THE HEART'S SONG. In the silent midnight watches, List-thy bosom-door! How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; "Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in! Death comes down with reckless footstep Think you Death will stand a-knocking But thy door is fast! Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating At the gate of heaven beating, Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, JESUS waited long to know thee, And then, those Easter bells, in spring! And sing the rising of the LORD, I love ye-chimes of Motherland, That England's glory tells; For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land, The joy of all the earth; For thine thy mother's voice shall be, With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring. THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND, THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have toll'd; Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime; At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Outbreaking, as the angels did, For a Redeemer born; How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly deck'd and mistletoe, The chimes of England, how they peal Where hymn and swelling anthem fill And stain the florid tracery MARCH. MARCH-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho! how they step, Going down to the dead! Every stride, every tramp, Every footfall is nearer; And dimmer each lamp, As darkness grows drearer; But ho! how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho! how they step, Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho, how they laugh, Going down to the dead! How they whirl--how they trip, How they smile, how they dally, How blithesome they skip, Going down to the valley; Oh-ho, how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho, how they skip, Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Earth groans as they tread! Each carries a skull; Going down to the dead! Every stride-every stamp, Every footfall is bolder; "Tis a skeleton's tramp, With a skull on his shoulder! But ho, how he steps With a high-tossing head, That clay-cover'd bone, Going down to the dead! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. [Born about 1819.] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL is a son of Doctor LOWELL, an eminent Unitarian clergyman of Bos ton. He was educated at Harvard College, where he was graduated when twenty years of age, and I believe he is now engaged in the study of the law. In 1839 he published anonymously a class poem, delivered at Cambridge, and two years afterward a volume entitled "A Year's Life;" and he is now a frequent contributor to the literary magazines. "Rosaline," included in this volume, is one of his most recent compositions. Sometimes, in hours of slumberous, melancholy musing, strange, sweet harmonies seem to pervade ROSALINE. THOU look'dst on me all yesternight, But my shrunk heart knew, RoSALINE! Among the bleak pines, ROSALINE! A knowing some ill shape is nigh, Is not this vengeance, ROSALINE? And then thou comest, RoSALINE! I seem to hear the mourners go, With long, black garments trailing slow, And plumes a-nodding to and fro, As once I heard them, ROSALINE! Thy shroud it is of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night, Thou standest moveless and upright, Gazing upon me, ROSALINE! There is no sorrow in thine eyes, But evermore that meek surprise,— O, Gon! her gentle spirit tries To deem me guiltless, ROSALINE! 428 the air; impalpable forms, with garments trailing like shadows of summer clouds, glide above us; and wild and beautiful thoughts, ill-defined as the shapes we see, fill the mind. To echo these harmonies, to paint these ethereal forms, to imbody in language these thoughts, would be as difficult as to bind the rainbows in the skies. Mr. LOWELL is still a dreamer, and he strives in vain to make his readers partners in his dreamy, spiritual fancies. Yet he has written some true poetry, and as his later writings are his best, he may be classed among those who give promise of the highest excellence in the maturity of their powers. Above thy grave the robin sings, And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings, But I am cheerless, ROSALINE! The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss, For Nature feels not any loss, But I am cheerless, ROSALINE! Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred ? Why was my pride gall'd on to wed Her who brought lands and gold instead Of thy heart's treasure, ROSALINE? Why did I fear to let thee stay To look on me and pass away Forgivingly, as in its May, A broken flower, ROSALINE? I thought not, when my dagger strook, Of utter sorrow, ROSALINE! I did not know when thou wert dead: A blackbird whistling overhead Thrill'd through my brain; I would have fled, A low, low moan, a light twig stirr'd Then deathly stillness, ROSALINE! The stars came out; and, one by one, I crouch'd; I fear'd thy corpse would cry I thought I saw the blue lips try I waited with a madden'd grin To hear that voice all icy thin To hell and heaven, ROSALINE! The sound like sunshine glad had stream'd Dreams of old quiet glimmer'd by, And then, amid the silent night, Did seem to crackle, ROSALINE! Thine eyes are shut, they never more Thou couldst not smother, ROSALINE! Thine eyes are shut: they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine That hid thy casement, beam on mine Sunful with gladness, ROSALINE! Thy voice I never more shall hear, That, ere it trembled in mine ear, My quick heart heard it, ROSALINE! Would I might die! I were as well, Ay, better, at my home in hell, To set for ay a burning spell "Twixt me and memory, ROSALINE! Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Than hate more bitter, RosALINE! THE BEGGAR. A BEGGAR through the world am I, That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, Some of thy stern, unyielding might, The changeful April sky of chance Some of thy mournfulness serene, That grief may fall like snowflakes light, A little of thy merriment, Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaven help me! how could I forget That flowers here as well, unseen, SONG. I. LIFT up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light out shine! Let me adore the mysteries Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attuned to an order'd soul! II. Open thy lips yet once again, A fount of music, running o'er III. The melody that dwells in thee Begets in me as well A spiritual harmony, A mild and blessed spell; Far, far above earth's atmosphere I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear. ANNE. THERE is a pensiveness in quiet ANNE, And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, THE WAY OF LIFE. I saw a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;" Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropp'd upon my soul and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and So, without fear I lifted up my head, [pray!" And lo! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." Then rain'd once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! I am the Way, by me ye enter Heaven!" TO A FRIEND. My friend, adown life's valley, hand in hand, THE POET. POET! who sittest in thy pleasant room, Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom, GREEN MOUNTAINS. YE mountains, that far off lift up your heads, I am not well content with this far view; THE DEAD. To the dark, narrow house when loved ones go, LOVE. MUCH had I mused of love, and in my soul CAROLINE. A STAIDNESS Sobers o'er her pretty face, Then laughs aloud, and scorns her hated bands. AMELIA B. WELBY. [Born about 1821.] AMELIA B. COPPUCK, now Mrs. WELBY, was born in the small town of St. Michaels, in Maryland. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father, who is a respectable mechanic, removed to Lexington, and afterward to Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. GEORGE B. WELBY. Most of her poetry has been published during the last four years, under the signature of "AMELIA," in the "Louisville Journal," edited by GEORGE D. PRENTICE. It has a musical flow and harmony, and the ideas are often poetical; but occasionally unmeaning epithets, lengthening out a line or a verse, remind us that the writer is not a scholarlike artist. She has feeling, and fancy, and pure sentiment-the highest qualities that ever distinguish the poetry of women. She is now but about twenty years of age. THE PRESENCE OF GOD. O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe Of clouds around the hills untrodThose mountain-pillars of the globe Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD! All glittering round the sunset skies, Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd, As if to shade from mortal eyes The glories of yon upper world; There, while the evening star upholds In one bright spot, their purple folds, My spirit lifts its silent prayer, For Thou, O God of love, art there. The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet Up-springing freely from the sod, In whose soft looks we seem to meet At every step, thy smiles, O GOD! The humblest soul their sweetness shares, They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,Give me, O LORD, a heart like theirs, Contented with my lowly lot; Within their pure, ambrosial bells In odours sweet thy spirit dwells. Their breath may seem to scent the air'Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there. Hark! from yon casement, low and dim, What sounds are these that fill the breeze? It is the peasant's evening hymn Arrests the fisher on the seas; Have died like ripples on the shore. The birds among the summer blooms They leave the earth and soar above; We hear their sweet, familiar airs Diffusing sweetness all around! That trembles round the form it veils,They touch the heart as with a spell, Yet set the soaring fancy free: Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee. May strive to cast thee from its thought; But who can shut thy presence out, Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought! In spite of all our cold resolves, Magnetic-like, where'er we be, And points, all trembling, up to thee. Where soaring fancy oft hath been, How many a loved and gentle one Bathe their soft plumes in living light, That sparkles from thy radiant throne! There, souls once soft and sad as ours Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers; They dream no more of grief and care, For Thou, the Gon of peace, art there. |