ENGLISH SCENERY. THE woods and vales of England!—is there not A magic and a marvel in their names? Is there not music in the memory Of their old glory?—is there not a sound, Than thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons,- MOUNT WASHINGTON. MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! And when the tumult of the air is fled, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name: The stars look down upon them; and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave! Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee The hoary mantle of the dying year, [throws Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! "Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear, Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view! THE BUGLE. O! WILD, enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born Wake, wake again, the night Is bending from her throne of beauty down, Night, at its pulseless noon! When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long Barks at the melancholy moon. Hark! how it sweeps away, Soaring and dying on the silent sky, As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay! Swell, swell in glory out! Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, Or have ye in the roar Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, No music that of air or earth is born, ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT. SAIL on, thou lone, imperial bird, Of quenchless eye and tireless wing; As the night's breezes round thee ring! Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now? So closely to this shadowy world, Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest, Thy eyry desolate, though high; And lonely thou, alike at rest, Or soaring in the upper sky. The golden light that bathes thy plumes On thine interminable flight, Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs, And makes the north's ice-mountains bright. So come the eagle-hearted down, So come the high and proud to earth, That bore, unveil'd, fame's noontide sun; So man seeks solitude, to die, His high place left, his triumphs done. So, round the residence of power, A cold and joyless lustre shines, And on life's pinnacles will lower Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, O, the mellow light that pours From God's pure throne-the light that saves! It warms the spirit as it soars, And sheds deep radiance round our graves. THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA. ITALIA'S vales and fountains, I love my soaring mountains And forests more than ye; And though a dreamy greatness rise From out your cloudy years, Like hills on distant stormy skies, Seem dim through Nature's tears, Still, tell me not of years of old, Of ancient heart and clime; Ours is the land and age of gold, And ours the hallow'd time! The jewell'd crown and sceptre Of Greece have pass'd away; Rome! with thy giant sons of power, I would not have my land like thee, Thy marbles-works of wonder! Before the astonish'd gaze; O, ours a holier hope shall be To snatch us from the dust. Shall fix our image here,- A nobler BELVIDERE! Then let them bind with bloomless flowers The busts and urns of old, A fairer heritage be ours, A sacrifice less cold! Give honour to the great and good, So, when the good and great go down, To crowd those temples of our own, And when the sculptured marble falls, GEORGE HILL. [Born, 1800.] | greeing with him, he returned to Washington; and he is now attached again to one of the bureaus in the Department of State. GEORGE HILL is a native of Guilford, on Long Island Sound, near New Haven. He was admitted to Yale College in his fifteenth year, and, when he graduated, took the Berkeleian prize, as The style of Mr. Hill's poetry is severe, and somethe best classic. He was subsequently attached times so elliptical as to embarrass his meaning; this to the navy, as Professor of Mathematics; and is especially true of his more elaborate production, visited in this capacity the Mediterranean, its storied "The Ruins of Athens," written in the Spenserian islands, and classic shores. After his return, he stanza. He is most successful in his lyrics, where was appointed librarian to the State Department, he has more freedom, without a loss of energy. at Washington: a situation which he at length His "Titania," a dramatic piece, is perhaps the resigned on account of ill health, and was ap- most original of his productions. It is wild and pointed Consul of the United States for the south-fanciful, and graced with images of much beauty western portion of Asia Minor. The climate disa and freshness. FROM "THE RUINS OF ATHENS." THE daylight fades o'er old Cyllene's hill, Go! thou from whose forsaken heart are reft Is it not better with the Eremite, To sit and watch their shadows slowly wave While oft some fragment, sapp'd by dull decay, Or, where the palm, at twilight's holy hour, weeps Vainly the Spring her quickening dews away, And Love as vainly mourns, and mourns, alas! for aye. Or, more remote, on Nature's haunts intrude, The spectres that no spell has power to bind, There is a small, low cape-there, where the moon Upon it, and the wind's and wave's low moan, Remember'd. Here, by human foot unstirr'd, Its seed the thistle sheds, and builds the ocean-bird. Lurks the foul toad, the lizard basks secure Within the sepulchre of him whose name Had scatter'd navies like the whirlwind. Sure, If aught ambition's fiery wing may tame, "Tis here; the web the spider weaves where Fame Planted her proud but sunken shaft, should be To it a fetter, still it springs the same, Glory's fool-worshipper! here bend thy knee! The tomb thine altar-stone, thine idol Mockery: A small, gray elf, all sprinkled o'er with dust Of crumbling catacomb, and mouldering shred Of banner and embroider'd pall, and rust Of arms, time-worn monuments, that shed A canker'd gleam on dim escutcheons, where The groping antiquary pores to spy A what? a name-perchance re'er graven there; At whom the urchin, with his mimic eye, Sits peering through a skull, and laughs continually. THE MOUNTAIN-GIRL. THE clouds, that upward curling from Melt into air: gone are the showers, All hearts are by the spirit that Breathes in the sunshine stirr'd; A thing all lightness, life, and glee; To meet in visions of the night; With glossy ringlet, brow that is At once both dark and bright; She stops, looks up-what does she see? Upon a balcony: High, leaning from a window forth, Nor flower, nor lady fair she sees- That flower to her is as a tone Of some forgotten song, One of a slumbering thousand, struck She sees beside the mountain-brook, And toppling crag, a vine-thatch'd shed, The rivulet, the olive shade, The grassy plot, the flock; That springs beneath the rock. Sister and mate, they may not from Her dreaming eye depart; And one, the source of gentler fears, More dear than all, for whom she wears The token at her heart. THE FALL OF THE OAK. A GLORIOUS tree is the old gray oak: He has stood for a thousand years, Has stood and frown'd On the trees around, Like a king among his peers; He has stood like a tower As from plates of mail, From his own limbs shaken, rattle; He has toss'd them about, and shorn the tops The autumn sun looks kindly down, And sprinkles the horn Of the owl at morn, As she hies to the old oak tree. Not a sound is heard But the thump of the thresher's flail, Or the distant cry Of the hound on the fox's trail. The forester he has whistling plunged And, with lusty stroke, He wields it merrily:-- With lusty stroke,- And the old gray oak, Through the folds of his gorgeous vest And the night-owl break She will come but to find him gone from where Like a cloud that peals as it melts to air, Though the spring in the bloom and the frost in gold On the stormy wave He shall float, and brave The blast and the battle-fire! Shall spread his white wings to the wind, And thunder on the deep, As he thunder'd when On the high and stormy steep. LIBERTY. THERE is a spirit working in the world, The dungeon'd nations now once more respire The keen and stirring air of Liberty. The struggling giant wakes, and feels he's free. By Delphi's fountain-cave, that ancient choir Resume their song; the Greek astonish'd hears, And the old altar of his worship rears. Sound on, fair sisters! sound your boldest lyre,— Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres. Unto strange gods too long we've bent the knee, The trembling mind, too long and patiently. TO A YOUNG MOTHER. WHAT things of thee may yield a semblance meet, They once have bloom'd, a fragrance leave behind; And suns continue to light up the air, When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes, it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased to twine : Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Beams from the soul whose brightness mocks decline. SPRING. Now Heaven seems one bright, rejoicing eye, Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye, And each new morning some new songster brings. And, hark! the brooks their rocky prisons break, And echo calls on echo to awake, Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings, Rustling through wood or dripping over lake. Herb, bud, and bird return-but not to me With song or beauty, since they bring not thee. NOBILITY. Go, then, to heroes, sages if allied, Go! trace the scroll, but not with eye of pride, Where Truth depicts their glories as they shone, And leaves a blank where should have been your own. Mark the pure beam on yon dark wave impress'd; So shines the star on that degenerate breast-Each twinkling orb,that burns with borrow'd fires,-So ye reflect the glory of your sires. |