, which shrouded by the pall, Lights but the cold funereal urn. The fire which lives through one brief hour, But bear no heat within its breast, Do the dull flint, the rigid steel, Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal The hidden power which they enfold? Until the blow that woke it came, A power to wrap the world in flame. By which the fire can be discern'd Is at its work of sure decay, It wears its giant heart away. Its head amid the realms of snow, The burning mass which lies below. While thus in things of sense alone Such truths from sense lie still conceal'd, How can the living heart be known, Its secret, inmost depths reveal'd? Has been at last to madness wrought, For heart to bear or tongue to speak! GEORGE W. BETHUNE. [Born about 1802.] THE Rev. GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D. D., is a native of New York, and is widely known as one of the finest scholars and most eloquent preachers in the American church. He is author of several volumes of literary and religious discourses, which are as much distinguished as his poems by a genial, loving spirit, and a classical elegance of diction. In 1847 he published an edition of Walton's Angler, with ingenious and learned notes, and in the same year a volume of "Lays of Love and Faith." TO MY MOTHER. Mr mother!-Manhood's anxious brow As when upon thy bosom's shrine My infant griefs were gently hush'd to rest, And thy low-whisper'd prayers my slumber bless'd. I never call that gentle name, My mother! but I am again E'en as a child; the very same That prattled at thy knee; and fain Was sunshine, and thy frown sad night, To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by. That pleasant home of fruits and flowers, Would hastening come from distant toil to bless On flint-paved streets profanes the spot, I've pored o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won, If, by the Saviour's grace made meet, Methinks, when singing at His feet, Amid the ransom'd throng above, Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be, The way that leads me heavenward, and In the same path with patient hand; Fond ties and true, yet never deem No, mother! in my warmest dream I know no love of mine can fill NIGHT STUDY. I AM alone; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, And go forth from my very self, and fly Ye eloquent voices, Now soft as breathings of a distant flute, I know you now-I see With more than natural light-ye are the good The wise departed-ye Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought Ye love to watch the inspiration caught, Ye come to nerve the soul Like him who near the ATONER stood, when HE, Trembling, saw round him roll The wrathful potents of Gethsemane, With courage strong: the promise ye have known And proved, rapt for me from the Eternal throne. Still keep! O, keep me near you, Compass me round with your immortal wings: Still let my glad soul hear you Striking your triumphs from your golden strings, Until with you I mount, and join the song, An angel, like you, 'mid the white-robed throng. Let them immortal wake And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. There can come no sorrow, The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, Nor sin, nor age, nor pain their cherub-beauty blight Would we could sleep as they, So stainless and so calm, at rest with thee, Bear us with them away, O Night, To that ethereal, holier, happier height. TO MY WIFE. AFAR from thee! the morning breaks, To know I am afar from thee. And to mine own thy heart was press'd. Afar from thee! 'tis solitude! Though smiling crowds around me be, The kind, the beautiful, the good, For I can only think of thee; Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best, My earliest and my only one! Without thee I am all unbless'd, And wholly bless'd with thee alone. Afar from thee! the words of praise My listless ear unheeded greet; What sweetest seem'd, in better days, Without thee seems no longer sweet. The dearest joy fame can bestow Is in thy moisten'd eye to see, And in thy cheek's unusual glow, Thou deem'st me not unworthy thee. Afar from thee! the night is come, But slumbers from my pillow flee; Oh, who can rest so far from home? And my heart's home is, love, with thee. I kneel me down in silent prayer, And then I know that thou art nigh: For Gon, who seeth everywhere, Bends on us both his watchful eye. Together, in his loved embrace, No distance can our hearts divide; Forgotten quite the mediate space, I kneel thy kneeling form beside. My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep, But soars the spirit far and free; Oh, welcome be night's slumbers deep, For then, sweet love, I am with thee. |