WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE." When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine, When other bays have crown'd thee, More fresh and green than mine, Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it throbs, throbs only, Beloved one, for thee! Yet do not think I doubt thee, This heart still turns to thee. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.* WOODMAN, spare that tree! And I'll protect it now. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; Here too my sisters play'd. But let that old oak stand! Thy axe shall harm it not. *After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare that tree, at Boulogne, says Mr. Henry Russell, the vo calist, an old gentleman, among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, but was the tree really spared?" "It was," said I. "I am very glad to hear it," said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. I never saw such excitement in a concert-room. AN ivy-mantled cottage smiled, In all her maiden bloom and pride. Proud suitors paid their court and duty To this romantic sylvan beauty: Yet none of all the swains who sought her, The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain, And many follow'd in her train, To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart, they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter. One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest; He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which cannot falter, Her hand was given at the altar, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter. How seldom learn the worldly gay, With all their sophistry and art, To woman's fond, devoted heart: ALBERT G. GREENE. [Born, 1802.] MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since remained. One of his earliest metrical composi tions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university. His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sun Whose fame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil 66 Its iron strength had spent. They come around me here, and say That I shall mount my noble steed Their own liege lord and master born,— "And what is death? I've dared him oft "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,- Bid each retainer arm with speed,— Up with my banner on the wall,— The banquet board prepare,- A hundred hands were busy then,- With many a martial tread, Along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, Carved oaken chair of state, With girded falchion, sate. "Fill every beaker up, my men, Pour forth the cheering wine; Are ye all there, my vassals true?— "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword.And let me hear your faithful steel Clash once around my board: I hear it faintly-Louder yet!What clogs my heavy breath? Up all, and shout for RUDIGER, Defiance unto Death!'" Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel, But I defy him :-let him come !" Came flashing halfway up; TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE. THE dawn has broke, the morn is up, Another day begun; And there thy poised and gilded spear Upon that steep and lofty tower Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel, While all around thee slept. For years, upon thee, there has pour'd And through the long, dark, starless night, By day and night the same, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, No chilling blast in wrath has swept But thou hast watch'd its onward course, Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes How oft I've seen, at early dawn, Or twilight's quiet hour, And when, around thee or above, No breath of air has stirr'd, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight Of each free, happy bird, Till, after twittering round thy head In many a mazy track, Have settled on thy back. Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, Men slander thee, my honest friend, They have no right to make thy name Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known But when thou changest sides, canst give Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course Art touch'd by many airs from heaven Which they do never know, Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod Through one more dark and cheerless night And now in glory o'er thy head The morning light has burst. And unto earth's true watcher, thus, Bright symbol of fidelity, Still may I think of thee: And may the lesson thou dost teach But still, in sunshine or in storm, Whatever task is mine, May I be faithful to my trust, Now bent gently o'er her, How joyous the greeting. Now waving before her Each sound seems repeating"Adelheid! Adelheid! welcome again." Their branches upspringing, The breeze through them ringing, The birds through them singing, Unite in the strain "Adelheid! Adelheid! welcome again!" OLD GRIMES. OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray- Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd; Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes For thirty years or more. He wore large buckles on his shoes, His worldly goods he never threw In easy circumstances. Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was OH, THINK NOT THAT THE BOSOM'S LIGHT. Оn think not that the bosom's light To feel its warmth and share its glow. To those who gather near the shrine. Doth not more clear and brightly burn The fire which lives through one brief hour, But bear no heat within its breast, Do the dull flint, the rigid steel, Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal The hidden power which they enfold? Until the blow that woke it came, A power to wrap the world in flame. By which the fire can be discern'd It wears its giant heart away. Its head amid the realms of snow, The burning mass which lies below. While thus in things of sense alone Such truths from sense lie still conceal'd, Has been at last to madness wrought, For heart to bear or tongue to speak! GEORGE W. BETHUNE. [Born about 1802.] THE Rev. GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D. D., is a native of New York, and is widely known as one of the finest scholars and most eloquent preachers in the American church. He is author of several volumes of literary and religious discourses, which are as much distinguished as his poems by a genial, loving spirit, and a classical elegance of diction. In 1847 he published an edition of Walton's Angler, with ingenious and learned notes, and in the same year a volume of "Lays of Love and Faith." TO MY MOTHER. My mother!-Manhood's anxious brow As when upon thy bosom's shrine And thy low-whisper'd prayers my slumber bless'd. I never call that gentle name, My mother! but I am again That prattled at thy knee; and fain Was sunshine, and thy frown sad night, To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by. That pleasant home of fruits and flowers, Would hastening come from distant toil to bless On flint-paved streets profanes the spot, I've pored o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won, If, by the Saviour's grace made meet, Methinks, when singing at His feet, Amid the ransom'd throng above, Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be, The way that leads me heavenward, and In the same path with patient hand; Fond ties and true, yet never deem No, mother! in my warmest dream I know no love of mine can fill NIGHT STUDY. I AM alone; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush Around me, as were met A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush Of utter'd harmonies-heaven meeting earth, Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, And go forth from my very self, and fly Ye eloquent voices, Now soft as breathings of a distant flute, I know you now-I see With more than natural light-ye are the good The wise departed—ye |