KILIMANDJARO.

HAIL to thee, monarch of African mountains,
Remote, inaccessible, silent, and lone-
Who, from the heart of the tropical fervors,
Liftest to heaven thine alien snows,
Feeding forever the fountains that make thee
Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt!

The years of the world are engraved on thy forehead;
Time's morning blushed red on thy first-fallen

snows;

Yet lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted,
Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till now.
Knowledge alone is the being of Nature,
Giving a soul to her manifold features,
Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness
The footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song.
Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation,
And long-batlled Time at thy baptism rejoices.
Take, then, a name, and be filled with existence,
Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory,
While from the hand of the wandering poet
Drops the first garland of song at thy feet.
Floating alone, on the flood of thy making,
Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire,
Lo! in my palm, like the Eastern enchanter,
I dip from the waters a magical mirror,

And thou art revea'ed to my purified vision.
I see thee. supreme in the midst of thy co-mates,
Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and the Heavens,
Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Morn.
Zone above zone, to thy shoulders of granite,
The climates of Earth are displayed, as an index,
Giving the scope of the Book of Creation.
There, in the gorges that widen, descending
From cloud and from cold into summer eternal,
Gather the threads of the ice-gendered fountains-
Gather to riotous torrents of crystal,

And, giving each shelvy recess where they dally
The blooms of the North and its evergreen turfage,
Leap to the land of the lion and lotus!
There, in the wondering airs of the Tropics
Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of cold :
There stretches the Oak, from the loftiest ledges,
His arms to the far-away lands of his brothers,
And the Pine-tree looks down on his rival the Palm.

[forests,

Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance,
Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air,
Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the
Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether,
Looming sublimely aloft and afar.
Above them, like folds of imperial ermine,
Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow thy forehead-
Desolate realms, inaccessible. silent,

Chasms and caverns where Day is a stranger,
Garners where storeth his treasures the Thunder,
The Lightning his falchion, his arrows the Hail!
Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give welcome:
They, the baptized and the crowned of ages,
Watch-towers of Continents, altars of Earth,
Welcome thee now to their mighty assembly.
Mont Blanc, in the roar of his inad avalanches
Hails thy accession; superb Orizaba,

Belted with beech and ensandalled with palm;

Chimborazo, the lord of the regious of noonday,-
Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus
With greeting august from the Pillars of Heaven,
Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges,
Filter the snows of their sacred dominions,
Unmarked with a footprint, unseen but of God.
Lo! unto each is the seal of his lordship,
Nor questioned the right that his majesty giveth;
Each in his awful supremacy forces
Worship and reverence, wonder and joy.
Absolute all, yet in dignity varied,
None has a claim to the honors of story,
Or the superior splendors of song,
Greater than thou, in thy mystery mantled-
Thou, the sole monarch of African mountains,
Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt!

AN ORIENTAL IDYL.

A SILVER javelin which the hills
Have hurled upon the plain below,
The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills,
Beneath me shoots in flashing flow.

I hear the never-ending laugh

Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars Beneath the canopy of shade;

And in the distant, dim bazaars

I scarcely hear the hum of trade.
No evil fear, no dream forlorn,

Darkens my heaven of perfect blue;
My blood is tempered to the morn-
My very heart is steeped in dew.
What Evil is I cannot tell;
But half I guess what Joy may be;
And, as a pearl within its shell,

The happy spirit sleeps in me.

I feel no more the pulse's strife,-
The tides of Passion's ruddy sea.-
But live the sweet, unconscious life
That breathes from yonder jasmine-tree

Upon the glittering pageantries
Of gay Damascus streets I look

As idly as a babe that sees

The painted pictures of a book. Forgotten now are name and race; The Past is blotted from my brain; For Memory sleeps, and will not trace The weary pages o'er again.

I only know the morning shines,

And sweet the dewy morning air,
But does it play with tendrilled vines!
Or does it lightly lift my hair!
Deep-sunken in the charmed repose.

This ignorance is bliss extreme:
And whether I be Man, or Rose,

O, pluck me not from out my dress!

HASSAN TO HIS MARE.

COME, my beauty! come, my desert darling!
On my shoulder lay thy glossy head!
Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty,

Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread. Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou know'st my water-skin is free: Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee.

Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses!

Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddleThou art proud he owns thee: so am I.

Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses,

Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert-plains!

Let the Sultan bring his famous horses,

Let him bring his golden swords to meBring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem ; He would offer them in vain for thee.

We have seen Damascus. O my beauty!

And the splendor of the Pashas there; What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not Take them for a handful of thy hair!

Khaled sings the praises of his mistress,

And. because I've none he pities me: What care I if he should have a thousand, Fairer than the morning? I have thee.

He will find his passion growing cooler

Should her glance on other suitors fal!:
Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling,
Fail to answer at thy master's call.
By-and-by some snow-white Nedjid stallion
Shall to thee his spring-time ardor bring;
And a foal, the fairest of the Desert,

To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. Then, when Khaled shows to me his children, I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine; Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me, With thy glossy neck laid close to mine.

THE PHANTOM.

AGAIN I sit within the mansion,

In the old, familiar seat;

And shade and sunshine chase each other

O'er the carpet at my feet.

But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upwards
In the summers that are past,

And the willow trails its branches lower
Than when I saw them last.

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly From out the haunted room;

To fill the house, that once was joyful With silence and with gloom

And many kind, remembered faces
Within the doorway come-
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.

They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;
They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.

And still, her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,

Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.

And all forgetful of my sorrow,
Unmindful of my pain,

I think she has but newly left me,
And soon will come again.

She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark-brown hair;

I hear the rustle of her garments-
Her light step on the stair!

O, fluttering heart! control thy tumult,
Lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture
Her coming brings to me!

She tarries long: but lo, a whisper
Beyond the open door

And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor!

Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me,
The vine, whose shadow strays;
And my patient heart must still await her,
Nor chide her long delays.

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting
As many a time before:

Her foot is ever at the threshold,
Yet never passes o'er.

"MOAN YE WILD WINDS."

MOAN, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!
Fill with your gusts the sullen day,
Tear the last clinging leaves away!
Reckless as yonder naked tree,
No blast of yours can trouble me.

Give me your chill and wild embrace,
And pour your baptism on my face;
Sound in mine ears the airy moan
That sweeps in desolate monotone,
Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat
The marches of your homeless feet!

Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,
If shed for her, whose fading eyes
Will open soon on Paradise:
The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.

RICHARD COE is of a Quaker family, and was born in Philadelphia, on the thirteenth of February, 1821. He was educated for the mercantile business, and has been for many years engaged in trade in his native city. In 1851 he published a volume of "Poems," which attracted favorable attention by their simplicity and grace, as much

as by their fine religious spirit, and in 1853, "The Old Farm Gate," a book of prose and verse, de signed for youthful readers; and he writes occa sionally for the Philadelphia literary magazines. His pieces are marked by refinement of feeling, and have frequently a quaintness reminding us of some of the older religious poets.

Henry leaves for foreign skies"

Tears were in the maiden's eyes.

"Art thou happy, mother mild, On this balmy summer's day, Gazing on thy cherub child

Art thou happy? tell me, pray." "If my baby-boy were well,"

Thus the mother spake to me,
"Gratitude my heart would swell-
Oh! how happy I should be!"
Then the cordial I supplied,

Soon the babe restored completely; Cherub-faced and angel-eyed,

On his mother smiled he sweetly.

"Art thou happy, now?" I said,
"Would his father were not dead !"-
Thus she answered me with sighs,
Scalding tear-drops in her eyes.
"Art thou happy, aged man,

On this glorious summer's day,
With a cheek all pale and wan,
Art thou happy? tell me, pray."
"If I were but safe above,"

Spake the old man unto me, "To enjoy my Saviour's loveOh! how happy I should be!" Then the angel Death came down, And he welcomed him with gladness. On his brow so pale and wan.

Not a trace was seen of sadness: "Art thou happy, now ?" I cried; "Yes!" he answered, as he died:" Tears of joy were in his eyes, Dew-drops from the upper skies!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, although young, stands in a foremost rank among American poets. His place he has himself won. With no commanding antecedents to support him, he has, step by step, fought his way to a position which is alike creditable to his indomitable energy and his genius. He was born in the month of July, 1825, in Hingham, Massachusetts. His father was a seacaptain, who, while the poet was yet in his early youth, sailed for Sweden: his last voyage, for tidings of his fate were never after heard. Idleness not being the fashion in our country, Mr. STODDARD was, as soon as his age permitted, placed in an iron foundry, for the purpose of learning the trade. Here he worked for some years, dreaming in the intervals of his toil, and even then moulding his thoughts into the symmetry of verse, while he moulded the molten metal into shapes of grace. In 1847, the earliest blossoms of his genius appeared, and some verses in the “Union Magazine” gave evidence that his mind as well as his body was toiling. The first was, however, the stronger of the two, for in 1848, after publishing a small volume entitled "Footprints," which contained some pieces of merit, his health gave way, and he surrendered his mechanical occupation.

His career as a literary man now commenced. He wrote for the magazines and newspapers, and supported himself by his pen. In the autumn of 1851 he published his second collection of poems: second, as regards date, and first as far as the requisites of art are concerned. In 1852 he gave to the public a little book of poetic prose, under the name of "Adventures in Fairy Land," and in the autumn of the same year married Miss ELIZABETH D. BARSTOW, of Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, a poetess whose recent occasional contributions to the periodicals have marked individuality, and justify predictions of remarkable and peculiar excellence should she continue to cultivate her capacities for literature.* Mr. STODDARD was about that time appointed to a place in the New York custom-house, which he continues to fill. Since the completion of his second volume of poems he has furnished a considerable number to "Putnam's Monthly," and "Graham's Magazine," and to the last two of greater length than any of his other productions, called "The Burden of Unrest," and The Squire of Low Degree."

The poems he has published since the appearance of his last book are more numerous and generally in a better style of art than his previous performances, and it is understood that he has in manuscript one upon a classical subject in

• See "Female Poets of America," fifth edition, 1855.

the composition of which he has exercised with suitable care his best abilities. His prose compositions, except the volume of fairy stories before mentioned, consist of a few clever magazine tales, a series of literary biographies, and occasionai criticisms of books in one of the prominent New York journals.

Mr. STODDARD's mind is essentially poetical. All his works are stamped with earnestness, and whether he fails or not in realizing his ideal, we can see that he does nothing lightly. His style is characterized by purity and grace of expression. He is a master of rhythmical melody, and his mode of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. In his poems there is no rude writing, no course sketching the power of which makes us forget the carelessness of the outline. All is finished and highly glazed. The coloring is warm, the costumes harmonious, the grouping symmetrical. He paints cabinet pictures, and spares no pains in the manipulation.

Independent of what may be called the external features of his poetry, it almost always possesses a spiritual meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol which represents some phase of internal experience, or at least strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his window, the moon that silvers his roof, are not to him swaying trees and a white moon merely, but things that play an intimate part in his existence. Thus, in all his poems, will be found the echo of an internal to an external nature, and a harmony resulting from the intimate union of both.

The danger to which Mr. STODDARD is most exposed is that of occasional but unquestionably altogether unconscious imitation, sometimes merely in his cadences, and sometimes in the main conception and purpose of his pieces. Different as is his beautiful poem of “A Household Dirge," from Mr. PIERPONT's touching lamentation, “I cannot make him Dead," the careful reader will not fail to perceive that it is a continuation of the same sad song, set to a different air. In another piece, he makes use of Miss ALICE CAREY's exquisite "Pictures of Memory," and in that very remarkable effusion, "The Burden of Unrest," will be found not a few reflections from Mr. TENNYSON'S "Locksley Hall." The indisputable genius of Mr. STODDARD is so apparent in many strikingly original poems, that these careless immoralities of his muse scarcely deserve an allusion, and they are referred to only lest in arresting the attention of casual readers of his poems injustice should now and then be done to his singular merits in lyrics which are in every respect and entirely of his own creation.

HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL.

My heart is full of tenderness and tears,
And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why;
With all my grief, content to dive for years,
Or even this hour to die.

My youth is gone, but that I heed not now;
My love is dead, or worse than dead can be;
My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough,
But nothing troubles me,

Only the golden flush of sunset lies
Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes!
Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe'er thou art,

I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power;
It is thy presence fills this charméd hour,
And fills my charméd heart;

Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now,
That know not what they feel, nor why they bow;
Thou canst not be forgot,

For all men worship thee, and know it not; Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes, Hew-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies!

We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands,
The gift and heirloom of a former state,
And lie in infancy at Heaven's gate, [lands!
Transfigured in the light that streams along the
Around our pillows golden ladders rise,

And up and down the skies,
With wingéd sandals shod,

The angels come, and go, the messengers of God!
Nor do they, fading from us, e'er depart,—

[more!

It is the childish heart; We walk as heretofore, Adown their shining ranks, but see them neverNot Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears, Groping our way along the downward slope of years!

From earliest infancy my heart was thine; With childish feet I trod thy temple aisles; Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles, Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine! By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,— I saw thee everywhere!

A voice of greeting from the wind was sent; The mists enfolded me with soft white arms; The birds did sing to lap me in content, The rivers wove their charms, And every little daisy in the grass Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass! Not long can Nature satisfy the mind,

Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame; We feel a growing want we cannot name, And long for something sweet, but undefined; The wants of Beauty other wants create, Which overflow on others soon or late; For all that worship thee must ease the heart, By Love, or Song, or Art: Divinest Melancholy walks with thee,

Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine; And Music leads her sister Poesy,

In exultation shouting songs divine! But on thy breast Love lies,-immortal child!Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild:

The more we worship him, the more we grow
Into thy perfect image here below;
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love!
Not from the things around us do we draw
Thy light within; within the light is born;
The growing rays of some forgotten morn,
And added canons of eternal law.

The painter's picture, the rapt poet's song,

The sculptor's statue, never saw the Day; Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong: Hue after hue divinest pictures grow,

Line after line immortal songs arise, And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes!

And in the master's mind

Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, That echoes through a range of ocean caves, And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves!

The mystery is thine,

For thine the more mysterious human heart,
The temple of all wisdom, Beauty's shrine,
The oracle of Art!

Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath;

Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth!
Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,-

But all the keys of Death;

And all the worlds, with all that they contain Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone; The universe is girdled with a chain,

And hung below the throne

Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,—— Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness!

SPRING.

THE trumpet winds have sounded a retreat,
Blowing o'er land and sea a sullen strain;
Usurping March, defeated, flies again,
And lays his trophies at the Winter's feet!
And lo!-where April, coming in his turn,

In changeful motleys, half of light and shade,
Leads his belated charge, a delicate maid,
A nymph with dripping urn.

Hail! hail! thrice hail!-thou fairest child of Time,
With all thy retinue of laughing hours,
Thou paragon from some diviner clime,

And ministrant of its benignest powers,
Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing
And peeped beneath thy mask, delicious Spring!
Sometimes we see thee on the pleasant morus

Of lingering March, with wreathed crook of gold, Leading the Ram from out his starry fold, A leash of light around his jagged horns! Sometimes in April, goading up the skies The Bull, whose neck Apollo's silvery flies Settle upon, a many-twinkling swarm; And when May-days are warm, And drawing to a close,

And Flora goes