BRONX. BY JOSEPH R. DRAKE. I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches ́lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, eyes The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around, The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground Where lichens make a carpet for his feet; unheeded. Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle BRONX. There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden 253 Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's dwelling. And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A well-remember'd form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 22 MY NATIVE VILLAGE. BY JOHN H. BRYANT. THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale, With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure born of gentler showers. 'Twas there my young existence was begun, My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done, I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height-the sweetest of the day. There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home, In the lone path that winds across the plain, And when the woods put on their autumn glow, THE FREE MIND. Ah! happy days, too happy to return, Fled on the wings of youth's departed years, The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears; My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still; The present brings its storms; but, while they last, THE FREE MIND. BY W. L. GARRISON, HIGH walls and huge the body may confine, And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways: And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. 255 THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance, With the fast-falling tears, and, with a sigh Of the rich curtains buried up his face- Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held He held the lightest curl that on her neck |