JEANNIE MARSH

JEANNIE MARSH of Cherry Valley,
At whose call the muses rally;

Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes,

Where she was born among the cherries:
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,
Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
In whose name the muses rally;

Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,

A goddess she in form and feature;
The sweet expression of the place,
A dimple in the smile of nature.

MEMORIES

ONCE more, once more, my Mary dear,
I sit by that lone stream,
Where first within thy timid ear

I breathed love's burning dream. The birds we loved still tell their tale Of music, on each spray,

And still the wild-rose decks the vale But thou art far away.

In vain thy vanished form I seek,
By wood and stream and dell,
And tears of anguish bathe my cheek
Where tears of rapture fell;

And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers
Dear thoughts my soul employ,
For in the memories of past hours
There is a mournful joy.

Upon the air thy gentle words

Around me seemed to thrill,

Like sounds upon the wind-harp's chords
When all the winds are still,
Or like the low and soul-like swell
Of that wild spirit-tone,

Which haunts the hollow of the bell
When its sad chime is done.

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.

THE CROSSED SWORDS1

SWORDS crossed, — but not in strife! The chiefs who drew them, parted by the

space

Of two proud countries' quarrel, face to face

Ne'er stood for death or life.

Swords crossed that never met

While nerve was in the hands that wielded

them;

Hands better destined a fair family stem On these free shores to set.

Kept crossed by gentlest bands! Emblems no more of battle, but of peace; And proof how loves can grow and wars

can cease,

Their once stern symbol stands.

It smiled first on the array

Of marshalled books and friendliest companies;

And here a history among histories,
It still shall smile for aye.

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.

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 STEERS

ΜΑΝ

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!

GEORGE HILL

THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA

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 nightThe 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 !

What though, perchance, we no more meet,

What though too soon we sever?
Thy form will float like emerald light
Before my vision ever.

For who can see and then forget
The glories of my gay brunette-
Thou art too bright a star to set,
Sweet daughter of Mendoza !

MIRABEAU BONAPARTE LAMAR