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If the cheerful tones of a single voice
Had made the depths of my heart rejoice;
If a single thing had loved me here,

I ne'er had crouched to that fiend's despair!

They come again! They tear my brain!
They tumble and dart through every vein!
Ho! could I burst this clanking chain,
Then might I spring in the hellish ring,
And scatter them back to their den again!
Ho! when I break its links again,
Ha! when I break its links again,
Woe to the daughters and sons of men!

Ex LXXXIII.—NIAGARA.

MRS SIGOURNEY.

FLOW on for ever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty! Yea, flow on
Unfathomed and resistless! God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him
Eternally,-bidding the lip of man

Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.

Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect-trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood; and all his waves
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle calm; but thou
With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name

Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
On thine unending volume.

Every leaf,
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo!-yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wings
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,
For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks to tint

Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation.

Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty;
But as it presses with delirious joy

To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness; bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.

Ex. LXXXIV.—ODE ON ART.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

WHEN, from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,

An angel left her place in heaven,

And crossed the wanderer's sunless path.
'Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground;
And thus with seraph voice she spoke,-
"The curse a blessing shall be found."

She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeam never blazed;

The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled,

And Nature gladdened, as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things,

At Art's command, to him are given; The village grows, the city springs,

And point their spires of faith to heaven.

He rends the oak,—and bids it ride,

To guard the shores its beauty graced ;
He smites the rock,-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength and domes of taste.
Earth's teaming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring beauty's lap to fill;

He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

1

In fields of air he writes his name,

And treads the chambers of the sky; He reads the stars, and grasps the flame That quivers round the Throne on high. In war renowned, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace; His power, subduing space and time, Links realm to realm, and race to race.

Ex. LXXXV.-THE MODERN BELLE.

SIE sits in a fashionable parlor,

And rocks in her easy chair;

She is clad in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;

STARK.

She winks, and giggles, and simpers, And simpers, and giggles, and winks, And though she talks but little,

'Tis a good deal more than she thinks.,

She lies a-bed in the morning,

Till nearly the hour of noon, Then comes down snapping and snarling Because she was called so soon! Her hair is still in papers,

Her cheeks still fresh with paint; Remains of her last night's blushes, Before she intended to faint.

She doats upon men unshaven,
And men with “flowing hair,”
She's eloquent over mustaches,
They give such a foreign air!
She talks of Italian music,

And falls in love with the moon,
And if a mouse were to meet her,
She would sink away in a swoon.

Her feet are so very little,

Her hands are so very white,
Her jewels so very heavy,

And her head so very light;
Her color is made of cosmetics,
(Though this she will never own,)
Her body's made mostly of cotton,
Her heart is made wholly of stone.

She falls in love with a fellow,
Who swells with a foreign air;
He marries her for her money,
She marries him for his—hair!
One of the very best matches—
Both are well mated in life;
She's got a fool for a husband,
He's got a fool for a wife!

Ex. LXXXVI-MORNING MEDITATIONS.

HOOD.

LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while night and larks are flying,
For my part, getting up seems not so easy

By half, as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out-
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?

I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
They smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime ;
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his cars are naught,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn out.

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear,
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl-
What then-if I prefer my pillow dear
To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And, grumbling for a season, quaintly begs--
Wherefore should miser rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs.

Why from a comfortable pillow start,
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?

A fig, say I, for any streaky part,

Excepting bacon.

An early riser, Mr. Grey has drawn,

Who used to haste the dewy grass among,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn

Well he died young.

With chairwomen such early hours agree,

And sweeps, that earn betimes their bite and sup;

But I'm no climbing boy, and will not be

All up all up.

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