MARY.

WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated,

What though a thousand beings bear it now,
And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted—
What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's vow?
We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming
Is a familiar rapture to the eye;

And yon bright star we hail, although its looming
Age after age has lit the northern sky.

As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing,
As garden odours to the desert blown,
In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing,
Like patriot music or affection's tone-
Thus, thus, for aye, the name of MARY spoken
By lips or text, with magic-like control,
The course of present thought has quickly broken,
And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul.
The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow,
The fairest trophies of the limner's fame,
To my fond fancy, MARX, seem to borrow

Celestial halos from thy gentle name:
The Grecian artist glean'd from many faces,
And in a perfect whole the parts combined,
So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces
To form the MARY of my ardent mind.
And marvel not I thus call my ideal-

We inly paint as we would have things be-
The fanciful springs ever from the real,

AS APHRODITE rose from out the sea.
Who smiled upon me kindly day by day,

In a far land where I was sad and lone?
Whose presence now is my delight away?
Both angels must the same bless'd title own.
What spirits round my weary way are flying,
What fortunes on my future life await,
Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing,
Are all unknown-in trust I bide my fate;
But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven,
"T would be that MARY should my being cheer,
Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven,
Be my dear household word, and my last accent
here.

GREENOUGH'S WASHINGTON.

THE quarry whence thy form majestic sprung
Has peopled earth with grace,
Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race;

But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before
A shape of loftier name

Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore,
The noblest son of Fame.

Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stain'd;

His gaze around is cast,

As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gain'd,

Before his vision pass'd;

As if a nation's shout of love and pride
With music fill'd the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life

To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimm'd by doubt or shame ;

As if the lofty purpose of his soul
Expression would betray―
The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!
Oh, it was well in marble firm and white
To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,
Our star amid the storm!

Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine
While man and time endure!

And it is well to place his image there,
Beneath the dome he blest;
Let meaner spirits who its councils share,
Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love
To look on his pure brow,

And as, with solemn grace, he points above,
Renew the patriot's vow!

ALONE ONCE MORE. ALONE once more!--but with such deep emotion, Waking to life a thousand hopes and fears, Such wild distrust-such absolute devotion,

My bosom seems a dreary lake of tears: Tears that stern manhood long restrain'd from gushAs mountains keep a river from the sea, [ing, Until Spring's floods, impetuous'y rushing,

Channel a bed, and set its waters free! What mockery to all true and earnest feeling. This fatal union of the false and fair! Eyes, lips, and voice, unmeasured bliss revealing, With hearts whose lightness fills us with despair! O God! some sorrows of our wondrous being A patient mind can partly clear away; Ambition cools when fortune's gifts are fleeing, And men grow thoughtful round a brother's clay; But to what end this waste of noble passion!

This wearing of a truthful heart to dustAdoring slaves of humour, praise, or fashion, The vain recipients of a boundless trust? Come home, fond heart, cease all instinctive pleadAs the dread fever of insane desire, [ing, To some dark gulf thy warm affections leading, When love must long survive, though faith expire! Though wonted glory from the earth will vanish, And life seem desolate, and hope beguile, Love's cherish'd dream learn steadfastly to banish, Till death thy spirit's conflict reconcile!

SONNETS.

1. TO

Yet again

WHAT though our dream is broken?
Like a familiar angel it shall bear
Consoling treasures for these days of pain,
Such as they only who have grieved can share ;
As unhived nectar for the bee to sip, [brings,

Lurks in each flower-cell which the spring-time As music rests upon the quiet lip,

And power to soar yet lives in folded wingsSo let the love on which your spirits glide

Flow deep and strong beneath its bridge of sighs, No shadow resting on the latent tide

Whose heavenward current baffles human eyes, Until we stand upon the holy shore, And realms it prophesied at length explore!

11. COURAGE AND PATIENCE.

COURAGE and patience! elements whereby
My soul shall yet her citade! maintain,
Baffled, perplex'd, and struggling oft to fly,

Far, far above this realm of wasting pain-
Come with your still and banded vigour now,
Fill my sad breast with energy divine,
Stamp a firm thought upon my aching brow,
Make my impulsive visions wholly thine!
Freeze my pent tears, chill all my tender dreams,
Brace my weak heart in panoply sublime,
Till dwelling only on thy martyr themes,

And turning from the richest lures of time,
Love, like an iceberg of the polar deep,
In adamantine rest is laid asleep!

111. ALL HEARTS ARE NOT DISLOYAL. ALL hearts are not disloval: let thy trust Be deep, and clear, and all-confiding still, For though Love's fruit turn on the lips to dust She ne'er betrays her child to lasting ill: Through leagues of desert must the pilgrim go Ere on his gaze the holy turrets rise; Through the long, sultry day the stream must flow Ere it can mirror twilight's purple skies. Fall back unscathed from contact with the vain, Keep thy robes white, thy spirit bold and free, And calmly launch Affection's bark again,

Hopeful of golden spoils reserved for thee! Though lone the way as that already trod, Cling to thine own integrity and Gon!

IV. LIKE A FAIR SEA.

LIKE the fair sea that laves Italia's strand,
Affection's flood is tideless in my breast;
No ebb withdraws it from the chosen land,
Haven'd too richly for enamour'd quest:
Thus am I faithful to the vanish'd grace

Embodied once in thy sweet form and name,
And though love's charm no more illumes thy face,
In Memory's realm her olden pledge I claim.
It is not constancy to haunt a shrine

From which devotion's lingering spark has fled; Insensate homage only wreaths can twine

Around the pulseless temples of the dead: Thou from thy better self hast madly flown, While to that self allegiance still I own.

V. FREEDOM.

FREEDOM! beneath thy banner I was born-
Oh let me share thy full and perfect life!
Teach me opinion's slavery to scorn,

And to be free from passion's bitter strife;
Free of the world, a self-dependent soul

Nourish'd by lofty aims and genial truth, And made more free by Love's serene control, The spell of beauty and the hopes of youth. The liberty of Nature let me know,

Caught from her mountains, groves, and crystal streams,

Her starry host, and sunset's purple glow,
That woo the spirit with celestial dreams,
On Fancy's wing exultingly to soar,

Till life's harsh fetters clog the heart no more!

VI. DESOLATION.

THINK уe the desolate must live apart,

By solemn vows to convent-walls confined! Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloister'd heart, And in a crowd the isolated mind; Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate,

The world sees not how sorrowful they stand, Gazing so fondly through the iron grate,

Upon the promised, yet forbidden land; Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet, Day after day, in voiceless penance turn; Silence, the holy cell and calm retreat

In which unseen their meek devotions burn; Life is to them a vigil that none share, Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.

Upon its many errands might have flown,
Nor woke one river song or forest moan,
Stirr'd not the grass, nor the tall grain have bent,
Like shoreless billows tremulously spent;
Frost could the bosom of the lake have glass'd,
Nor paused to paint the woodlands as it pass'd;
The glossy seabird and the brooding dove
Might coyly peck with twinkling eye of love,
Nor catch upon their downy necks the dyes,
So like the mottled hues of summer skies:
Mists in the west could float, nor glory wear,
As if an angel's robes were streaming there;
The moon might sway the tides, nor yet impart
A solemn light to tranquillize the heart,
And leagues of sand could bar the ocean's swell,
Nor yield one crystal gleam or pearly shell.
The very sedge lends music to the blast,
And the thorn glistens when the storm is past;
Wild flowers nestle in the rocky cleft,
Moss decks the bough of leaf and life bereft,
O'er darkest clouds the moonbeams brightly steal,
The rainbow's herald is the thunder's peal;
Gay are the weeds that strew the barren shore,
And anthem-like the breaker's gloomy roar.
As love o'er sorrow spreads her genial wings
The ivy round a fallen column clings,
While on the sinking walls, where owlets cry,
The weather stains in tints of beauty lie.
The wasting elements adorn their prey
And throw a pensive charm around decay;
Thus ancient limners bade their canvas glow,
And group'd sweet cherubs o'er a martyr's wo.

COLUMBUS.

HEROIC guide! whose wings are never furl'd, By thee Spain's voyager sought another world; What but poetic impulse could sustain That dauntless pilgrim on the dreary main? Day after day his mariners protest, And gaze with dread along the pathless west; Beyond that realm of waves, untrack'd before, Thy fairy pencil traced the promised shore, Through weary storms and faction's fiercer rage, The scoffs of ingrates and the chills of age, Thy voice renewed his earnestness of aim. And whisper'd pledges of eternal fame; Thy cheering smile atoned for fortune's frown, And made his fetters garlands of renown.

FLORENCE.

PRINCES, when softened in thy sweet embrace, Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace, And thus redeemed, Lorenzo's fair domain Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign. Delightful Florence! though the northern gale Will sometimes rave around thy lovely vale, Can I forget how softly Autumn threw Beneath thy skies her robes of ruddy hue, Through what long days of balminess and peace, From wintry bonds spring won thy mild release! Along the Arno then I loved to pass, And watch the violets peeping from the grass, Mark the gray kine each chestnut grove between, Startle the pheasants on the lawny green,

Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow,
Like lofty shrines the purple clouds below.
Within thy halls, when veil'd the sunny rays,
Marvels of art await the ardent gaze,

And liquid words from lips of beauty start,
With social joy to warm the stranger's heart.
How beautiful at moonlight's hallow'd hour,
Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower!
The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang
Round the fair scene whence modern genius sprang
O'er the dark ranges of thy palace walls
The silver beam on dome and cornice falls;
The statues cluster'd in thy ancient square,
Like mighty spirits print the solemn air;
Silence meets beauty with unbroken reign,
Save when invaded by a choral strain,
Whose distant cadence falls upon the car,
To fill the bosom with poetic cheer!

POETRY IMMORTAL.

FOR fame life's meaner records vainly strive, While, in fresh beauty, thy high dreams survive. Still Vesta's temple throws its classic shade O'er the bright foam of Tivoli's cascade, And to one Venus still we bow the knee, Divine as if just issued from the sea; In fancy's trance, yet deem on nights serene We hear the revels of the fairy queen, That Dian's smile illumes the marble fane, And Ceres whispers in the rustling grain, That Ariel's music has not died away, And in his shell still floats the Culprit Fay. The sacred beings of poetic birth Immortal live to consecrate the earth. San Marco's pavement boasts no doge's tread, And all its ancient pageantry has fled; Yet, as we muse beneath some dim arcade, The mind's true kindred glide from ruin's shade; In every passing eye that sternly beams We start to meet the Shylock of our dreams; Each maiden form, where virgin grace is seen, Crosses our path with Portia's noble mien; While Desdemona, beauteous as of yore, Yields us the smile that once entranced the Moor. How Scotland's vales are peopled to the heart By her bold minstrel's necromantic art! Along this fern moved Jeannie's patient feet, Where hangs yon mist rose Ellangowan's seat, Here the sad bride first gave her love a tongue, And there the chief's last shout of triumph rung Beside each stream, down every glen they throng The cherish'd offspring of creative song! Long ere brave Nelson shook the Baltic shore, The bard of Avon hallow'd Elsinore: Perchance when moor'd the fleet, awaiting day, To fix the battle's terrible array, Some pensive hero, musing o'er the deep, So soon to fold him in its dreamless sleep, Heard the Dane's sad and self-communing tone Blend with the water's melancholy moan, Recall'd, with prayer and awe-suspended breath His wild and solemn questionings of death, Or caught from land Ophelia's dying song, Swept by the night-breeze plaintively along!