THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. WELL do I love those various harmonies If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down With any of the ills of human life; If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. In the last days of autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge. Lone whip-poor-will, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green, roving linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot, Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock, Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye With beautiful creations? Then pass forth, And find them midst those many-colour'd birds That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones Are sweeter than the music of the lute, Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip. LINES, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darken'd woods--the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green And lofty by the river's sedgy brink, The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods:-the raging sword Hath never gather'd its red harvest here! JUNE. THE PASSION FOR LIFE. O! GIVE me back my youth! The tumble on the new-mown hay, When autumn fruits were red and ripe, And in the orchard, round our feet, O! give me back my youth! O! give me back my youth! Above these temples play; And, close beside the door, As in the days of yore. I see the wreathing smoke ascend, But, no! that joyful time has gone- And life and earth are fading fast And soon the imprison'd soul shall mount, WITH Sunny smiles and showery tears Above the verdurous springing grass, In the green, hollow way Down the moist meadow-land, Where through the flowery meadow runs the brook, The golden-berried wax-work twines its wreath And o'er the stream the gaudy mosses lean, Their velvet fringes and their festoons green. Sweet June! with thy fair forehead bound Deep in the heart of man, all o'er the earth, The newly-budded groves repeat thy call Rejoices in its dim, primeval shades. I love thy varied skies, With all their cloudy glooms and bright'ning smiles; I love to hear thy gusty breezes raise O'er the wood-tops their swelling psalms of praise; I love to hear thy softly-falling rain In tinkling murmurs patter o'er the plain; I love to hear thy sounds of rural toil, As ploughs the gleaming share along the fertile soil JONES VERY. [Born about 1810.] JONES VERY is a native of the city of Salem. In his youth he accompanied his father, who was a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and he wrote his Essay on Hamlet" with the more interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After his father's death, he prepared himself to enter college, and in 1832 became a student at Cambridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the same year was appointed Greek tutor in the university. While he held this office, a religious enthusiasm took possession of his mind, which gradually produced so great a change in him, that his friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the poems in the small collection of his writings published in 1839. His essays entitled "Epic Poetry," "Shakspeare," and "Hamlet," are fine specimens of learned and sympathetic criticism; and his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, simple, and poetical, though they have little range of subjects and illustration. They are religious, and some of them are mystical, but they will be recognised by the true poet as the overflowings of a brother's soul. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BRIGHT image of the early years When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; The morning's blush, she made it thine, The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee; I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, With look of anger, leaps again, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; There shalt thou live and wake the glee LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE. POET's hand has placed thee there, Not alone dim autumn's blast Voices sweet of summer-hours, THE HEART. THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink, think, Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows; But ever bright its crystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure, And bless the cup that cheers their fainting soul While through this parching waste they seek their heavenly goal. TO THE CANARY-BIRD. I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears, THY BEAUTY FADES. THY beauty fades, and with it too my love, THE WIND-FLOWER. THOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye Upon the clouded smile of April's face, Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by, Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace. Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith array'd, More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king; Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd, As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring, While other flowers still hide them from her call Along the river's brink and meadow bare. Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, And in thy trust with childlike heart would share, O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind. ENOCH. I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with God, MORNING. THE light will never open sightless eyes, It comes to those who willingly would see; And every object,-hill, and stream, and skies, Rejoice within the encircling line to be; "Tis day, the field is fill'd with busy hands, The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, The traveller with his staff already stands His yet unmeasured journey to begin; The light breaks gently too within the breast,Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,-it is no day To those who find on earth their place to stay. NIGHT. I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labours of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep. THE SPIRIT-LAND. FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd; In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied ; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewilder'd falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. THE TREES OF LIFE. For those who worship THEE there is no death, For all they do is but with THEE to dwell; Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath, It is but of THY glorious name to tell; Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, But in them both my soul doth ever flow; They come as viewless as the unseen wind, And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go; The trees that grow along thy living stream, And from its springs refreshment ever drink, Forever glittering in thy morning beam, They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink; And as more high and wide their branches grow, They look more fair within the depths below. THE ARK. THERE is no change of time and place with THEE; Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same; Within thy presence I rejoice to be, And always hallow thy most holy name; The world doth ever change; there is no peace Among the shadows of its storm-vex'd breast; With every breath the frothy waves increase, They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest; I thank THEE that within thy strong-built ark My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, And, though the night of death be long and dark, My hopes in CHRIST shall reach within the veil; And to the promised haven steady steer, Whose rest to those who love is ever near. NATURE. THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, THE TREE. I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear, And one by one their tender leaves unfold, As if they knew that warmer suns were near, Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen To veil from view the early robin's nest, I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppress'd; And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare, And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, I love to watch thy shadowy form below, And through thy leafless arms to look above On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love. THE SON. FATHER, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand The tongue of time abides the appointed hour, The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, Then every drop speeds onward at thy call; The bird reposes on the yielding bough, With breast unswollen by the tide of song; So does my spirit wait thy presence now To pour thy praise in quickening life along, Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep, While round the unutter'd word and love their vigils keep. THE ROBIN. THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young unfinish'd cottage spy; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now, For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves; All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ, That else upon thy music borne along And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer Had learn'd that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share. THE RAIL-ROAD. THOU great proclaimer to the outward eye Of what the spirit too would seek to tell, Onward thou goest, appointed from on high The other warnings of the Lord to swell; Thou art the voice of one that through the world Proclaims in startling tones, "Prepare the way;" The lofty mountain from its seat is hurl'd, The flinty rocks thine onward march obey; The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, O'ertop the hills that on them frown'd before, Thou passest where the living seldom tread, Through forests dark, where tides beneath thee roar, And bidd'st man's dwelling from thy track remove, And would with warning voice his crooked paths reprove. THE LATTER RAIN. THE latter rain,-it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring, No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves; The rain falls still,-the fruit all ripen'd drops, It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell, The furrow'd fields disclose the yellow crops, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain. |