Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery; Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. Oh, then, to thee, this rude and simple song, Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. HANNAH FLAGG GOULD was born in Lancaster, Vermont; but while yet a child her father removed to Newburyport, Massachusetts. She early wrote for several periodicals, and in 1832 her poetical pieces were collected in a volume. In 1835 and in 1841, a second and third volume appeared, entitled simply Poems; and in 1846 she collected a volume of her prose compositions, entitled Gathered Leaves. Of her poetry, a writer in the "Christian Examiner" remarks that it is impossible to find fault. It is so sweet and unpretending, so pure in purpose, and so gentle in expression, that criticism is disarmed of all severity, and engaged to say nothing of it but good. It is poetry for a sober, quiet, kindlyaffectioned Christian heart. It is poetry for a united family circle in their hours of peace and leisure. For such companionship it was made, and into such it will find and has found its way. A NAME IN THE SAND. Alone I walk'd the ocean strand; My name-the year-the day. Will sweep across the place 1 Vol. xiv. p. 320. And yet, with Him who counts the sands, Of all this mortal part has wrought; THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. "I am a Pebble! and yield to none!" The pelting hail and the drizzling rain That's gone from sight, and under the sod. The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute, This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere; And soon in the earth she sank away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. By the peering head of an infant oak! What was enclosed in its simple shell! That the pride of the forest was folded up Shall show the purpose for which I've been!" THE FROST. The Frost look'd forth one still clear night, I will not go on like that blustering train- Then he flew to the mountain and powder'd its crest; In diamond beads; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, By the light of the moon, were seen Most beautiful things: there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees; There were cities, with temples and towers,—and these All pictured in silver sheen! But he did one thing that was hardly fair: I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THIS true poet of freedom and humanity, known and loved in both hemispheres, is of a Quaker family, and was born near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. Until he was eighteen years of age, he remained at home, passing his time in the district school, in assisting his father on the farm, and writing occasional verses for the "Haverhill Gazette." After spending two years in the Academy at Haverhill, he went to Boston in 1828, and became editor of the "American Manufacturer," a newspaper devoted to the interest of a protective tariff. In 1830, he became editor of the "New England Weekly Review," published at Hartford, and remained connected with it for about two years; during which period he published a volume of poems and prose sketches, entitled Legends of New England. He then returned home, and soon after was elected by the town of Haverhill a representative to the Legislature of his native State. In 1836, he was elected Secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and defended its principles as editor of the "Pennsylvania Freeman," a weekly paper published in Philadelphia. About this time appeared his longest poem, Mogg Megone, an Indian story, which takes its name from a leader among the Saco Indians in the bloody war of 1677. In 1840, Mr. Whittier removed to Amesbury, Massachusetts, where all his later publications have been written. In 1845 appeared The Stranger in Lowell, a series of sketches of scenery and character such as that famed manufacturing town might naturally suggest. In 1847, he became corresponding editor of the "National Era," published at Washington, and gave to that paper no small share of its deserved celebrity. The next year, a beautifully-illustrated edition of all his poems, including his Voices of Freedom, was published by Mussey, of Boston. In 1849 appeared his Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal, written in the antique style by the fictitious fair journalist, who visits New England in 1678, and writes letters to a gentleman in England, to whom she is to be married, descriptive of the manners and influences of the times. In 1850 appeared his volume Old Portraits and Modern Sketches, a series of prose essays on Bunyan, Baxter, &c.; and, in the same year, Songe of Labor, and other Poems, in which he dignifies and renders interesting the mechanic arts by the associations of history and fancy. Since that time he has published Lays of Home, and The Chapel of the Hermits, and other Poems; while he frequently enriches the columns of the "National Era" with some felicitous prose essay, or some soul-stirring poem. Since the establishment of the "Atlantic Monthly" he has contributed to almost every number. Though boldness, energy, and strength are Whittier's leading characteristics, and though many of his poems breathe, in soul-stirring language, a defiant tone to the oppressor, and show a hatred of slavery as intense, if possible, as it deserves, yet many of his prose works and poems are marked by a tenderness, a grace, and a beauty not exceeded by those of any other American writer. He thus unites qualities seemingly opposite in a heart every pulsation of which beats warmly for humanity. PALESTINE. Blest land of Judea! thrice hallow'd of song, With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, Lo, Bethlehem's hill-side before me is seen, And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw I tread where the TWELVE in their wayfaring trod; I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN of God,— Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came,— And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet; But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea, And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near |