Page images
PDF
EPUB

ON A LATE LOSS.*

"He shall not float upon his watery bier
Unwept."

THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm;
The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form;
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,
Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.
So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear

Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wreck'd thee!--But there is a shore Where storms are hush'd-where tempests

never rage;

Where angry skies and blackening seas no more
With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage.
By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod---
Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is Gon.

SONNET TO THE SEA-SERPENT.

"Hugest that swims the ocean stream."

WELTER upon the waters, mighty one-

And stretch thee in the ocean's trough of brine; Turn thy wet scales up to the wind and sun, And toss the billow from thy flashing fin; Heave thy deep breathings to the ocean's din, And bound upon its ridges in thy pride:

Or dive down to its lowest depths, and in The caverns where its unknown monsters hide, Measure thy length beneath the gulf-stream's tide— Or rest thee on that navel of the sea Where, floating on the Maelstrom, abide

The krakens sheltering under Norway's lee; But go not to Nahant, lest men should swear You are a great deal bigger than you are.

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

"Labitur et labetur."

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if GoD pour'd thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.

*Professor FISHER, lost in the Albion, off the coast of Kinsale, Ireland. 16

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? O! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drown'd a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ?--a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

WHO shall weep when the righteous die?
Who shall mourn when the good depart?
When the soul of the godly away shall fly,
Who shall lay the loss to heart?

He has gone into peace-he has laid him down,
To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day;
And he shall wake on that holy morn,

When sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

But ye who worship in sin and shame
Your idol gods, whate'er they be:
Who scoff, in your pride, at your Maker's name,
By the pebbly stream and the shady tree,—
Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams,
Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray;
Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams,
But the wind shall carry them all away.

There's one who drank at a purer fountain,
One who was wash'd in a purer flood:
He shall inherit a holier mountain,
He shall worship a holier Gon.

But the sinner shall utterly fail and die,

Whelm'd in the waves of a troubled sea; And Gon, from his throne of light on high, Shall say, there is no peace for thee.

EPITHALAMIUM.

I SAW two clouds at morning,
Tinged by the rising sun,
And in the dawn they floated on,

And mingled into one;

I thought that morning cloud was bless'd,

It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents

Flow smoothly to their meeting,

And join their course, with silent force,

In peace each other greeting;

Calm was their course through banks of green, While dimpling eddies play'd between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;

Like summer's beam, and summer's stream,
Float on, in joy, to meet

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease-
A purer sky, where all is peace.

TO THE DEAD.

How many now are dead to me

That live to others yet!

How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see
That sickening, sinking look, which we
Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far away,
Most wretchedly alone,
One died in prison, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray
In his lone dungeon shone.
Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass'd;
In a lone hour, his sigh to me
Comes like the hum of some wild bee,
And then his form and face I see,

As when I saw him last.

And one with a bright lip, and cheek,
And eye, is dead to me.

How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!
His lip was cold-it would not speak:
His heart was dead, for it did not break:

And his eye, for it did not see.

Then for the living be the tomb,
And for the dead the smile;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,-
Dim is such glare: but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.

THE DEEP.

THERE's beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky; And, though the lights shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow, That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid; And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore,-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
'That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves, with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.

'There's quiet in the deep:-
Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow, to the end:

Here, far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home; We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep.

MR. MERRY'S LAMENT FOR "LONG TOM."

"Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore."

THY cruise is over now,

Thou art anchor'd by the shore,
And never more shalt thou

Hear the storm around thee roar;
Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.
Now around thee sports the whale,
And the porpoise snuffs the gale,
And the night-winds wake their wail,
As they pass.

The sea-grass round thy bier
Shall bend beneath the tide,
Nor tell the breakers near

Where thy manly limbs abide;

But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be.
Though the edges of thy grave
Are the combings of the wave-
Yet unheeded they shall rave
Over thee.

At the piping of all hands,
When the judgment signal's spread-
When the islands, and the lands,

And the seas give up their dead,
And the south and the north shall come;
When the sinner is dismay'd,
And the just man is afraid,
Then heaven be thy aid,

Poor Toм.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

WHAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves? Have they that "green and yellow melancholy" That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charmsWhen the dread fever quits us—when the storms Of the wild equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest tops-he had not sighed.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, "What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?"

י

[ocr errors]

STANZAS.

THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers,
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,

And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,

That rose and swell'd from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perch'd, and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,

Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
The northern breeze that rustles by

Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there, with all the birds, and seek

A happier clime, with livelier flight,
Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
I'll

gaze upon the cold north light,
And mark where all its glories shone,—
See-that it all is fair and bright,
Feel-that it all is cold and gone.

THE STORM OF WAR.

0! ONCE was felt the storm of war!
It had an earthquake's roar;
It flash'd upon the mountain height,
And smoked along the shore.
It thunder'd in a dreaming ear,
And up the farmer sprang;
It mutter'd in a bold, true heart,
And a warrior's harness rang.
It rumbled by a widow's door,-
All but her hope did fail;
It trembled through a leafy grove,
And a maiden's cheek was pale.
It steps upon the sleeping sea,

And waves around it howl;
It strides from top to foaming top,
Out-frowning ocean's scowl.

And yonder sail'd the merchant ship,
There was peace upon her deck;
Her friendly flag from the mast was torn,
And the waters whelm'd the wreck.
But the same blast that bore her down
Fill'd a gallant daring sail,

That loved the might of the blackening storm,
And laugh'd in the roaring gale.

The stream, that was a torrent once,
Is rippled to a brook,

The sword is broken, and the spear

Is but a pruning-hook.
The mother chides her truant boy,

And keeps him well from harm;
While in the grove the happy maid
Hangs on her lover's arm.

Another breeze is on the sea,
Another wave is there,
And floats abroad triumphantly
A banner bright and fair.
And peaceful hands, and happy hearts,
And gallant spirits keep

Each star that decks it pure and bright,
Above the rolling deep.

THE GUERILLA.

THOUGH friends are false, and leaders fail,
And rulers quake with fear;
Though tamed the shepherd in the vale,
Though slain the mountaineer;
Though Spanish beauty fill their arms,

And Spanish gold their purse-
Sterner than wealth's or war's alarms

Is the wild Guerilla's curse.

No trumpets range us to the fight:
No signal sound of drum

Tells to the foe, that, in their might,
The hostile squadrons come.
No sunbeam glitters on our spears,
No warlike tramp of steeds
Gives warning-for the first that hears
Shall be the first that bleeds.

The night-breeze calls us from our bed, At dew-fall forms the line,

And darkness gives the signal dread
That makes our ranks combine:
Or should some straggling moonbeam lie
On copse or lurking hedge,
"Twould flash but from a Spaniard's eye,
Or from a dagger's edge.

"T is clear in the sweet vale below,
And misty on the hill;

The skies shine mildly on the foe,

But lour upon us still.

This gathering storm shall quickly burst, And spread its terrors far,

And at its front we'll be the first,

And with it go to war.

O! the mountain peak shall safe remain-
'Tis the vale shall be despoil'd,
And the tame hamlets of the plain
With ruin shall run wild;
But liberty shall breathe our air

Upon the mountain head,
And freedom's breezes wander here,
Here all their fragrance shed.

THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG.

On the deep is the mariner's danger,
On the deep is the mariner's death,
Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger,
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath?
"Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair,
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there.

Who watches their course, who so mildly
Careen to the kiss of the breeze?
Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly
Are clasp'd in the arms of the seas!
'Tis the sea-bird, &c.

Who hovers on high o'er the lover,

And her who has clung to his neck? Whose wing is the wing that can cover, With its shadow, the foundering wreck? 'Tis the sea-bird, &c.

My eye in the light of the billow,

My wing on the wake of the wave,
I shall take to my breast, for a pillow,
The shroud of the fair and the brave.
I'm a sea-bird, &c.

My foot on the iceberg has lighted,

When hoarse the wild winds veer about, My eye, when the bark is benighted, Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair; The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND.

I PRAY thee, by thy mother's face,
And by her look, and by her eye,
By every decent matron grace
That hover'd round the resting-place

Where thy young head did lie;
And by the voice that soothed thine ear,
The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear,
That match'd thy changeful mood;
By every prayer thy mother taught,
By every blessing that she sought,
I pray thee to be good.

Is not the nestling, when it wakes,
Its eye upon the wood around,
And on its new-fledged pinions takes
Its taste of leaves, and boughs, and brakes
Of motion, sight, and sound,-
Is it not like the parent? Then
Be like thy mother, child, and when

Thy wing is bold and strong,-
As pure and steady be thy light,
As high and heavenly be thy flight,
As holy be thy song.

[blocks in formation]
[merged small][ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

WALTER COLTON.

[Born, 1797. Died, 1851.]

WALTER COLTON was born in Rutland county, Vermont, on the ninth of May, 1797. When about seventeen years of age he determined to acquire a liberal education, and commenced with industrious energy his preparatory studies. In 1818 he entered Yale College, where he received the Berkleyan prize in Latin and Greek, and delivered the valedictory poem, when he graduated, in 1822. He soon afterward went to the Theological Seminary at Andover, where he remained three years, giving much of his time to literature, and writing, besides various moral and critical dissertations, a "Sacred Drama," which was acted by the students at one of their rhetorical exhibitions, and an elaborate poem pronounced when his class received their diplomas. On being ordained an evangelist, according to the usage of the Congregational church, he became Professor of Moral Philosophy and Belles-Lettres in the Scientific and Military Academy at Middletown, then under the presidency of Captain ALDEN PARTRIDGE. While Occupying this position, he wrote a prize" Essay on Duelling;" a "Discussion of the Genius of Coleridge" "The Moral Power of the Poet, Painter, and Sculptor, contrasted," and many contributions in verse and prose to the public journals, under the signature of "Bertram." In 1828 he resigned his professorship, and settled in Washington, as editor of the "American Spectator," a weekly gazette, which he conducted with industry, and such tact and temper as to preserve the most intimate relations with the leaders of the political party to which it was opposed. He was especially a favourite with President JACKSON, who was accustomed to send for him two or three times in a week to sit with him in his private chamber; and when Mr. COLTON's health declined, so that a sea voyage was recommended by his physicians, the President offered him, without solicitation, a consulship or a chaplaincy in the Navy. The latter was accepted, and he held the office

from 1830 till the end of his life.

His first appointment was to the West India squadron, in which he continued but seven or eight months. He next sailed for the Mediterranean, in the flag-ship Constellation, Commodore READ, and in the three years of his connection with this station he travelled through Spain, Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor, visited Constantinople, and made his way to Paris and London. The results of his observations are partially given to the public in volumes entitled "Ship and Shore," and "A Visit to Constantinople and Athens." Soon after the publication of these works, he was appointed historiographer to the South Sea Surveying and Exploring Expedition; but the ultimate reduction of the force designed for the Pacific squadron, and the resignation of his associates,

induced him to forego the advantages of this office, for which he had made very careful preparations in ethnographical studies.

He was now stationed at Philadelphia, where he was chaplain successively of the Navy Yard and the Naval Asylum. In this city I became acquainted with him, and for several years enjoyed his frequent society and intimate friendship. In 1841 and 1842, with the consent of the Government, he added to his official duties the editorship of the Philadelphia « North American," and in these and the following years he wrote much on religious and literary subjects for other journals. In 1844 he delivered before the literary societies of the University of Vermont a poem entitled "The Sailor." In the summer of 1846 he was married, and in the following autumn was ordered to the Congress, the flag-ship of the Pacific squadron, in which he arrived off the western coast of America soon after the commencement of the war with Mexico. The incidents of the voyage round Cape Horn are detailed with more than his usual felicity in the book called "Deck and Port," which he published in 1850.

Soon after the arrival of the squadron at Monterey, he was appointed alcalde, or chief magistrate, of that city, an office demanding untiring industry, zeal, and fortitude. He displayed in it eminent faithfulness and ability, and won as much the regard of the conquered inhabitants of the country, as the respect of his more immediate associates. Besides performing his ordinary duties he established the first newspaper printed in California, "The Californian;" built the first school-house in the territory; and also a large hall for public meetings, which the citizens called "Colton Hall," in honour of his public spirit and enterprise. It was during his administration of affairs at Monterey that the discovery of gold in the Sacramento Valley was first made; and the honour of first making it publicly known in the Atlantic states, whether by accident or otherwise, belongs properly to him. It was first announced in a letter bearing his initials, in the Philadelphia "North American," and the next day in a letter also written by him, in the New York "Journal of Commerce."

Mr. COLTON returned to his home early in the summer of 1850, anticipating years of undisturbed happiness. With an attached family, a large circle of friends, good reputation, and a fortune equal to his desires, he applied himself leisurely to the preparation of his manuscript journals for the press, and the revision of his earlier publications. He had completed, besides «Deck and Port," already mentioned, "Three Years in California," and had nearly ready for the printer a much enlarged and improved edition of "Ship and

« PreviousContinue »