Imatges de pÓgina

Till I bid the bright hours chase the night

from her bowers, And lead the young day to her arms; And when the gay rover seeks eve for his cover,

And sinks to her balmy repose, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-famed west,

In curtains of amber and rose. From my sentinel sleep by the night-brooded

deep I gaze with unslumbering eye, When the cynosure star of the mariner,

Is blotted from the sky: And guided by me through the merciless sea,

Though sped by the hurricane's wing, His compassless bark lone, weltering dark,

To the haven-home safely he brings. I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled

bowers, The birds in their chambers of green, And mountains and plain glow with beauty

again, As they bask in my matinal sheen. Oh ! if such the glad worth of my presence to

earth, Though fitful and fleeting the while, What glories must rest on the home of the blest,

Ever bright with the Deity's smile.

From the Grrmau of Ferdinand Freiligrath.
I CANNOT leave the busy strand !

I gaze upon you standing there,
And giving to the sailor's hand,

Your household furniture and ware. Men from their shoulders lifting down

Baskets of bread with careful hand, Prepared from German corn and brown,

From the old hearth in Fatherland. Black forest maids, with sunburnt faces,

Slim forms, and neatly braided hair, Come, each within the shallop places,

Her earthen pitchers all with care. These vessels carried oft to fill

At the familiar village spring; When by Missouri all is still,

Visions of home will round them cling. The rustic well with stones girt round,

The low stone wall they bended o'er, The hearth upon the family ground,

The mantelpiece with all its store.All will be dead, when in the west

These pitchers deck the log-hut lone; Or when reached down, that some brown guest

May quench his thirst, and travel on.

Tired in the chase, the Cherokees

Will drink from them on hunting ground; No more from glad grape-gleaning, these

Shall come with German vine-leaves crowned. Why, wanderers, must you leave your land?

The Neckervale has wine and corn; Tall firs in our Black Forest stand;

In Spessart sounds the Alper's horn. 'Mid foreign woods you'll long in vain

For your paternal mountains green, For Deutschland's yellow fields of grain,

And hills of vines with purple sheen. The vision of your olden time

Of all you leave so far behind, Like some old legendary rhyme,

Will rise in dreams, and haunt your mind. The boatman calls-depart in peace,

God keep you man, and wife, and child ! Joy dwell with you, and fast increase

Your rice and maize in yonder wild.


PLEASURES are like poppies spread-

You touch the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow-flake on the river,

A moment seen, then lost for ever.


Thomas K. Taylur.

THERE was a lovely little flower

I fondly hoped to rear ;
I saw it in the matin hour,

It was expanding here.
I looked again, my flower was gone,

I knew it must be dead;
I put a robe of sackcloth on,

Strewed ashes on my head.
And sat me down to wail and weep,

That thus my flower bad died ;
And in my sorrow fell asleep:

There stood one by my side, Who told me of my lovely flower,

And showed me where it grew Beyond the scorching summer's power,

Where winter never blew; And told me he had taken it

To that more genial sphere, Because in truth it was not fit

That it should wither here. And said it was too sweet a thing

To bloom on earth for me, For waters from a purer spring

Around its root must be ;

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And dews which always fall in heaven,

But never here below,
Must wash its leaves both morn and even,

Or it would never grow.
And it must have a tender care

And truer love than mine,
He pointed unto heaven, “and there,"

He said, 'a hand divine
Shall tend and train thy flower for thee,

Till it is fully grown;
Then come to heaven, and it shall be

Eternally thine own.'
And then he went away-my heart

Was calm and reconciled ;
But greatly yearning to depart,

And join my blessed child ;
And thinking of my happy dream,
In happy sleep I sung,

Both joy and grief were in my theme,

And both were on my tongue;
It was not quite a gloomy strain,

Nor quite a merry glee;
But a sweet mingling of the twain

In one deep melody.
I woke in tears, which soon were dry,

And knelt me down to pray
And then I laid my ashes by,

And flung my weeds away.

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