And long upon these ancient hills, SEBA SMITH. THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOWSTORM. "In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snowstorm in the nighttime, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing." THE Cold winds swept the mountain's height, And mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wander'd with her child: And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow: Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was gone: "Oh, God!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!" She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, At dawn a traveller passed by, And saw her 'neath a snowy veil; Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; NEHEMIAH CLEAVELAND. AN AIR-CHATEAU. How beauteous in the glowing west, Its cornices with gold of even. From amethystine beds I'd draw My blocks to shape its swelling dome; Here should you trace the old Doric law, There the Corinthian grace of Rome. In avenues of enchanting sweep, Broad oaks and towering elms should stand; Blue lakes in placid stillness sleep, And currents roll o'er silver sand. Perchance, to animate the scene, Its last and loveliest charm impart. The day, with her, more calm, more bright, With her, the dark and drowsy night Pensive we'd rove where scarce a ray Through flowery lawn and emerald glade. But one perennial spring is found; WILLIAM D. GALLAHER. AUGUST. "The quiet August noon has come; DUST on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! Dimmeth thy brilliant sheen : BRYANT. And the young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower, Change cometh o'er them with every hour. These hath the August sun Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face: And still and lazily run, Scarce whispering in their pace, The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, Seeds in the sultry air, And gossamer webwork on the sleeping trees! Their plumes to catch the breeze, Stretch'd on his back, in homely beanvine bower, While the voluptuous bee Robs each surrounding flower, And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, Against the mazy sky, Motionless rests the thin and fleecy cloud, And, painter, ere it from thy easel goes, For ever in his song. Glory awaits thee, gifted one! and Fame Repose the patient cow and toilworn ox; The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush Creeps the cool shade, and on the meadow's edge; The bird flits in the hedge; Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass; As the light breezes pass, That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land. So to the thirsting soul Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love; To where the spirit freely may expand, [Euphas, a young Roman and a Christian, appears before Piso, a persecutor of the Christians at Rome, to demand the liberation of his father Thraseno, who is in prison on account of his faith. He informs him that Paulus, the son of Piso, who had become enamoured of Miriam, the sister of Euphas, is in the hands of the Christians, and proposes to give him up in exchange for Thraseno. The dialogue thus proceeds: Euphas. LET me but die First of thy victims |