Full of rest, the green moss lifts,

As the dark waves of the sea Draw in and out of rocky rifts, Calling solemnly to thee With voices deep and hollow,To the shore

Follow! O follow!

To be at rest for evermore!
For evermore!

Look how the gray, old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,
When he hears our restful voices;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air
Melt into one low voice alone,
That murmurs over the weary sea,—
And seems to sing from everywhere,-
"Here mayest thou harbour peacefully,
Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar;
Turn thy curved prow ashore,

And in our green isle rest for evermore!
For evermore!"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,
And, to her heart so calm and deep,
Murmurs over in her sleep,
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still,
"Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

?

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces gray,
Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better, than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt lie
Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,
Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the side-long shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:

Look down and see those shapeless forms,
Which ever keep their dreamless sleep
Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,
And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth

In the whirls of their unwieldy play:
Look down! Look down!
''pon the seaweed, slimy and dark,

That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,

Heareth the marinere

Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue:
Listen! O listen!

Here is a gush of many streams,

A song of many birds,

And every wish and longing seems
Lull'd to a number'd flow of words,-
Listen! O listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossom'd trees,

At once with glowing fruit and flowers crown'd;-
The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand,
That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land;
All around, with a slumberons sound,
The singing waves slide up the strand,
And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be,
The waters gurgle longingly,

As if they fain would seek the shore,
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar,
To be at rest for evermore,-
For evermore.

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing in his ear,

"Here is rest and peace for thee!"

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Press'd round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned,
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears,
His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned
From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe,
Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard,

As if in him who read they felt and saw
Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong
And slavish tyranny to see,

A sight to make our faith more pure and strong
In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence

For beauty, truth, and love.

God scatters love on every side,
Freely among his children all,
And always hearts are lying open wide,
Wherein some grains may fall.

There is no wind but soweth seeds
Of a more true and open life,

Which burst, unlook'd-for, into high-soul'd deeds
With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours
Some wild germs of a higher birth,
Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers
Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie
These promises of wider bliss,

Which blossom into hopes that cannot die,
In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical
In life or death, since time began,
Is native in the simple heart of all,
The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor,
Great deeds and feelings find a home,
That cast in shadow all the golden lore
Of classic Greece and Rome.

O mighty brother-soul of man," Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole:

In his broad breast the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue, Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling,-wide In the great mass its base is hid,

And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray who deems

That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by order'd impulse streams From the great heart of God.

God wills, man hopes: in common souls
Hope is but vague and undefined,

Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls
A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear

So full of heaven to me, as when

I saw how it would pierce through pride an fear To the lives of coarsest men.

It may be glorious to write

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three

High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;

But better far it is to speak

One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line,
Which, seeking not the praise of art,

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine
In the untutor'd heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose,

May be forgotten in his day,

But surely shall be crown'd at last with those Who live and speak for aye.

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants.

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in tee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learn'd by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man's son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands,-
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thinc, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill'd past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

TO THE FUTURE.

O, LAND of Promise! from what Pisgah's height Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight,

Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd gold, Its crags of opal and of crysolite,

Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold

Still brightening abysses,

And blazing precipices,

Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven,
Sometimes a glimpse is given,

Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses.

O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf

Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf And lure out blossoms: to thy bosom leaps, As to a mother's, the o'er-wearied heart, Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart,

The hurrying feet, the curses without numoer,
And, circled with the glow Elysian,
Of thine exulting vision,

Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber.

To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd hands

And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, And her old wo-worn face a little while Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor Looks, and is dumb with awe;

The eternal law Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding,

And he can see the grim-eyed Doom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. What promises hast thou for Poets' eyes,

Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! To all their hopes what overjoy'd replies!

What undream'd ecstasies for blissful song! Thy happy plains no war-trumps braw ling clangor Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; The humble glares not on the high with anger;

Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more; In vain strives self the godlike sense to smother; From the soul's deeps

It throbs and leaps;

The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long lost brother.

To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires

Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires,

And grief and hunger climb about his knee Welcome as children: thou upholdest

The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest, And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, Sces the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted.

Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving-kindly The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly Their own souls they were scarring; conquerors see

With horror in their hands the accursed spear
That tore the meek One's side on Calvary,
And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear;
Thou, too, art the Forgiver,

The beauty of man's soul to man revealing;
The arrows from thy quiver

Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing.

O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams,

From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye
bear me?

Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams,
This agony of hopeless contrast spare me!
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night!
He is a coward who would borrow
A charm against the present sorrow
From the vague Future's promise of delight:
As life's alarums nearer roll,

The ancestral buckler calls,
Self-clanging, from the walls
In the high temple of the soul;
Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is
To feed the soul with patience,
To heal its desolations

Vth words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies.

[Born, 1820.]

MR. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but has long resided in Boston. He is a partner in a well-known publishing and bookHis principal poems selling house in that city. are "Commerce," read before the Boston Mercantile Library Association on its anniversary in 1838, when he was associated as poet with EDWARD EvERETT, who delivered on the occasion one of his most brilliant orations; and "The Post of Honour," read before the same society in 1848, when DANIEL WEBSTER preceded him as orator. For several years he has been an occasional contributor to the magazines, and a few of his poems, as "The Fair Dirge for a Young Wind," "Yankee Ships," and Girl," have been copied from them into the newspapers of all parts of the Union. The general style of his serious pieces is pure, sweet, thought-ly ful, and harmonious; and though evidently unlabored, they are characterized by much refinement of taste and an intuitive perception of metrical proprieties. His lyrics are clear, strong, and bright, in expression, and dashing in movement, and have that charm which comes from a "polished want of polish," in which spontaneous sensibility is allied with instinctive taste. The "Sleighing Song" has

ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS,

BROUGHT FROM GERMANY.

GIFT, from the land of song and wine-
Can I forget the enchanted day,
When first along the glorious Rhine

I heard the huntsman's bugle play,
And mark'd the early star that dwells
Among the cliffs of Drachenfels!
Again the isles of beauty rise;

Again the crumbling tower appears,
That stands, defying stormy skies,

With memories of a thousand years;
And dark old forests wave again,
And shadows crowd the dusky plain.
They brought the gift, that I might hear
The music of the roaring pine-

To fill again my charmed ear

With echoes of the Rodenstein-
With echoes of the silver horn,
Across the wailing waters borne.
Trophies of spoil! henceforth your place
Is in this quiet home of mine;
Farewell the busy, bloody chase,

Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," When Youth and Hope went hand in hand To roam the dear old German land.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
"Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shatter'd in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shudder'd there in silence-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death
As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers"We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he stagger'd down the stairs. But his little daughter whisper'd, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?" Then we kiss'd the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchor'd safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. 573

A VALENTINE.

SHE that is fair, though never vain or proud, More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd; Whose taste refined even female friends admire, Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire; She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast, To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd; True to herself, yet willing to submit, More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit: Though young, discreet-though ready, ne'er unBlest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind: [kind, She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts inSo at her door go leave my Valentine.

[cline,

ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES,
SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET.

To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd
How wealth and glory cluster'd in her streets,
And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill,
We send these tributes, plunder'd from the sea.
These many-colour'd, variegated forms,
Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall
To the deep music of the Atlantic wave.
Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop,
Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange,
Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden nair,
And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf:
From narrow cel's, scoop'd in the rocks, we take
These fairy textures, lightly moor'd at morn.
Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep,
We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these.
Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles,
Festoon'd and spangled in sea-caves, and say
What hues of land can rival tints like those,
Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings
Who dwell beneath the waters! Such our gift,
Cull'd from a margin of the western world,
And offer'd unto genius in the old.

FROM THE POST OF HONOUR."

GLORY.

UNCHANGING Power! thy genius still presides O'er vanquish'd fields, and ocean's purpled tides; Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board, Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword; For thee and thine combining squadrons form To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm; The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name, And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame; For him the bell shall wake its loudest song, For him the cannon's thunder echo long, For him a nation weave the unfading crown, And swell the triumph of his sweet renown. SO NELSON watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days, Thy radian orb, prophetic Glory, blazeSaw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars, And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars. So the young hero, with expiring breath, Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death, Bids hra e comrades hear the inspiring blast, And nail their colours dauntless to the mast; Then dies, like LAWRENCE, trembling on his lip That cry of Honour, "Don't give up the ship!"

TRUE HONOUR.

The painter's skill life's lincaments may trace,
And stamp the impress of a speaking face;
The chisel's touch may make that marble warm
Which glows with all but breathing manhood's
But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [form-
Are those which write their impress on the heart.
On TALFOURD's page what bright memorials glow
Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below!
Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd,
Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd,
Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,
The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.

Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust,
And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust,
TO ELIA's grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.
And thou, great bard of never-dying name,
Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame;
For who, that wanders by the dust of GRAY
While memory tolls the knell of parting day,
But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb,
That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom,
To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear,
So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier!
Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave,
Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave."
Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea,
The countless shrines of woman's charity?
In thy gay capital, bewildering France,
Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling
Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome,
Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home,
Methinks I see that sainted sister now
Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow;
Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace,
With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face!
Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres,
We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.

WEBSTER.

[dance,

Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed; Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side, And all their country's honest fame deride. All are not such: some glowing blood remains To warm the icy current of our veinsSome from the watch-towers still descry afar The faintest glimmer of an adverse star. When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail, Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale! On some great point where Honour takes her stand, The Ehrenbreitstein of our native landSee, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause, The mail'd defender of her rights and laws! On his great arm behold a nation lean, And parcel empire with the island queen; Great in the council, peerless in debate, Who follows WEBSTER takes the field too late Go track the globe, its changing climes explore, From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore; See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas, See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze, Roam through the world, but find no brighter names Than those true honour for Columbia claims.