INDIAN SUMMER, 1828. LIGHT as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river; The blue bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air he carols, faintly quiver; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; Beaded with dew, the witch-elm's tassels shiver; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly leaping. I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes That richly deck the slow-declining year; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, I love the note of each wild bird that flies, [brief; As on the wind he pours his parting lay, And wings his loitering flight to summer climes away. O, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee, With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee to thee-though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restoreI still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee, And Jeem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity. TOWN REPININGS. RIVER! O, river! thou rovest free, From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea River! O, river! upon thy tide Yet the slave who worships at Glory's shrine, THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS. WEND, love, with me, to the deep woods, wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue, Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, From the saffron orchis and lupin blue, And those like the foam on my courser's bit. One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, One hand of each on the bridle meet; And beneath the wrist that entwines me there, An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. I will sing thee many a joyous lay, As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. Our home shall be by the cool, bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams [meet. Through the branches around our lodge that Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. THY NAME. IT comes to me when healths go round, And o'er the wine their garlands wreathing Are freshly from the goblet breathing; Where care in jostling crowds is rife; Or cold Ambition prompts the strife; In eyes whose spell would once have bound mo It comes to me where cloister'd boughs Are lifted from her shrine to God; I dream in heaven or know on earth, Is blended with my thought of thec. THE MYRTLE AND STEEL. ONE bumper yet, gallants, at parting, One toast ere we arm for the fight; Fill round, each to her he loves dearest "T is the last he may pledge her, to-night. Think of those who of old at the banquet Did their weapons in garlands conceal, The patriot heroes who hallowed The entwining of myrtle and steel! "Tis in moments like this, when each bosom Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Now mount, for our bugle is ringing When your sabres the death-blow would deal, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel! EPITAPH UPON A DOG. An ear that caught my slightest tone, In vigils death alone has broken; Can such in endless sleep be chill'd, And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, Because the pulse that here was still'd May wake to no immortal morrow? Can faith, devotedness, and love, That seem to humbler creatures given To tell us what we owe above, The types of what is due to Heaven,— Can these be with the things that were, Things cherish'd-but no more returning, And leave behind no trace of care, No shade that speaks a moment's mourning? Alas! my friend, of all of worth That years have stolen or years yet leave me, I've never known so much on earth, But that the loss of thine must grieve me ANACREONTIC. BLAME not the bowl-the fruitful bowl, Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. What like the grape OSIRIS gave Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? Illumines memory's tearful wave, And teaches drowning hope to swim? To earth another VENUS give, Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard, Brings all their hidden warmth to light-. Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till, fill'd with glowing BACCHUS up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And, as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife. The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd, From earth again rose joyously: Bore not beneath the bitter brine Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine Our hearts toward each.other glide Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egypt.an's bowl, Truth beaming at th. bottom lies. A HUNTER'S MATIN. Ur, comrades, up! the morn's awake The curlew's wing hath swept the Lake, To drink from the limpid tide Is rock'd on the swaying trees, And our stalwart hounds impatient wait SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. SPARKLING and bright in liquid light Does the wine our goblets gleam in, Which a bee would choose to dream in. As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, O' if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, To drink to-night with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, But since delight can't tempt the wight, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, SEEK NOT TO UNDERSTAND HER. WHY seek her heart to understand, What matters all the nobleness Which in her breast resideth, Sum up each token thou hast won How many for Despair! Her heart, of whom thou knowest ASK NOT WHY I SHOULD LOVE HER. Ask me not why I should love her: And see there how sweetly rise See, from those sweet windows peeping, Wonder not that looks so winning SHE LOVES, BUT 'TIS NOT ME. SHE loves, but 't is not me she loves: Not me on whom she ponders, When, in some dream of tenderness, Her truant fancy wanders. The forms that flit her visions through Are like the shapes of old, Where tales of prince and paladin On tapestry are told. Man may not hope her heart to win, Be his of common mould. But I though spurs are won no more Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling I loose the falcon of my hopes Upon as proud a flight As those who hawk'd at high renown, If during, then, true love may crown, THY SMILES. "T is hard to share her smiles with many! And while she is so dear to me, To fear that I, far less than any, Call out her spirit's witchery! To find my inmost heart when near her How can she thus, sweet spendthrift, squander When I but live in those sweet eyes! LOVE AND POLITICS. A BIRTH-DAY MEDITATION. ANOTHER year! alas, how swift, ALINDA, do these years flit by, Like shadows thrown by clouds that drift Is turn'd within life's volume brief, There are some moments when I feel Had not a right alike to go, And lose themselves in Time's dark sea, But it was love that taught me rhyme, Of words a useless sluggard prove, And often bitter thoughts arise Of what I've lost in loving thee, And in my breast my spirit dies, The gloomy cloud around to see, Of baffled hopes and ruined powers Of mind, and miserable hoursOf self-upbraiding, and despairOf heart, too strong and fierce to bear. "Why, what a peasant slave am I," To bow my mind and bend my knee To woman in idolatry, Who takes no thought of mine or me. Thus do my jarring thoughts revolve To dash thine angel image thence; And then for hours and hours I muse On things that might, yet will not be, Till, one by one, my feelings lose Their passionate intensity, And steal away in visions soft, Which on wild wing those feelings waft Far, far beyond the drear domain Of Reason and her freezing reign. And now again from their gay track I call, as I despondent sit, Once more these truant fancies back, Which round my brain so idly flit; And even thus my moments fly, My life itself is wiled away; ALINDA, it shall not be so; Both love and lays forswear I here, As I've forsworn thee long ago. That name, which thou wouldst never share, Proudly shall Fame emblazon where On pumps and corners posters stick it. The highest on the JACKSON ticket. WHAT IS SOLITUDE? Not in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the echoes brood In caves untrod by men; Where loitering surges break, Where man hath never stood, Voices in lonely dells, Talk in earth's secret cells; Over the gray-ribb'd sand Breathe ocean's frothing lips, Over the still lake's strand The flower toward it dips; Pluming the mountain's crest, Life tosses in its pines; Coursing the desert's breast, Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave-if thou wouldst be lonely Leave Nature for the crowd; Scek there for one-one onlyWith kindred mind endow'd! There-as with Nature erst Closely thou wouldst commune The deep soul-music, nursed In either heart, attune! Heart-wearied, thou wilt own. Vainly that phantom woo'd, That thou at last hast known What is true solitude! JAMES NACK. [Born, about 1807.] THERE are few more interesting characters in our literary annals than JAMES NACK. He is a native of New York, and when between nine and ten years of age, by a fall, while descending a flight of stairs with a little playmate in his arms, received such injury in his head as deprived him irrecoverably of the sense of hearing, and, gradually, in consequence, of the faculty of speech. He was placed in the Institution for the Education of the Deaf and Dumb, where he acquired knowledge in all departments with singular exactness and rapidity. He was subsequently for many years an assistant in the office of the Clerk of the City and County, and in 1838 was married. In 1827 Mr. NACK published "The Legend of the Rocks, and other Poems;" in 1839, "Earl MIGNONNE. SHE calls me "father!" though my ear SPRING IS COMING. SPRING is coming! spring is coming! To our well-remember'd wild-wood, MARY'S BEE. AS MARY with her lip of roses Is tripping o'er the flowery mead, A foolish little bee supposes The rosy lip a rose indeed, And so, astonish'd at his bliss, He steals the honey of her kiss. A moment there he wantons; lightly He sports away on careless wing; But ah! why swells that wound unsightly? The rascal! he has left a sting! She runs to me with weeping eyes, Sweet images of April skies. "Be this," said I, "to heedless misses, A warning they should bear in mind; Too oft a lover steals their kisses, 66 Then flies, and leaves a sting behind." This may be wisdom to be sure," Said MARY, "but I want a cure." What could I do? To ease the swelling My lips with hers impassion'd meetAnd trust me, from so sweet a dwelling, I found the very poison sweet! Fond boy! unconscious of the smart, I sucked the poison to my heart! |