Voices of the True-hearted

A hyena by her side

Skulks, downlooking-it is Pride.
He digs for her in the earth,
Where lie all her claims of birth,
With his foul paws rooting o'er
Some long buried ancestor,
Who, most like, a statue won
By the ill deeds he had done.

Round her heart and round her brain
Wealth had linked a golden chain,
Which doth close and closer press
Heart and brain to narrowness.
Every morn and every night
She must bare that bosom white,
Which so thrillingly doth rise
'Neath its proud embroideries,
That its mere heave lets men know
How much whiter 'tis than snow,-
She must bare it, and, unseen,
Suckle that hyena lean;-

Ah! the fountain's angel shrinks,
And forsakes it while he drinks!

There walks Judas, he who sold
Yesterday his Lord for gold,
Sold God's presence in his heart
For a proud step in the Mart;

He hath dealt in flesh and blood-
At the Bank, his name is good,
At the Bank, and only there,
'Tis a marketable ware.

In his eyes that stealthy gleam
Was not learned of sky or stream,
But it has the cold, hard glint
Of new dollars from the Mint.
Open now your spirit's eyes,

Look through that poor clay disguise
Which has thickened, day by day,
Till it keeps all light away,
And his soul in pitchy gloom
Gropes about its narrow tomb,
From whose dank and slimy walls,
Drop by drop the horror falls.
Look! a serpent, lank and cold,
Hugs his spirit, fold on fold:
From his heart all day and night
It doth suck God's blessed light.
Drink it will, and drink it must,
Till the cup holds naught but dust;
All day long he hears it hiss,
Writhing in its fiendish bliss ;
All night long he sees its eyes
Flicker with strange eestasies,
As the spirit ebbs away
Into the absorbing clay.

Who is he that skulks, afraid
Of the trust he has betrayed,
Shuddering if perchance a gleam
Of old nobleness should stream

Through the pent, unwholesome room,
Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom,-
Spirit sad beyond the rest

By more instinct for the Best?
'Tis a poet who was sent,
For a bad world's punishment,
By compelling it to see
Golden glimpses of To Be,
By compelling it to hear
Songs that prove the angels near ;
Who was sent to be the tongue
Of the weak and spirit-wrung,
Whence the fiery-winged Despair
In men's shrinking eyes might flare.
'Tis our hope doth fashion us

To base use or glorious :

He who might have been a lark
Of Truth's morning, from the dark
Raining down melodious hope
Of a freer, broader scope,
Aspirations, prophecies,

Of the spirit's full sunrise,-
Chose to be a bird of night,
Which, with eyes refusing light,
Hooted from some hollow tree
Of the world's idolatry.
'Tis his punishment to hear
Fluttering of pinions near,
And his own vain wings to feel
Drooping downward to his heel,
All their grace and import lost,
Burthening his weary ghost :
Ever walking by his side
He must see his angel guide,
Who at intervals doth turn
Looks on him so sadly stern,
With such ever-new surprise
Of hushed anguish in her eyes,
That it seems the light of day
From around him shrinks away,
Or drops blunted from the wall
Built around him by his fall.

Then the mountains whose white peaks
Catch the morning's earliest streaks,
He must see, where prophets sit,
Turning East their faces lit,
Whence, with footsteps beautiful,
To the earth, yet dim and dull,
They the gladsome tidings bring
Of the sunlight's hastening.
Never can those hills of bliss
Be o'erclimbed by feet like his!

But enough! Oh, do not dare
From the next his mask to tear,
Which, although it moves about
Like a human form without,
Hath a soul within, I ween,
Of the vulture's shape and mein.

VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED.

No. 7.

THE LADY'S DREAM.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

The lady lay in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft,

But her sleep was restless and broken still; For turning often and oft

From side to side, she muttered and moaned, And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she started up,

And gazed on the vacant air,

With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there

And then in the pillow she buried her face

From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,

Her terror was so extreme,

And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt
Kept a tremulous gleam;

And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried ;
Oh me! that awful dream!

That weary, weary walk,

In the church-yard's dismal ground!

And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,——

Death, death, and nothing but death,

In every sight and sound!

And oh! those maidens young,

Who wrought in that dreary room,

With figures drooping and spectres thin,

And cheeks without a bloom ;

And the voice that cried, "For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb!

"For the pomp and pleasure of pride,

We toil like Afric slaves,

And only to earn a home at last,

Where yonder cypress waves;"And then he pointed-I never saw

A ground so full of graves! And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dream'd
Of such a world of woe!

Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life
That grieve this earthly ball-
Disease and Hunger, Pain and Want-
But now I dream'd of them all!

For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor
Who begged-to bury the dead;

The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famished I might have fed !

The sorrow I might have soothed,
And the unregarded tears;
For many a thronging shape was there,
From long forgotten years;
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who raised my childish fears!

Each pleading look, that long ago
I scanned with a heedless eye;
Each face was gazing as plainly there,
As when I passed it by;

Woe, woe for me, if the past should be
Thus present when I die !

No need of sulphurous lake,

No need of fiery coal,

But only that crowd of human kind
Who wanted pity and dole-

In everlasting retrospect

Will wring my sinful soul!

Alas! I have walked through life

Too heedless where I trod ;

Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm,
And fill the burial sod-

Forgetting that even the sparrow that falls
Is not unmark'd of God!

I drank the richest draughts:

And ate whatever is good

Fish and flesh, and fowl and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood;

But I never remembered the wretched ones
That starve for want of food.

I dressed as the nobles dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk, and satin, and costly furs,

In many an ample fold;

But I never remembered the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.

The wounds I might have healed! The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul

To play so ill a part;

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of Heart!'

She clasped her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Large and bitter, and fast they fell,

Remorse was so extreme :

And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame, Would dream the Lady's Dream!

MOUNTAIN CHILDREN.

BY MARY HOWITT.

Dwellers by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee! Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirit free!

No crowd impedes your way;

No city wall proscribes your further bounds;

Where the wild flock can wander, e may stray, The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd;

The grey and ancient peaks,

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight,-

These are your joys! go forth,

Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;
For in His spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills,

Its quiet way into your spirit finds;

And awfully the everlasting hills Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth,

Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee;

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirit silently.

Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverence-the patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth; earth and sky

To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely like the summer flowers that lie In the green path beneath your gamesome tread!

LETTER TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMARY.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

SIR In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained to fall hereafter on this bright spot of earth-the waters on their way to this sparkling brook-the tints mixed for the flowers of that enamelled meadow, and the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers by the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether to wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at my own impertinent audacity toward Nature. How you can buy the right to exclude at will every other creature made in God's image from sitting by this brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying listening to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees-how I can sell it you, is a mystery not understood by the Indian, and dark, I must say, to me.

"Lord of the soil," is a title which conveys your privileges but poorly. You are master of waters flowing at this moment, perhaps, in a river of Judea, or floating in clouds over some spicy island of the tropics, bound hither after many changes. There are lilies and violets ordered for you in millions, acres of sunshine in daily instalments, and dew nightly in proportion. There are throats to be tuned with song, and wings to be painted with red and gold, blue and yellow; thousands of them, and all tributaries to you. Your corn is ordered to be Osheathed in silk, and lifted high to the sun. Your grain is to be duly bearded and stemmed. There is perfume distilling for your clover, and juices for your grasses and fruits. Ice will be here for your wine, shade for your refreshment at noon, breezes and showers and snow-flakes; all in their season, and all deeded to you for forty dollars the acre!" Gods! what a copyhold of property for a fallen world!

Mine has been but a short lease of this lovely and well endowed domain (the duration of a smile of fortune, five years, scarce longer than a five act play); but as in a play we sometimes live through a life, it seems to me that I have lived a life at Glenmary. Allow me this, and then you must allow me the privilege of those who, at the close of life, leave something behind them that of writing out my will. Though I depart this life, I would fain, like others, extend my ghostly hand into the future; and if wings are to be borrowed or stolen where I go, you may rely on my hovering around and haunting you, in visitations not restricted by cock-crowing.

Trying to look at Glenmary through your eyes, sir, I see too plainly that I have not shaped my ways as if expecting a successor in my lifetime. I did not, I am free to own. I thought to have shuffled off my mortal coil tranquilly here; flitting at last in company with some troop of my autumn leaves, or some bevy of spring blossoms, or with snow in the thaw; my tenants at my back, as a

landlord may say. I have counted on a life-interest | male eye, and, with the trimness of his shape, has

in the trees, trimming them accordingly; and in the squirrels and birds, encouraging them to chatter and build and fear nothing; no guns permitted on the premises. I have had my will of this beautiful stream. I have carved the woods into a shape of my liking. I have propagated the despised sumach and the persecuted hemlock and "pizen laurel." And "no end to the weeds dug up and set out again," as one of my neighbours delivers himself. I have built a bridge over Glenmary brook, which the town looks to have kept up by the place," and we have plied free ferry over the river, I and my man Tom, till the neighbours, from the daily saving of the two miles round, have got the trick of it. And betwixt the aforesaid Glenmary brook and a certain muddy and plebeian gutter formerly permitted to join company with, and pollute it, I have procured a divorce at much trouble and pains, a guardian duty entailed of course on my successor.

departed much of that measured alacrity which first won our regard. He presumes a little on your allowance for old age; and with this pardonable weakness growing upon him, it seems but right that his position and standing should be tenderly made known to any new-comer on the premises. In the cutting of the next grass, slice me not up my fat friend, sir! nor set your cane down heedlessly in his modest domain. He is mine ancient," and I would fain do him a good turn with you.

For my spoilt family of squirrels, sir, I crave nothing but immunity from powder and shot. They require coaxing to come on the same side of the tree with you, and though saucy to me, I observe that they commence acquaintance invariably with a safe mistrust. One or two of them have suffered, it is true, from too hasty a confidence in my greyhound Maida, but the beauty of that gay fellow was a trap against which nature had furnished them with no warning instinct! (A fact, sir, which would pretti

of the lawn, and the black walnut over the shoulder of the flower garden, have been, through my dynas. ty, sanctuaries inviolate for squirrels. I pray you, sir, let them not be" reformed out" under your administration.

Of our feathered connexions and friends, we are

First of ail, sir, let me plead for the old trees of Glenmary! Ah! those friendly old trees! The cot-ly point a moral!) The large hickory on the edge tage stands belted in with them, a thousand visible from the door, and of stems and branches worthy of the great valley of the Susquehannah. For how much music played without thanks am I indebted to those leaf-organs of changing tone? for how many whisperings of thought breathed like oracles into my ear? for how many new shapes of beauty moulded in the leaves by the wind? for how much companionship, solace, and welcome? Steadfast and constant is the countenance of such friends; God be praised for their staid welcome and sweet fidelity! If I love them better than some things human, it is no fault of ambitiousness in the trees. They stand where they did. But in recoiling from mankind, one may find them the next kindliest things, and be glad of dumb friendship. Spare those old trees,

gentle sir!

most bound to a pair of Phebe-birds and a merry Bob-o'-Lincoln, the first occupying the top of the young maple near the door of the cottage, and the der bushes in the meadow, though in common with latter executing his bravuras upon the clump of al. many a gay-plumaged gallant like himself, his whereabout after dark is a dark mystery. He comes every year from his rice-plantation in Florida to from percussion-caps, and let no urchin with a long pass the summer at Glenmary. Pray keep him safe pole poke down our trusting Phebes; annuals in that same tree for three summers. There are hummingbirds, too, whom we have complimented and looked morning to morning. And there is a golden oriole sweet upon, but they can not be identified from who sings through May on a dog wood tree by the brook side, but he has fought shy of our crumbs and coaxing, and let him go! We are mates for his betters, with all his gold livery! With these reservations, sir, I commend the birds to your friendship and kind keeping.

In the smooth walk which encircles the meadow betwixt that solitary Olympian sugar-maple and the margin of the river, dwells a portly and venerable toad; who (if I may venture to bequeath you my friends) must be commended to your kindly consideration. Though a squatter, he was noticed in our first rambles along the stream, five years since, for his ready civility in yielding the way; not hurriedly, however, nor with an obsequiousness unbecoming a republican, but deliberately and just enough; sitting quietly on the grass till our passing by gave him room again on the warm and trodden ground. PunctuAnd now sir, I have nothing else to ask, save only ally after the April cleansing of the walk, your watchfulness over the small nook reserved from this jewelled habitue, from his indifferent lodgings this purchase of seclusion and loveliness. In the near by, emerges to take his pleasure in the sun; shady depths of the small glen above you, among the and there, at any time when a gentleman is likely to wild flowers and music, the music of the brook bab. be abroad, you may find him, patient on his os coccy-bling over rocky steps, is a spot sacred to love and gis, or vaulting to his asylum of long grass. This memory. Keep it inviolate, and as much of the year, he shows, I am grieved to remark, an ominous happiness of Glenmary as we can leave behind, stay obesity, likely to render him obnoxious to the fe with you for recompense!

THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Stranger. Whom are they ushering from the world, with all

This pageantry and long parade of death?

Townsman. A long parade, indeed, sir; and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches
A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.

Stranger. Why judge you, then,
So harshly of the dead?

Townsman. For what he left

Undone,- for sins not one of which is mention'd
In the tenth commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believed no other gods than those of the creed.
Bowed to no idols-but his money-bags :
Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house;
Kept the sabbath idle; built a monument

Stranger. It is but a mournful sight, and yet the To honour his dead father; did no murder;

pomp

Tempts me to stand a gazer.

Townsman. Yonder schoolboy,

Who plays the truant, says, the proclamation
Of peace was nothing to the show; and even
The chairing of the members at election
Would not have been a finer sight than this,
Only that red and green are prettier colours
Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold
One of the red gown'd worthies of the city,
The envy and boast of our exchange,

Never pick'd pockets; never bore false witness;
And never, with that all-commanding wealth,
Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass.
Stranger. You knew him, then, it seems.
Townsman. As all men know

The virtues of your hundred-thousanders;
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel.
Stranger. Nay, nay, uncharitable sir! for often
Doth bounty like a streamlet flow unseen,
Fresh'ning and giving life along its source.

Ay, who was worth, last week, a good half million, Tomnsman. We track the streamlet by the brigher Screw'd down in yonder hearse.

Stranger. Then he was born Under a lucky planet, who to-day Puts mourning on for his inheritance.

Townsman. When first I heard his death, that
very wish

Leap'd to my lips; but now the closing scene
Of the comedy has waken'd wiser thoughts;
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave,
There will not be the weight of wealth like his
To sink me down.

Stranger. The camel and needle-
Is that, then, in your mind?

Townsman. Even so. The text

Is gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel-
Yea, leap him flying through the needle's eye,
As easily as such a pamper'd soul
Could pass the narrow gate.

Stranger. Your pardon, sir,

But sure this lack of Christian charity
Looks not like Christian truth.

Townsman. Your pardon, too, sir,

If with this text before me, I should feel

green

And livelier growth it gives; but as for this-
The rains of heaven engender'd nothing in it
But slime and foul corruption.

Stranger. Yet even these

Are reservoirs, whence public charity
Still keeps her channels full.

Townsman. Now, sir, you touch
Upon the point. This man of half a million
Had all these public virtues which you praise-
But the poor man rung never at his door;
And the old beggar, at the public gate,
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand,
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye

To that hard face. Yet he was always found
Among your ten, and twenty pound subscribers,
Your benefactors in the newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world, donations to keep open
A running-charity account with heaven;
Retaining fees against the last assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old arch lawyer

In the preaching mood! But for these barren fig trees, Plead his own cause as plaintiff.

With all their flourish and their leafiness,
We have been told their destiny and use,
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they
Cumber the earth no longer.

Stranger. Was his wealth

Stored fraudfully, the spoils of orphans wronged,
And widows who had none to plead their right?
Townsman. All honest, open, honourable gains,
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages,
Ships to the east and west.

Stranger. I must needs

Believe you, sir; these are your witnesses,
These mourners here, who from their carriages
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind
Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes
Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute
Bears not a face blanker of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!

How can this man have lived, that thus his death
Cost not the soiling of one handkerchief!

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