Imatges de pÓgina
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JOHN PIERPONT.

And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home,

By angel hands to valor given,
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before
us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er

us?

JOHN PIERPONT.

[v. s. A., 1785-1866.]

PASSING AWAY.

WAS it the chime of a tiny bell

That came so sweet to my dreaming

157

That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing);

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,

To catch the music that comes from the

shore?

Hark! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words; as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!"

And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!”

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ear,

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds, on the beech, so mellow and clear,

When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,

And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep,

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush

oar,

She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
And the light in her eye, and the light
on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above
her,
Was a little dimmed,

as when Evening

steals Upon Noon's hot face. Yet one could n't but love her,

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and For she looked like a mother whose first clear;

Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,

And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung

(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade

Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,

babe lay

Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there

came!

Her eye was quenched, and her cheek

was wan;

Stooping and staffed was her withered | Even now, the bow-string, at his beck, Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck;

frame,

Yet just as busily swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust; The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,

And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless

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THOMAS HOOD.

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,
The 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 car 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-beer
To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly
begs
Wherefore should master 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. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among;
"To meet the sun upon the upland
lawn,"
Well, he died young.

So here I lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of

noon;

A man that's fond precociously of stirring
Must be a spoon.

SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestry-
There's living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree.

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

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'T is like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and
blue-

The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the east, -
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run;
While morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers:
Then, lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers.

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened;---such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup;

And her hat, with shady brim,

But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be Made her tressy forehead dim;-
All up,-all up!

Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

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