ON A BUST OF DANTE.

SEE, from this counterfeit of him

Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim

The father was of Tuscan song. There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be,

No dream his life was-but a fight; Could any Beatrice see

A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight Who could have guess'd the visions came Of beauty, veil'd with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame?

The lips, as Cumae's cavern close,

The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose,

But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been

Unsullied still, though still severe,
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Keep itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once, forlorn, he stray'd,
With no companion save his book,

To Corvo's hush'd monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid

His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he pray'd The convent's charity was rest.*

Peace dwells not here-this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;
The sullen warrior sole we trace,

The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes,

The scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all

The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall,

Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;

It is told of DANTE that when he was roaming over Italy, he came to a certain monastery, where he was met by one of the friars, who blessed him, and asked what was his desire-to which the weary stranger simply answered "Pace."

He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Pluck'd bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,

Is Latium's other Virgil now: Before his name the nations bow:

His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

ON A MAGDALEN, BY GUIDO.

MARY, when thou wert a virgin,

Ere the first, the fatal sin
Stole into thy bosom's chamber,
Leading six companions in;
Ere those eyes had wept an error,

What thy beauty must have been! Ere those lips had paled their crimson, Quivering with the soul's despair, Ere with pain they oft had parted

In thine agony of prayer,
Or, instead of pearls, the tear-drops
Glisten'd in thy streaming hair.
While in ignorance of sorrow

Still thy heart serenely dream'd,
And the morning light of girlhood

On thy cheek's young garden beam'd, Where th' abundant rose was blushing,

Not of earth couldst thou have seem'd When thy frailty fell upon thee,

Lovely wert thou, even then; Shame itself could not disarm thee

Of the charms that vanquish'd men; Which of Salem's purest daughters Match'd the sullied Magdalen?

But thy Master's eye beheld thee
Foul and all unworthy heaven;
Pitied, pardon'd, purged thy spirit

Of its black, pernicious leaven;
Drove the devils from out the temple,
All the dark and guilty seven.

Oh the beauty of repentance!
Mary, tenfold fairer now
Art thou with those dewy eyelids,
And that anguish on thy brow;
Ah, might every sinful sister
Grow in beauty ev'n as thou'

MR. LORD is a native of Western New York, and is descended through both his parents from the New England Puritans. His father was a Presbyterian clergyman, and his mother, who now resides with her eldest son, the Rev. Dr. LORD of Buffalo, is a woman of refinement and cultivation. He had therefore the advantages of a good domestic training. He exhibited at a very early age a love of letters, and soon became familiar with SHAKSPEARE and the other great writers of the Elizabethan age, and probably few men are now more familiar with English literature in all its departments. During his college life his health failed, and his friends, yielding to a desire for a sea voyage, committed him to the care of the master of a whale ship, owned by a family friend at New London. After being a few weeks at sea he grew weary of the monotony of a cabin passage, and, against the remonstrances of the captain, forced his way into the forecastle, where he soon became a sturdy seaman, and, during four years of service in the Pacific, endured all the hardships, privations and perils of that adventurous life, exhibiting on every occasion the boldest traits of character. On returning home he resolved to devote his time to the study of moral science, and with this view, in 1841, entered the theological school at Auburn

but the death of the Rev. Dr. RICHARDS, president of that institution, occurring in 1843, he joined the senior class of the Princeton Theological Seminary, in which he completed his course of study, with much credit, early in the following year. He is now a fellow of the College of New Jersey, and is engaged in the preparation of a course of Lectures on English Literature.

Mr. LORD has been a laborious and successful student; is familiar with the ancient languages and literatures; has been a diligent reader of the best German writers; and has cultivated an acquaintance with the arts of design. Philosophy is his favourite study, however, and COLERIDGE and WORDSWORTH are his most familiar authors.

Mr. LORD's only published volume of poems appeared in 1845. Its contents were all written during the previous year, and they bear generally marks of haste and carelessness, but such proofs of genuine poetical taste and power as to win attention and praise from judicious critics. His mind is imbued with the spirit of his favourite authors, but many passages in his writings are as original, in thought and manner, as they are beautiful. The pervading tone of his poetry is that of reverent meditation, but occasionally it is distinguished by a graceful playfulness.

KEATS.*

On gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro,
Ill-fated! from thine orb'd fire struck back
Just as the parting clouds began to glow,

And stars, like sparks, to bicker in thy track! Alas! throw down, throw down, ye mighty dead, The leaves of oak and asphodel

That ye were weaving for that honour'd head,— In vain, in vain, your lips would seek a spell In the few charmed words the poet sung,

To lure him upward in your seats to dwell,As vain your grief! O! why should one so young Sit crown'd midst hoary heads with wreaths divine?

Though to his lips Hymettus' bees had clung,

His lips shall never taste the immortal wine, Who sought to drain the glowing cup too soon, For he hath perish'd, and the moon Hath lost Endymion-but too well

The shaft that pierced him in her arms was sped :Into that gulf of dark and nameless dread, Star-like he fell, but a wide splendour shed Through its deep night, that kindled as he fell.

From "An Ode to England."

TO MY SISTER.

AND shall we meet in heaven, and know and love?
Do human feelings in that world above
Unchanged survive? blest thought! but ah, I fear
That thou, dear sister, in some other sphere,
Distant from mine, will find a brighter home,
Where I, unworthy found, may never come;—
Or be so high above me glorified,
That I, a meaner angel, undescried,
Seeking thine eyes, such love alone shall see
As angels give to all bestowed on me;
And when my voice upon thy ear shall fall,
Hear only such reply as angels give to all.

Forgive me, sister, O forgive the love
Whose selfishness would reach the life above,
And even in heaven do its object wrong-
But should I see thee in the heavenly throng,
Bright as the star I love-the night's first star,
If, like that star, thou still must shine afar,
And in thy glory I must never see
A woman's, sister's look of love from thee,-
Must never call thee by a sister's name,
I could but wish thee less, if thus, the same,
My sister still, dear Sarah! thou might'st be,
And I thy brother still, in that blest company.

THE BROOK.

A LITTLE blind girl wandering,
While daylight pales beneath the moon,
And with a brook meandering,

To hear its gentle tune.

The little blind girl by the brook,

It told her something-you might guess, To see her smile, to see her look

Of listening eagerness.
Though blind, a never silent guide

Flow'd with her timid feet along;
And down she wander'd by its side
To hear the running song.

And sometimes it was soft and low,
A creeping music in the ground;
And then, if something check'd its flow,
A gurgling swell of sound.

And now, upon the other side,

She seeks her mother's cot;

And still the noise shall be her guide,
And lead her to the spot.

For to the blind, so little free

To move about beneath the sun, Small things like this seem liberty—

Something from darkness won.

But soon she heard a meeting stream,
And on the bank she follow'd still,
It murmur'd on, nor could she tell
It was another rill.

Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?
I seek my mother's cot, she said,
And surely it is near.

There is no cot upon this brook,

In yonder mountains dark and drear,
Where sinks the sun, its source it took,
Ah, wherefore art thou here?

Oh! sir, thou art not true nor kind,
It is the brook, I know its sound;
Ah! why would you deceive the blind?
I hear it in the ground.

And on she stepp'd, but grew more sad,
And weary were her tender feet,
The brook's small voice seem'd not so glad,
Its song was not so sweet.

Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?
I seek my mother's cot she said,
And surely it is near.

There is no cot upon this brook;

I hear its sound, the maid replied,
With dreamlike and bewilder'd look-
I have not left its side.

O go with me, the darkness nears,
The first pale star begins to gleam;
The maid replied with bursting tears,
It is the stream! It is the stream!

A RIME,

WHICH IS YET REASON, AND TEACHETH, IN A LIGHT
MANNER, A GRAVE MATTER IN THE
LERE OF LOVE.

As Love sat idling beneath a tree,
A Knight rode by on his charger free,
Stalwart and fair and tall was he,
With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see
And proud of his scars, right loftily,

He cried, Young boy, will you go with me?
But Love he pouted and shook his head,
And along fared the Warrior, ill-bested:
Love is not won by chivalry.

Then came a Minstrel bright of blee,
Blue were his eyes as the heavens be,
And sweet as a song-bird's throat sung he,
Of smiles and tears and ladie's eé,
Soft love and glorious chivalry,
Then cried, Sweet boy, will you go with me?
Love wept and smiled, but shook his head,
And along fared the Minstrel ill-bested:
Love is not won by minstrelsy.

Then came a Bookman, wise as three,
Darker a scholar you shall not see
In Jewrie, Rome, or Araby.

But list, fair dames, what I rede to ye,
In love's sweet lere untaught was he,
For when he cried, Come, love, with me,
Tired of the parle he was nodding his head,
And along fared the Scholar ill-bested:
Love is not won by pedantry.

Then came a Courtier wearing the key
Of council and chambers high privity;
He could dispute yet seem to agree,
And soft as dew was his flatterie.
And with honied voice and low congee
Fair youth, he said, will you honour me?

In courteous wise Love shook his head,
And along fared the Courtier ill-bested:
Love is not won by courtesy.

Then came a Miser blinking his eé,
To view the bright boy beneath the tree;
His purse, which hung to his cringing knee,
The ransom held of a king's countree;
And a handful of jewels and gold showed he,
And cried, Sweet child, will you go with me?

Then loud laugh'd Love as he shook his head,
And along fared the Monger ill-bested:
Love is not won by merchandry.

O then to young Love beneath the tree,
Came one as young and as fair as he,
And as like to him as like can be,
And clapping his little wings for glee,
With nods and smiles and kisses free,
He whisper'd, Come, Oh come with me:
Love pouted and flouted and shook his head,
But along with that winsome youth he sped
And love wins love, loud shouted he!

A SHADOW of the cypress-bough
Lies on my path to-day;

A melancholy-which in vain
I strive to chase away.
The angel Memory hath flown

To old and cherish'd things,
To bring the light of early years
Around me on her wings:

And where the lovelorn birds complain
Within their green abode,

Between two elms, a rustic seat

Invites her from the road.

There shall she sit, as oft before,
And sigh as oft again,

O'er names engraved, which long have braved
The sunshine and the rain.

And one-it is the dearest name

On Love's unnumber'd shrines

So dear, that even envious Time
Hath guarded it with vines;

And wreathed it with his choicest flowers,
As if the bridal claim,

Which Fate denied unto her brow,
Should still adorn her name!

Ah, well do I remember yet

The day I carved that name!
The rattle of the locusts' drum

Thrills o'er me now the same:
Adown the lane the wayward breeze
Comes with a stealthy pace,
And brings the perfume of the fields
To this deserted place.

Unto her blushing cheek again
It comes the blessed air!
Caressing, like a lover's hand,
'The tresses of her hair.

The brook runs laughing at her feet,
O'erhead the wild-bird sings;
The air is fill'd with butterflies,

As though the flowers had wings.

But this is Fancy's pilgrimage,

And lures me back in vain!

The brook, the bench, the flowers, and vines, I ne'er may see again:

For this is but an idle dream,

That mocks me evermoreAnd memory only fills the place The loved one fill'd of yore!

BLIND LOUISE.

SHE knew that she was growing blindForesaw the dreary night

That soon would fall, without a star,

Upon her fading sight:

Yet never did she make complaint,
But pray'd each day might bring
A beauty to her waning eyes-
The loveliness of Spring!

She dreaded that eclipse which might
Perpetually enclose

Sad memories of a leafless world-
A spectral realm of snows.
She'd rather that the verdure left
An evergreen to shine
Within her heart, as summer leaves
Its memory on the pine.

She had her wish: for when the sun

O'erhung his eastern towers,

And shed his benediction on

A world of May-time flowersWe found her seated, as of old,

In her accustom'd place,

A midnight in her sightless eyes,
And morn upon her face!

A MEMORY.

It was a bright October day-
Ah, well do I remember!
One rose yet bore the bloom of May,
Down toward the dark December.
One rose that near the lattice grew,
With fragrance floating round it:
Incarnardined, it blooms anew
In dreams of her who found it.
2 R
469

470

Pale, wither'd rose, bereft and shorn

Of all thy primal glory,
All leafless now, thy piercing thorn
Reveals a sadder story.

It was a dreary winter day;

Too well do I remember! They bore her frozen form away,

And gave her to December! There were no perfumes on the air, No bridal blossoms round her, Save one pale lily in her hair

To tell how pure Death found her. The thistle on the summer air

Hath shed its iris glory, And thrice the willows weeping there Have told the seasons' story,

Since she, who bore the blush of May,

Down toward the dark December Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away, A pale, reluctant ember.

A BLIGHTED MAY.

CALL not this the month of roses-
There are none to bud and bloom;
Morning light, alas! discloses

But the winter of the tomb.

All that should have deck'd a bridal
Rest upon the bier-how idle!

Dying in their own perfume.
Every bower is now forsaken-

There's no bird to charm the air! From the bough of youth is shaken

Every hope that blossom'd there; And my soul doth now enrobe her In the leaves of sere October

Under branches swaying bare. When the midnight falls beside me, Like the gloom which in me lies, To the stars my feelings guide me,

Seeking there thy sainted eyes; Stars whose rays seem ever bringing Down the soothing air, the singing Of thy soul in paradise.

Oh that I might stand and listen

To that music ending never, While those tranquil stars should glisten On my life's o'erfrozen river, Standing thus, forever seeming Lost in what the world calls dreaming, Dreaming, love, of thee, forever!

TO AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. On say, does the cottage yet peer from the shadow Of ancestral elms on the side of the hill ?— Its doorway of woodbine, that look'd to the meadow, And welcomed the sun as a guest on the sill; The April-winged martin, with garrulous laughter, Is he there where the mosses were thatching the eave?

And the dear little wren that crept under the rafter, The earliest to come, and the latest to leave! Oh say, is the hawthorn the hedgerow perfuming Adown the old lane? are the willows still there, Where briery thickets in springtime were blooming, And breathing their life on the odorous air! And runs yet the brook where the violets were weeping,

Where the white lily sat like a swan of the stream, While under the laurel the shepherd-boy sleeping, Saw only the glory of life in his dream! Hath the reaper been there with his sickle relentless, The stern reaper Death in the harvest of life! Hath his foot crush'd the blossoms, till wither'd and scentless

They lay ere the frosts of the autumn were rife? Ah yes, I can hear the sad villagers hymning

A requiem that swells from my heart on my ear, And a gathering shadow of sorrow is dimming Those scenes that must ever arise with a tear.

THE SHADY SIDE.

I SAT and gazed upon thee, RoSE,
Across the pebbled way,

And thought the very wealth of mirth
Was thine that winter day;
For, while I saw the truant rays

Within thy window glide,
Remember'd beams reflected came
Upon the shady side.

I sat and gazed upon thee, Rose,

And thought the transient beams Were leaving on thy braided brow

The trace of golden dreams; Those dreams, which like the ferry-barge On youth's beguiling tide,

Will leave us when we reach old age, Upon the shady side.

Ah! yes, methought while thus I gazed
Across the noisy way,

The stream of life between us flow'd
That cheerful winter day;

And that the bark whereon I cross'd
The river's rapid tide,

Had left me in the quietness
Upon the shady side.

Then somewhat of a sorrow, Rose,

Came crowding on my heart, Revealing how that current sweeps

The fondest ones apart;

But while you stood to bless me there, In beauty, like a bride,

I felt my own contentedness,

Though on the shady side.
The crowd and noise divide us, Rose,
But there will come a day

When you, with light and timid feet,
Must cross the busy way;
And when you sit, as I do now,
To happy thoughts allied,
May some bright angel shed her light
Upon the shady side!