FIELD NOTES.

Where is he that loves the woods,
At home in all green solitudes;
He whom fashion, fame, or pelf
Have not prisoned in himself,
He who leaveth friend and book,
And findeth both beside a brook;
Heareth wisdom musical
In a low-toned waterfall,
Or the pine grove's breezy rush,
Or the trilling of a thrush,

Or, when nights are dark and still,
In a plaintive whip-poor-will;
Or when morning suns are bright,
Seeth truths of quiet light

In the landscape green and warm
Of the sloping upland farm!
Let him come and be my friend
Till these summer months shall end.

In this leafy sylvan scene,

Where nature loves no hue but green,
Nor will let a sound be heard
But of humble-bee or bird,
Or a tall and spreading tree
Rustling still and lonesomely,
Or afar the cattle's bell,
Tinkling in some hidden dell,

We will leave house, man, and street,
For companionship more sweet:
Children of the summer air,

We will be as once we were,-
Two unconscious idle boys,
And renew Arcadian joys;
Stumbling in our hill-side walks

O'er mushrooms and mullein stalks;
Brushing with our feet away
Spider-webs of silken gray,

Gemmed with dew athwart the meadows,
That sleep in the long morning shadows;
Roaming by some grassy stream,
Where, as in some earlier dream,
Well-known flowers all tall and rank
Blossom on the marshy bank;
Vines that creep, and spikes that nod,
Golden-helmet, golden-rod,
Orchis, milk-weed, elder-bloom,
Brake, sweet-fern and meadow.broom,
Star-shaped mosses on the rocks,
Golden-butter cups in flocks,
Tossing as the breeze sweeps by
To the blue deeps of the sky;
All those scentless seedy flowers
That chronicle the summer hours;
These shall be our company.
The soliloquizing bee
Hath no need of such as we :
We will let him wander free;
He must labor hotly yet,
Ere the summer sun shall set.

OF

CALIFORNIA

Grumbling little merchant man
Deft Utilitarian,

Dunning all the idle flowers,
Short to him must be the hours,

As he steereth swiftly over

Fields of warm sweet-scented clover.
Leave him to his own delight,
Little insect Benthamite:
Idler like ourselves alone
Shall we woo to be our crone.

But for him whose cloudy looks
Are bent on law or ledger-books,
Prisoned among the heated bricks,
The slave of traffic, toil and tricks;
For him who worshippeth alone
Beneath the drowsy preacher's drone,
Where creed and text like fetters cling
Upon the spirit's struggling wing;
For him whom Fashion's laws have tamed,
Till the sweet heavens are nigh ashamed
To lead him from his poisoned food
Into their healthy solitude;
Such as these we leave behind,
Blind companions of the blind.
Little know they of the balm,
And the beauty, wise and calm,
Treasured up at Nature's breast,
For the sick heart that needeth rest.
He who in childlike love hath quaffed
Of her sweet mother-milk one draught
Hath drank immortal drops as bright
As those which (tales of eld recite)
Untasted fell one starry night

From the fair bosom of heaven's queen
Sprinkling the sky with milky sheen:
From the world's tasteless springs he turns;
His soul with thirst diviner burns,
And nursed upon the lap of Truth,
Wins once again the gift of youth.

Him we will seek, and none but him,
Whose inward sense hath not grown dim;
Whose soul is steeped in Nature's tinct,
And to the Universal linked;
Who loves the beauteous Infinite
With deep and ever new delight,
And carrieth where'er he goes,
The inborn sweetness of the rose,
The perfume as of Paradise;
The talisman above all price;
The optic glass that wins from far
The meaning of the utmost star;
The key that opes the golden doors
Where earth and heaven have piled their stores;
The magic ring-the enchanter's wand-
The title-deed to Wonder-land;

The wisdom that o'erlooketh sense,

The clairvoyance of Innocence.

These rich possessions if he own,
He shall be ours, and he alone.

THE POET.

Non est ad astra mollis é terris via.-SENECA.

He that would earn the Poet's sacred name, Must write for future as for present ages; Must learn to scorn the wreath of vulgar fame, And bear to see cold critics o'er the pages His burning brain hath wrought, wreak wantonly Their dull and crabbed spite, or trifling mockery. He must not fret his heart that men will turn From the deep wealth his soul hath freely given; He must not marvel that their spirits burn

With fire so dim and cold. The God of Heaven Who hung the golden stars in loftiest sky, Hath o'er all spirits set the Poet's heart on high.

Star-like and high, his task and glorious sphere Is to shine on in love and light unborrowed, Yet looking down, to hold all nature dear,

And where a heart hath deeply joyed or sorrowed,

To gather to itself all images

And these he loves;-and with all these the heart Of frail humanity, which like a tremulous harp Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart,

Sobs or rejoices; and when tempests sharp Sweep the tense strings, a "sweet sad music" hears, Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping tears.

Who scorns the Poet's art, deserves the scorn Which he would heap on others' heads; that man Knows not the sacred gift and calling born

Within the Poet's soul when life began Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame, But that his heart would wither else within its flame.

Time's wreaths await him: far in future ages, Twined in their amaranth beauty they are shining,

And blessings rained upon his fragrant pages, And tears from kindred hearts, quenching re

pining

With a warm sympathy, and smiles of joy

And in this life, burning through all his words,

And glancing back so strangely on man's soul The image of himself, the bard records

The power which lifts all nature, till the whole Swims in the spirit of beauty, and the breath Of earthly things is murmuring life untouched by death.

Thus hovering, bee-winged, over every flower, And gathering all the nectar from its blossom, And e'en midst broken hearts, in grief's dark hour, Stealing a sweetness from the poison bosom,

He garners up the honey of his thought,

And yields unto the world what'er his soul hath wrought.

His is the task to clothe the dull and common
In the rich garb of ever-living youth;
And o'er the soul of child, or man, or woman,
And o'er the countenance of daily truth,
And o'er Creation's face to spread the light
Of beauty, as it shines in God's eternal sight.

He may not stoop to pander to the herd

Of fickle tastes and morbid appetites; He hath upon his lips a holy word,

And he must heed not if it cheers or blights, So it be Truth, and the deep earnest fire

Of no dull earthward thought, nor any base desire,

His path is through all nature like the sun;

From world to world, like a recording spirit; And with all shapes and hues his heart is one; And if a bird but sing, his ear must hear it, And the coarse, scentless flower is as a brother, And the green turf the gentle bosom of a mother.

THE OCEAN.

"In a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
That brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."
WORDSWORTH.

Tell me, brother, what are we ?-
Spirits bathing in the sea

Of Deity!

Half afloat and half on land,
Wishing much to leave the strand,—
Standing, gazing with devotion,
Yet afraid to trust the Ocean--

Such are we.

Wanting love and holiness
To enjoy the wave's caress;
Wanting faith and heavenly hope,
Buoyantly to bear us up;
Yet impatient in our dwelling,
When we hear the ocean swelling.
And in every wave that rolls
We behold the happy souls
Peacefully, triumphantly
Swimming on the smiling sea,
Then we linger round the shore,
Lovers of the earth no more.

Once, 'twas in our infancy,
We were drifted by this sea
To the coast of human birth,
To this body and this earth:
Gentle were the hands that bore
Our young spirits to the shore;

Gentle lips that bade us look
Outward from our cradle nook
To the spirit-bearing ocean
With such wonder and devotion,
As each stilly Sabbath day,
We were led a little way,

Where we saw the waters swell
Far away from inland dell,
And recived with grave delight
Symbols of the Infinite :-

Then our home was near the sea;
"Heaven was round our infancy:"
Night and day we heard the waves
Murmuring by us to their caves ;-
Floated in unconscious life,
With no later doubts at strife,
Trustful of the upholding Power
Who sustained us hour by hour.

Now we've wandered from the shore,
Dwellers by the sea no more;
Yet at times there comes a tone
Telling of the visions flown,
Sounding from the distant sea,
Where we left our purity;
Distant glimpses of the surge
Lure us down to ocean's verge;
There we stand with vague distress,
Yearning for the measureless;
By half-wakened instincts driven,
Half loving earth, half loving heaven,
Fearing to put off and swim,
Yet impelled to turn to Him
In whose life we live and move,
And whose very name is Love.

Grant me courage, Holy One,
To become indeed thy son,
And in thee, thou Parent-Sea,
Live and love eternally.

BEAUTY.

Men talk of Beauty-of the earth and sky,
And the blue stillness of sweet inland waters,
And search all language with a lover's eye.
For flowers of praise to deck earth's glorious
daughters.

And it is well within the soul to cherish
Such love for all things beautiful around.
But there is Beauty that can never perish;
A hidden path no vulture's eye"* hath found.
Vainly ye seek it who in Sense alone

Wander amid the sweets the world hath given;
As vainly ye who make the Mind the throne,
While the Heart bends a slave, insulted, driven.
Thou who wouldst know what Beauty this can be,
Look on the sunlight of the Soul's deep purity.

• "There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye hath not seen."-JOB Xxviii. 7.

THE ARTIST.

He breathed the air of realms enchanted,
He bathed in seas of dreamy light,
And seeds within his soul were planted

That bore us flowers for use too bright, Unless it were to stay some wandering spirit's flight. With us he lived a common life,

And wore a plain familiar name,
And meekly dared the vulgar strife
That to inferior spirits came-

Yet bore a pulse within, the world could never tame.
And skies more soft than Italy's

Their wealth of light around him spread,
Their tones were his, and only his-

So sweetly floating o'er his head

None knew at what rich feast the favoured guest was fed.

They could not guess or reason why

He chose the ways of poverty;
They read no wisdom in his eye,

But scorned the holy mystery

That brooded o'er his thoughts and gave him power

to see.

But all unveiled the world of Sense

An inner meaning had for him,

And Beauty loved in innocence,

Not sought in passion or in whim,

Within a soul so pure could ne'er grow dull and dim.

And in this vision did he toil,

And in this Beauty lived and died.-
And think not that he left his soil

By no rich tillage sanctified;

In olden times he might have been his country's pride. And yet may be-though he hath gone

For spirits of so fine a mould

Lose not the glory they have won;

Their memory turns not pale and cold

While Love lives on, the lovely never can grow old.

FIRST TRUTHS.

They come to me at night, but not in dreams,
Those revelations of realities;

Just at the turning moment ere mine eyes
Are closed to sleep, they come-clear sudden gleams,
Brimfull of truth like drops from heaven's deep
streams

They glide into my soul. Entranced in prayer,

I gaze upon the vision shining there,

And bless the Father for these transient beams.
The trite and faded forms of Truth then fall.
I look into myseif, and all alone
Lie bared before the Eternal All-in-all;
Or wandering forth in spirit, on me thrown
To the true vision-land, unseen by day.
A magic robe of light, I roam away

THE PROPHET UNVEILED.

Kindly he did receive us where he dwelt
And in his smile and eye I inly felt

The self-same power, the influence mild and grand,
Which o'er our kindred souls had held command,
When to the page his mind had wrought we turned.
But now anew our hearts within us burned,
As side by side, we hearkened to his talk,
Or rambled with him in his morning walk.
Unveiled he stood; and beautiful he moved
Amid home-sympathies;-a heart that loved
Nature as dearly as a gentle mother,
And man as a great spirit and a brother.
In the clear deepening river of his thought,
Welling in tones and words by nature taught;
In the mild lustre of the long-lashed eye,
And round the delicate lips, how artlessly
Broke forth the intuitions of his mind.

I listened and I looked, but could not find
Courage or words to tell my sympathy
With all this deep-toned wisdom borne to me.
Still less could I declare how, ere I knew
The spell his visible presence o'er me threw,
The page his inspiration wrought, had warmed
Daily to life the faith within me formed
Of Nature's great relationship to man;
So far his speed of sight my own outran.
And if I spoke, it seemed to me my thought
Was but a pale and broken reflex caught
From his own orb; so silently I sat

Drinking in truth and beauty. Yet there was that
In his serene and sympathizing smile,
Which as I listened, told me all the while
That nearer intercourse might give me right
To come within the region of his light;
Not to be dazzled, moth-like, by his flame,
But go as independent as I came.

And once again within the lighted hall,
Where Mind and Beauty gathered to his call,
We heard him speak; upon his eye and tongue,
Dropping their golden thoughts we mutely hung.
Aurora shootings mixed with summer lightning,
Meteors of truth thro' beauty's sky still bright'ning;
Phoenix-lived things born amid stars and flashes,
And rising rocket-winged from their own ashes;
Pearls prodigally rained, too large and fast;
Rich-music tones too sweet and rare to last-
Such seemed his natural utterance as it passed.
And yet the steadier light that shone alway,
Looked through these meteors in their rapid play,
And warmed around us like the sunlight mild,
And Truth in Beauty's robes stood by and smiled.

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. From the Spanish.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

Underneath the sod, low lying, dark and drear,
Sleepeth one who left, in dying, sorrow here.
Yes, they're ever-bending o'er her, eyes that weep;
Forms that to the cold grave bore her, vigils keep.
When the summer moon is shining soft and fair,
Friends she loved, in tears are twining chaplets there.
Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, throned above;
Souls like thine with God inherit life and love.

TO LITTLE MARY.

The following beautiful lines were addressed to a little girl-an only child-in this city, who, in her sleep, repeated the passage she was accustomed nightly to utter before closing her eyes.

"I konw that the angels are whispering to thee."
Thou art so like a dream of heaven,
That still thy visions seem,

Like that phenomenon of sleep,

A dream within a dream!

And pure the thoughts that memory brings,
To voice thy dreaming hour;

The butterfly has closed its wings,

Upon a lily flower!

"God bless me—make me a good girl.”—Amen.

Not such the dream by slumber thrown,

When grief's rough swell is o'er; The ebb of pain, its after moan!

The surge upon the shore! Thy prayer is but the echoing

Of waking peace and love,

The rustling of the Spirit's wing!

The cooing of its dove!

"God bless me-make me a good girl.”—Amen.

The roses of the Persian field,

With all their wealth of bloom, Are crush'd, though thousands may but yield A drop of rich perfume;

And thus, the heart with feeling rife,

Is crushed, alas! by care:

Yet, blest, if suffering wring from life,

Its other drop-of prayer.

"God bless me―make me a good girl.”— Amen.

Mother! sweet mother! thou hast taught
That infant soul to pray,
Before a rose-leaf from its thought

The world has blown away-
Prayer! on that lip that once was thine!
Thoughts, of thine own a part!

Dropp'd jewels of thy spirit's mine,

Sleep scatters o'er her heart!

"God bless me-make me a good girl.”—Amen.