JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, LL. D. TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll; Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam, With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam The more it lingers upon earth. Closed in this dark abode of clay, The stream of glory faintly burns:Not unobserved, the lucid ray To its own native fount returns. But when the LORD of mortal breath Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Which speeds an infant to the tomb No passion fierce, nor low desire, Has quench'd the radiance of the flame; Back to its Gon the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother's heart. O, think! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumber'd saints above, Bask in the bosom of their God. Of their short pilgrimage on earth O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend; Still watchful hover o'er thy head. Hark! in such strains as saints employ, They whisper to thy bosom peace; Calm the perturbed heart to joy, And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear: Their part and thine inverted see:Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. SAMUEL WOODWORTH.* THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood! When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure, For often at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, How quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell, Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips; Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though fill'd with the nectar that JUPITER Sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well. Thousand charms, thy form to deck, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in the circling air a heart; * Mr. WOODWORTH is the author of several volumes of songs, comedies, &c. He was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, in 1785, and now resides in New York. + Doctor SHAW was born in Maryland, in 1778, and died ROBERT M. BIRD, M. D.* ODE TO THE MOON. O, MELANCHOLY moon, Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres, My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under The locust tree, and, through the chequer'd bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee. Youth grew; but, as it came, And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the That was the early music of my soul, [name And seem'd upon thy pictured disc to trace Remember'd features of a radiant face. And manhood, though it bring A winter to my bosom, cannot turn Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill, The boyish yearning to be with thee still. Would it were so; for earth Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail; And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to Turn to a moody melody of wail, [mirth, And through her stony throngs I go alone, Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone. Would it were so; for still Thou art my only counsellor, with whom Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill, Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom Of solitude, which is so sad and sore, Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core. A boyish thought, and weak : : I shall look up to thee from the deep sea, Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone; moan; No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me no pale face but thine. at sea, near the West India Islands, in 1809. He was secretary to General EATON, at Tunis, in 1800; and in 1803, accompanied Lord SELKIRK, on his expedition to form a settlement on St. John's Island in Upper Canada. A collection of his poems was published in Philadelphia, in the year after his death. *Author of "Calavar," "The Infidel," "The Hawks of Hawk Hollow" and other romances; and of "The Gladiator, a Tragedy," &c. AN infant boy was playing among flowers, Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, To mark the artless joy and blooming grace Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair He smiled, and press'd a rosy dimple there. Next Boyhood follow'd, with his shout of glee, Elastic step, and spirit wild and free As the young fawn, that scales the mountain height, His voice was harmony, his speech was truth- Manhood next follow'd, in the sunny prime A bold review of life, from the broad text Last came, with trembling limbs and bending form, Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm, Mrs. KATHERINE AUGUSTA WARE is a native of Massachusetts, and was at one time editor of a periodical published in Boston, called "The Bower of Taste." She has for several years resided in England, and a collection of her writings, entitled "Power of the Passions, and other Poems," appeared in London since the commencement of the present year, (1842.) Man, in the last frail stage of human life- HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT." GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT. THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before; For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrow less track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back. Each bird, and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; The steel of the white man hath swept them away. This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, J. K. MITCHELL.* THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE. O! FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me, In harmony blending, commingle their dyes. Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their steeds, Doctor MITCHELL, Professor of the Practice of Medicine in the Jefferson Medical College, at Philadelphia, is a native of Shepherdstown, in Virginia. He was educated at one of the universities of Scotland, and studied his profession in Philadelphia. In 1839, he published a volume, entitled "Indecision, and other Poems." No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny, No gossips to slander, no neighbour to pry. But, struggling not there the heart's impulse to hide, Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock side, And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring, Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colour'd wing. ELIZABETH TOWNSEND.* [of all THE INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD. So fondly tenanted with better things Peace, my proud aim, E'en to the perfecting thyself, thy kind, *Of Boston. REVEREND R. C. WATERSTON.* THE DYING ARCHER. THE day has near ended, the light quivers through The leaves of the forest, which bend with the dew, The flowers bow in beauty, the smooth-flowing stream Is gliding as softly as thoughts in a dream; The low room is darken'd, there breathes not a sound, While friends in their sadness are gathering round; Now out speaks the Archer, his course well nigh done, "Throw, throw back the lattice, and let in the sun." The lattice is open'd; and now the blue sky Then up rose the Archer, and gazed once again Now bring me my quiver, and tighten my bow, His last words are finish'd: his spirit has fled, JAMES T. FIELDS.t THE VILLAGER'S WINTER EVENING SONG. Nor a leaf on the tree, not a bud in the hollow, Where late swung the blue-bell and blossom'd the rose; And hush'd is the cry of the swift-darting swallow That circled the lake in the twilight's dim close. Gone, gone are the woodbine and sweet-scented brier That bloom'd o'er the hillock and gladden'd the vale; And the vine that uplifted its green-pointed spire Hangs drooping and sere on the frost-cover'd pale. * Of Boston. Mr. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, in New Hampshire, but has for several years resided in Boston. His principal poem, entitled "Commerce," was published in 1839. His writings are distinguished for a natural simplicity and elegance, and generally relate to rural or do. mestic subjects. And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain That prattled and shone in the light of the moon; Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain, And lock'd up in silence its frolicksome tune. Then heap up the hearth-stone with dry forest branches, And gather about me, my children, in glee; For cold on the upland the stormy wind launches, And dear is the home of my loved ones to me! DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. UNDERNEATH the sod, low lying, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, Yes, they're ever-bending o'er her, Forms that to the cold grave bore her, When the summer moon is shining Friends she loved in tears are twining Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, Souls like thine with God inherit SACO FALLS. Rush on, bold stream! thou sendest up I see thy lengthen'd, darkling form; O! earth hath many a gallant show-- Hath nature framed a lovelier sight Than thy fair tide with diamonds fraught, When every drop with light is caught, And, o'er the bridge, the village girls Reflect below their waving curls, While merrily thy waters play In welcome music, far away! |