To lay thine unblest head.
Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care, That calls for holy prayer?
Has thy day been so bright That in its flight
There is no trace of sorrow? And thou art sure to-morrow
Will be like this, and more Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store And still make plans for more? Thou fool! this very night Thy soul may wing its flight.
Hast thou no being than myself more dear,
That ploughs the ocean deep, And when storms sweep
The wintry, lowering sky, For whom thou wak'st and weepest? Oh, when thy pangs are deepest, Seek then the covenant ark of prayer; For He that slumbereth not is there
His ear is open to thy cry.
Oh, then, on prayerless bed Lay not thy thoughtless head.
Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber,
Till in communion blest
Earth has a joy unknown in heaven, The new-born peace of sin forgiven! Tears of such pure and deep delight, Ye angels! never dimmed your sight.
Ye saw of old on chaos rise
The beauteous pillars of the skies; Ye know where morn exulting springs, And evening folds her drooping wings.
Bright heralds of the Eternal Will, Abroad his errands ye fulfil; Or, throned in floods of beamy day, Symphonious in his presence play. Loud is the song, - the heavenly plain Is shaken with the choral strain; And dying echoes, floating far, Draw music from each chiming star.
1 See BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE, p. 793.
LAKE SUPERIOR
"FATHER of lakes!" thy waters bend Beyond the eagle's utmost view, When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send Back to the sky its world of blue.
Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore.
Pale silence, mid thy hollow caves, With listening ear, in sadness broods; Or startled echo, o'er thy waves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods.
Nor can the light canoes, that glide Across thy breast like things of air, Chase from thy lone and level tide The spell of stillness deepening there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave, Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives, That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, To all a wild, strange aspect gives.
The thunder-riven oak, that flings Its grisly arms athwart the sky, A sudden, startling image brings
To the lone traveller's kindled eye.
The gnarled and braided boughs, that show Their dim forms in the forest shade, Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw Fantastic horrors through the glade.
The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone;
For they have told the war-whoop o'er, Till the wild chorus is their own.
Wave of the wilderness, adieu ! Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds, ye woods! Roll on, thou element of blue,
And fill these awful solitudes!
Thou hast no tale to tell of man; God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves, Whisper of him whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves!
SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH
THE HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST
THERE is an hour of peaceful rest
To mourning wanderers given; There is a joy for souls distrest, A balm for every wounded breast, 'Tis found alone in heaven.
There is a soft, a downy bed,
Far from these shades of even A couch for weary mortals spread, Where they may rest the aching head, And find repose, in heaven.
There is a home for weary souls
By sin and sorrow driven;
When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals, Where storms arise, and ocean rolls, And all is drear but heaven.
There faith lifts up her cheerful eye,
To brighter prospects given; And views the tempest passing by, The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene in heaven.
There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, And joys supreme are given; There rays divine disperse the gloom: Beyond the confines of the tomb Appears the dawn of heaven.
WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN
SONG OF THE ELFIN STEERSΜΑΝ
ONE elf, I trow, is diving now For the small pearl; and one, The honey-bee for his bag he Goes chasing in the sun;
And one, the knave, has pilfered from The nautilus his boat,
And takes his idle pastime where
The water-lilies float.
And some the mote, for the gold of his coat, By the light of the will-o'-wisp follow; And others, they trip where the alders dip Their leaves in the watery hollow; And one is with the firefly's lamp Lighting his love to bed: Sprites, away! elf and fay,
And see them hither sped.
Haste! hither whip them with this end Of spider's web — anon
The ghost will have fled to his grave-bed, And the bat winked in the sun. Haste! for the ship, till the moon dip Her horn, I did but borrow; And crowing cocks are fairy clocks, That mind us of to-morrow.
The summer moon will soon go down, And the day-star dim her horn, O blow, then, blow, till not a wave Leap from the deep unshorn! Blow, sweep their white tops into mist, As merrily we roam,
Till the wide sea one bright sheet be, One sheet of fire and foam.
Blow, till the sea a bubble be,
And toss it to the sky,- Till the sands we tread of the ocean-bed, As the summer fountains dry. The upper shelves are ours, my elves, Are ours, and soon the nether With sea-flowers we shall sprinkled see, And pearls like dew-drops gather.
The summer moon will soon go down, And then our course is up; Our frigate then the cockle-shell, Our boat the bean-flower cup. Sprites away! elf and fay,
From thicket, lake, and hollow;
The blind bat, look! flits to his nook, And we must quickly follow.
Ha! here they come, skimming the foam, A gallant crew. But list!
I hear the crow of the cock - O blow, Till the sea-foam drift like mist. Fairies, haste! flood and blast Quickly bring, and stay
The moon's horn-look! to his nook The blind bat flits - away!
O LEND to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain, And lend to me your cadences, O river of the mountain! That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set, Gem for a prince's coronet -
The daughter of Mendoza.
How brilliant is the morning star, The evening star how tender, The light of both is in her eyes,
Their softness and their splendor. But for the lash that shades their light They were too dazzling for the sight, And when she shuts them, all is night- The daughter of Mendoza.
O ever bright and beauteous one, Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tones,
The rainbow in thy smiling; And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell - Sweet daughter of Mendoza !
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