XI. TO EGERIA.

Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
And I cannot behold thee save in dreams!
I may not hear thy voice, nor list thy tread,
Nor see the light that ever round thee gleams.
Fairest and best! mid summer joys, ah, say,
Dost thou e'er think of one who thinks of thee--
The Atlantic-wanderer, who, day by day,
Looks for thine image in the deep, deep sea?
Long months, and years, perchance, will pass away,
Ere he shall gaze into thy face again;

He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may
Await him, on the future's shipless main;

But, thank'd be memory! there are treasures still, Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.

XII-CUBA.

What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light?
Land ho! all hands ahoy!"—I'm on the deck.
"Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright.
A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck.
And lo! along the horizon, bold and high,
The purple hills of Cuba! hail, all hail!
Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky

Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale!
O! scene of life and joy! thou art array'd
In hues of unimagined loveliness-
Sing louder, brave old mariner! and aid
My swelling heart its rapture to express;
For from enchanted memory never more [shore!
Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial

THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST.

WE will not deplore them, the days that are past;
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They are lengthen'd by sorrow and sullied by care;
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare;
Yet, now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
We have cherish'd fair hopes, we have plotted
brave schemes,

We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams; Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the hand,

And the steps we have climb'd have departed like sand;

Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft, And honour, bright honour, and freedom are left? O! shall we despond, while the pages of time Yet open before us their records sublime! [gold, While, ennobled by treasures more precious than We can walk with the martyrs and heroes of old; While humanity whispers such truths in the ear, As it softens the heart like sweet music to hear? O! shall we despond while, with visions still free, We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea; While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight, And the stars are a joy and a glory by night: While each harmony, running through nature, can raise

In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise? O! let us no longer then vainly lament

Over scenes that are faded and days that are spent:

But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, Let us look to the future and not to the past!

THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. HONOUR'D be the hero evermore,

Who at mercy's call has nobly died! Echoed be his name from shore to shore, With immortal chronicles allied! Verdant be the turf upon his dust,

Bright the sky above, and soft the air!
In the grove set up his marble bust,

And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give

His eulogium to the future years!
Not the victor in his country's cause,
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Not the framer of a nation's laws

Shall deserve a greater fame than he!
Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day,
How a youth, by Christian zeal impell'd,
Swept the sanguinary games away,

Which the Coliseum once beheld? Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers, With the city's chivalry and pride, When two gladiators, with their spears, Forward sprang from the arena's side. Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long, As, with shields advanced, the athletes stoodWas there no one in that eager throng

To denounce the spectacle of blood? Aye, TELEMACHUS, with swelling frame,

Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more: Few among the crowd could tell his name

For a cross was all the badge he wore! Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien,

Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand; And, while all were wondering at the scene,

Check'd the encounter with a daring hand.
"Romans!" cried he-"Let this reeking sod
Never more with human blood be stain'd!
Let no image of the living God

In unhallow'd combat be profaned!
Ah! too long has this colossal dome
Fail'd to sink and hide your brutal shows!
Here I call upon assembled Rome

Now to swear, they shall forever close!"
Parted thus, the combatants, with joy,
Mid the tumult, found the means to fly;
In the arena stood the undaunted boy,

And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
Peal'd the shout of wrath on every side;

Every hand was eager to assail!
"Slay him! slay!" a hundred voices cried,
Wild with fury-but he did not quail!
Hears he, as entranced he looks above,

Strains celestial, that the menace drown?
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,

Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain!

SUMMER IN THE HEART.

THE cold blast at the casement beats,

The window-panes are white,

The snow whirls through the empty streets-
It is a dreary night!

Sit down, old friend! the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o'erflowing! fill!
Though Winter howleth at the gate,

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

For we full many summer joys

And greenwood sports have shared, When, free and ever-roving boys,

The rocks, the streams we dared! And, as I look upon thy face

Back, back o'er years of ill, My heart flies to that happy place, Where it is summer still!

Yes, though, like sere leaves on the ground,

Our early hopes are strown,

And cherish'd flowers lie dead around,
And singing birds are flown,-

The verdure is not faded quite,

Not mute all tones that thrill;
For, seeing, hearing thee to-night,

In my heart 'tis summer still!

Fill up the olden times come back!

With light and life once more

We scan the future's sunny track,

From youth's enchanted shore!
The lost return. Through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;

Gone is the winter's angry gloom-
In our hearts 'tis summer still!

THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE.

Is there but a single theme
For the youthful poet's dream?
Is there but a single wire
To the youthful poet's lyre?
Earth below and heaven above-
Can he sing of naught but love?
Nay! the battle's dust I see!
God of war! I follow thee!
And, in martial numbers, raise
Worthy peans to thy praise.
Ah! she meets me on the field-
If I fly not, I must yield.
Jolly patron of the grape!
To thy arms I will escape!

Quick, the rosy nectar bring;

Io BACCHE" I will sing.
Ha! Confusion! every sip
But reminds me of her lip.
PALLAS! give me wisdom's page,
And awake my lyric rage;
Love is fleeting; love is vain;
I will try a nobler strain.
O, perplexity! my books
But reflect her haunting looks!
JUPITER! on thee I cry!

Take me and my lyre on high!
Lo! the stars beneath me gleam!
Here, O, poet! is a theme.
Madness! She has come above!
“Love!"
Every chord is whispering

THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA.
"Tis a dreary thing to be
Tossing on the wide, wide sea,
When the sun has set in clouds,

And the wind sighs through the shrouds,
With a voice and with a tone

Like a living creature's moan!
Look! how wildly swells the surge
Round the black horizon's verge!
See the giant billows rise

From the ocean to the skies!
While the sea-bird wheels his flight
O'er their streaming crests of white.
List! the wind is wakening fast!
All the sky is overcast!
Lurid vapours, hurrying, trail
In the pathway of the gale,
As it strikes us with a shock
That might rend the deep-set rock!

Falls the strain'd and shiver'd mast!
Spars are scatter'd by the blast!
And the sails are split asunder,
As a cloud is rent by thunder;
And the struggling vessel shakes,
As the wild sea o'er her breaks.

Ah! what sudden light is this,
Blazing o'er the dark abyss?
Lo! the full moon rears her form
Mid the cloud-rifts of the storm,
And, athwart the troubled air,
Shines, like hope upon despair!
Every leaping billow gleams
With the lustre of her beams,
And lifts high its fiery plume
Through the midnight's parting gloom:
While its scatter'd flakes of gold
O'er the sinking deck are roll'd.
Father! low on bended knee,
Humbled, weak, we turn to thee!
Spare us, mid the fearful fight
Of the raging winds to-night!
Guide us o'er the threatening wave:
Save us!-thou alone canst save!

DR. PARSONS is a native of Boston. After the completion of his academical and professional education, he went abroad and passed several years of study and observation in Italy and other parts of Europe. He is known as a poet by an admirable translation of DANTE'S "Inferno," in the terza rima, of

which the first ten cantos only have been published; by the "Mail Robber," a series of exceedingly clever poetical epistles printed in the "Knickerbocker," and other contributions to the literary magazines. He has a fine eye for the picturesque, and a lively fancy ; and his poems are nearly all in a very chaste style of art.

THE SHADOW OF THE OBELISK. HOME returning from the music which had so entranced my brain,

That the road I scarce remember'd to the Pincian Hill again,

Nay, was willing to forget it underneath a moon so fair,

In a solitude so sacred, and so summer-like in airCame I to the side of Tiber, hardly conscious where I stood,

Till I mark'd the sullen murmur of the venerable flood.

Rome lay doubly dead around me, sunk in silence calm and deep;

"T was the death of desolation-and the nightly

one of sleep.

Dreams alone, and recollections peopled now the solemn hour;

Such a spot and such a season well might wake the Fancy's power;

Yet no monumental fragment, storied arch or temple vast,

Mid the mean, plebeian buildings loudly whisper'd of the Past.

Tether'd by the shore, some barges hid the wave's august repose;

Petty sheds of merchants merely, nigh the Campus Martius rose;

Hardly could the dingy Thamis, when his tide is ebbing low,

Life's dull scene in colder colours to the homesick exile show.

Winding from the vulgar prospect, through a labyrinth of lanes,

Forth I stepp'd upon the Corso, where its greatness Rome retains.

RIVERS that roll most musical in song
Are often lovely to the mind alone;
The wanderer muses, as he moves along
Their barren banks, on glories not their own.
When, to give substance to his boyish dreams,
He flies abroad far countries to survey,
Oft must he whisper, greeting foreign streams,
"Their names alone are beautiful, not they."
And oft, remembering rivulets more fair,

Whose praise no poet yet has dared to sound, He marvels much that deserts dull and bare, Soak'd by scant brooks, should be so wide renown'd.

If chance he mark the shrunken Danube pour
A tide more meager than his native Charles;
Or views the Rhone when summer's heat is o'er,
Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Arles;

Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling

His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome, Oft to his partial thought must memory bring More noble waves that sleep unhymn'd at home; Then will he mourn that not in nature dwell

The charms which fired him in harmonious verse, For numbers veil mean objects with a spell Whose mist the reasoning senses must disperse. But bid him climb the Catskill to behold

Thy flood, O Hudson! marching to the deep, And tell what strain of any bard of old

Might paint thy grace and imitate thy sweep. In distant lands, ambitious walls and towers Declare what robbers once the realm possess'd, But here heaven's handiwork surpasses ours, And man has hardly more than built his nest. No storied castle overawes thy heights,

Nor antique arches curb thy current's play, Nor crumbling architrave the mind invites

To dream of deities long pass'd away.

No Gothic buttress, nor decaying shaft

Of marble yellow'd by a thousand years, Rears a proud landmark to the cloudlike craft That grows in sight, then melts and disappears. But cliffs, unalter'd from their primal form Since the subsiding of the deluge, rise And lift their savins to the upper storm,

To screen the skiff that underneath it plies.

Farms, rich not more in harvests, than in men

Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, Gem the green mead or scatter through the glen Baotian plenty in a Spartan soil.

Then, where the reign of cultivation ends,

Again the beauteous wilderness begins;
From steep to steep one solemn wild extends,
Till some new hamlet's growth the boscage thins.
And there deep groves for ever have remain'd
Touch'd by no axe-by no proud owner nursed;
As now they bloom, they bloom'd when Pharaoh
Lineal descendants of creation's first. [reign'd,
Thou Scottish Tweed, whose course is holier now,
Since thy last minstrel laid him down to die,
Where through the casement of his chamber thou
Didst mix thy moan with his departing sigh;
A single one of Hudson's lesser hills

Might furnish forests for the whole of thine,
Hide in thick shade all Humber's feeding rills
And blacken all the children of the Tyne.
Whatever waters rush from Albion's heart,
To float the citadels that crowd her sea,
In nothing save the meaner pomp of Art,

Sublimer Hudson! can be named with thee.
Could bloated Thames with all his riches buy
To deck the strand which London loads with gold,
Sunshine so fresh-such purity of sky

As bless thy sultry season and thy cold?
No deeds we know, are chronicled of thee
In sacred scrolls; no tales of doubtful claim
Have hung a history on every tree,

And given each rock its fable and a fame.
But neither here hath any conqueror trod,

Nor grim -invaders from barbarian climes; No horrors feign'd of giant or of god

Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. Here never yet have happy fields laid waste,

And butcher'd flocks and heaps of burning fruit, The cottage ruin'd-and the shrine defaced,

Track'd the foul passage of the feudal brute. “Alas, Antiquity!" the stranger sighs—

Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view; The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes,

Where all is fair indeed-but all is new." False thought! is age to musty books confined? To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones? Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, More than old fortresses and sculptured stones! Call not this new which is the only land

That wears unchanged the same primeval face Which, when just budding from its Maker's hand, Gladden'd the first great grandsire of our race. Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth [south, Glide past green Eden towards the unknown Than Hudson flash'd upon the infant earth,

And kiss'd the ocean with its nameless mouth. Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile!

Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young; Oh! had thy fountain burst from Britain's isle, Till now perchance it had not flow'd unsung.

ELEGY IN A NEW ENGLAND CHURCH

YARD.

O THOU that in the beautiful repose

Of the deep waters, down below the storms, Art calmly waiting where the coral grows, With many wonderful and lovely forms. If thou wert happy in the life above,

Thou art thrice happier bleaching there below, Where no sad pilgrim led by lingering love, Can vex thy ghost with his presumptuous wo. Or if misfortune dogg'd thee from the womb To the last unction, thou art overpaid By the majestic silence of thy tomb

For all the pangs that life a penance made. Such rest kings have not in the marble caves Before whose doors perpetual tapers burn; Nor saints that sleep in consecrated graves, Nor bards whose ashes grace the loftiest urn. Nor even those humbler tenants of a mound, Under some elm that thrives upon the dead, In quiet corners of neglected ground,

Scarte twice a year disturb'd by living tread. For even there the impious throng may stream, Startling the silent people of the sod; Fierce wheels may clash, the fiery engine scream, And mortal clamours drown the voice of Gon. Such fancies held me as I stray'd at noon

By the old churchyard, known to few but me, Where oft my childhood by the wintry moon

Saw the pale spectres glide, or fear'd to see. Head-stone or mound had never mark'd the spot Within man's memory; weeds had strewn it o'er; Yet had no swain profaned it with his cot,

And the plough spared it for the name it bore. Out on this busy age! that noonday walk

Show'd strange mutations to my dreaming eye; No phantom pass'd me with sepulchral stalk

The rush and thunder of the world went by. Men, breathing men, no spirits faint and wan,

But proud and noisy children of to-day, Flash'd on my sight an instant and were gone, Swift as the shades they seem'd to scare away. Curl'd o'er my head a momentary cloud

From the light vapour that they left behind; Then, fitting emblem of that flying crowd, It sway'd and melted in the April wind. O thou that slumberest underneath the sea, Down fathoms deep below all living things, Who seeks for perfect rest must follow thee, And sleep till GABRIEL wake him with his wings.

"AVE MARIA!"

AVE MARIA! 'tis the evening hymn

Of many pilgrims on the land and sea; Soon as the day withdraws, and two or three Faint stars are burning, all whose eyes are dim With tears or watching, all of weary limb,

Or troubled spirit, yield the bended knee, And find, O Virgin! life's repose in thee. I, too, at nightfall, when the newborn rim

Of the young moon is first beheld above, Tune my fond thoughts to their devoutest key, And from all bondage-save remembrance-free, Glad of my liberty as NOAH's dove, Seek the Madonna most adored by me, And say mine" Ave Marias" to my love.

THE BURIAL OF A FRIEND. THE bier is ready and the mourners wait, The funeral car stands open at the gate. Bring down our brother; bear him gently, too; So, friends, he always bore himself with you. Down the sad staircase, from the darken'd room, For the first time, he comes in silent gloom. Who ever left this hospitable door Without his smile and warm "good-by," before? Now we for him the parting word must say To the mute threshold whence we bear his clay! The slow procession lags upon the road'Tis heavy hearts that make the heavy load; And all too brightly glares the burning noon On the dark pageant-be it ended soon! The quail is piping and the locust sings; Oh grief, thy contrast with these joyous things! What pain to see, amid our task of wo, The laughing river keep its wonted flow! His hawthorns there-his proudly waving corn— And all so flourishing and so forlorn! His new-built cottage, too, so fairly plann'd, Whose chimney ne'er shall smoke at his command. Two sounds were heard, that on the spirit fell With sternest moral: one the passing bell! The other told the history of the hour, Life's fleeting triumphs, mortal pride and power. Two trains there met-the iron-sinew'd horse And the black hearse-the engine and the corse! Haste on your track, you fiery-winged steed, I hate your presence and approve your speed; Fly with your eager freight of breathing men, And leave these mourners to their march again. Swift as my wish they broke their slight delay, And life and death pursued their separate way.

The solemn service in the church was held, Bringing strange comfort as the anthem swell'd, And back we bore him to his long repose, Where his great elm its evening shadow throws— A sacred spot! There often he hath stood, Show'd us his harvests, and pronounced them good; And we may come, with eyes no longer dim, To watch new harvests and remember him.

Peace to thee, STEUART, and to us! th' All-Wise Would ne'er have found thee readier for the skies. In His large love he kindly waits the best, The fittest mood, to summon every guest; So, in his prime, our dear companion went, When the young soul is easy to repent. No long purgation shall he now require In black remorse-in penitential fire; From what few frailties might have stain'd his morn, Our tears may wash him pure as he was born.