Page images
PDF
EPUB

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,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's changing sea;
And whate'er fate betides me,

This heart still turns to thee.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.*

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it shelter'd me,

And I'll protect it now.
"Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters play'd.
My mother kiss'd me here;
My father press'd my hand-
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

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.

[blocks in formation]

AN ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village pastor's child,

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,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain,
To seek the groves of her retreat,

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,
The sweet and gentle primrose-way

To woman's fond, devoted heart:
They seek, but never find the treasure,
Although reveal'd in jet and azure.
To them, like truth in wells of water,
A fable is the pastor's daughter.

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
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,
The stern, old Baron RUDIGER,

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
My days of life are o'er,

That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;
They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,—
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim spear,-
Think ye he's entered at my gate,
Has come to seek me here?
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,-
I'll try his might-I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,-
And fire the culverin,-

Bid each retainer arm with speed,—
Call every vassal in;

Up with my banner on the wall,—

The banquet board prepare,-
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then,-
The banquet forth was spread,—
And rung the heavy oaken floor

With many a martial tread,
While from the rich, dark tracery

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,
The mail'd retainers pour'd,
On through the portal's frowning arch,
And throng'd around the board.
While at its head, within his dark,

Carved oaken chair of state,
Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern RUDIGER,

With girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men,

Pour forth the cheering wine;
There's life and strength in every drop,—
Thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true?—
Mine eyes are waxing dim;-
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones,
Each goblet to the brim.

"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,
-And rose a deafening cry
That made the torches flare around,
And shook the flags on high :-
"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?—
Slaves, traitors! have ye flown?
Ho! cowards, have ye left me
To meet him here alone!

But I defy him :-let him come !"
Down rang the massy cup,
While from its sheath the ready blade

Came flashing halfway up;
And, with the black and heavy plumes
Scarce trembling on his head,
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair,
Old RUDIGER sat, dead.

TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE.

THE dawn has broke, the morn is up,

Another day begun;

And there thy poised and gilded spear
Is flashing in the sun,

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
The summer's noon-day heat,

And through the long, dark, starless night,
The winter storms have beat;
But yet thy duty has been done,

By day and night the same,

Still thou hast met and faced the storm,
Whichever way it came.

No chilling blast in wrath has swept
Along the distant heaven,

But thou hast watch'd its onward course,
And distant warning given;
And when mid-summer's sultry beams
Oppress all living things,

Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes
With health upon its wings.

How oft I've seen, at early dawn,

Or twilight's quiet hour,
The swallows, in their joyous glee,
Come darting round thy tower,
As if, with thee, to hail the sun
And catch his earliest light,
And offer ye the morn's salute,
Or bid ye both,-good-night.

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,
The whole delighted company

Have settled on thy back.

Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth,
A gentle breeze has sprung,
And, prompt to mark its first approach,
Thy eager form hath swung,
I've thought I almost heard thee say,
As far aloft they flew,-
"Now all away!-here ends our play,
For I have work to do'

Men slander thee, my honest friend,
And call thee, in their pride,
An emblem of their fickleness,
Thou ever-faithful guide.
Each weak, unstable human mind
A "weathercock" they call;
And thus, unthinkingly, mankind
Abuse thee, one and all.

They have no right to make thy name
A by-word for their deeds :--
They change their friends, their principles,
Their fashions, and their creeds;

Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known
Thus causelessly to range;

But when thou changest sides, canst give
Good reason for the change.

Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course
The thoughtless oft condemn,

Art touch'd by many airs from heaven
Which never breathe on them,—
And moved by many impulses

Which they do never know,

Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod
The dusty paths below.

Through one more dark and cheerless night
Thou well hast kept thy trust,

And now in glory o'er thy head

The morning light has burst.

And unto earth's true watcher, thus,
When his dark hours have pass'd,
Will come "the day-spring from on high,"
To cheer his path at last.

Bright symbol of fidelity,

Still may I think of thee:

And may the lesson thou dost teach
Be never lost on me;-

But still, in sunshine or in storm,

Whatever task is mine,

May I be faithful to my trust,
As thou hast been to thine.

[blocks in formation]

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
We never shall see more:
He used to wear a long, black coat,
All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray-
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,

His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.
But good old GRIMES is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse--
Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,
Nor make a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)

In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

OH, THINK NOT THAT THE BOSOM'S LIGHT.

Оn think not that the bosom's light
Must dimly shine, its fire be low,
Because it doth not all invite

To feel its warmth and share its glow.
The altar's strong and steady blaze
On all around may coldly shine,
But only genial warmth conveys

To those who gather near the shrine.
The lamp within the festal hall

Doth not more clear and brightly burn
Than that, which shrouded by the pall,
Lights but the cold funereal urn.

The fire which lives through one brief hour,
More sudden beat perchance reveals
Than that whose tenfold strength and power
Its own unmeasured depth conceals.
Brightly the summer cloud may glide

But bear no heat within its breast,
Though all its gorgeous folds are dyed
In the full glories of the west:
'Tis that which through the darken'd sky,
Surrounded by no radiance, sweeps—
In which, conceal'd from every eye,
The wild and vivid lightning sleeps.

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?
But take those cold, unyielding things,
And beat their edges till you tire,
And every atom forth that springs
Is a bright spark of living fire:
Each particle, so dull and cold

Until the blow that woke it came,
Did still within it slumbering hold

A power to wrap the world in flame.
What is there, when thy sight is turn'd
To the volcano's icy crest,

By which the fire can be discern'd
That rages in its silent breast;
Which hidden deep, but quenchless still,
Is at its work of sure decay,
And will not cease to burn until

It wears its giant heart away.
The mountain's side upholds in pride

Its head amid the realms of snow,
And gives its bosom depth to hide

The burning mass which lies below. While thus in things of sense alone

Such truths from sense lie still conceal'd,
How can the living heart be known,
Its secret, inmost depths reveal'd?
Oh, many an overburden'd soul

Has been at last to madness wrought,
While proudly struggling to control
Its burning and consuming thought-
When it had sought communion long,
And had been doom'd in vain to seek
For feelings far too deep and strong

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
And sterner cares have long been mine;
Yet turn I to thee fondly now,

As when upon thy bosom's shrine
My infant griefs were gently hush'd to rest,

And thy low-whisper'd prayers my slumber bless'd.

I never call that gentle name,

My mother! but I am again
E'en as a child; the very same

That prattled at thy knee; and fain
Would I forget, in momentary joy,
That I no more can be thy happy boy ;-
The artless boy, to whom thy smile

Was sunshine, and thy frown sad night,
(Though rare that frown, and brief the while
It veil'd from me thy loving light;)
For well-conn'd task, ambition's highest bliss,
To win from thine approving lips a kiss.
I've loved through foreign lands to roam,
And gazed o'er many a classic scene;
Yet would the thought of that dear home,
Which once was ours, oft intervene,
And bid me close again my weary eye

To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by.

That pleasant home of fruits and flowers,
Where, by the Hudson's verdant side
My sisters wove their jasmine bowers,
And he, we loved, at eventide

Would hastening come from distant toil to bless
Thine, and his children's radiant happiness.
Alas, the change! the rattling car

On flint-paved streets profanes the spot,
Where o'er the sod, we sow'd the Star
Of Bethlehem, and Forget-me-not.
Oh, wo to Mammon's desolating reign!
We ne'er shall find on earth a home again!

I've pored o'er many a yellow page

Of ancient wisdom, and have won,
Perchance, a scholar's name-but sage
Or bard have never taught thy son
Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth,
As those his mother's faith shed on his youth.

If, by the Saviour's grace made meet,
My GoD will own my life and love,

Methinks, when singing at His feet,

Amid the ransom'd throng above,

Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be,
And I will bless that grace for heaven and thee.
For thee and heaven; for thou didst tread

The way that leads me heavenward, and
My often wayward footsteps led

In the same path with patient hand;
And when I wander'd far, thy earnest call
Restored my soul from sin's deceitful thrall.
I have been bless'd with other ties,

Fond ties and true, yet never deem
That I the less thy fondness prize;

No, mother! in my warmest dream
Of answer'd passion, through this heart of mine
One chord will vibrate to no name but thine.
Mother! thy name is widow-well

I know no love of mine can fill
The waste place of thy heart, or dwell
Within one sacred recess: still
Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son,
My parent, thou art mine, my only one!

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,
Beckoning me to arise,

And go forth from my very self, and fly
With you far in the unknown, unseen immense
Of worlds beyond our sphere-What are ye?
Whence?

Ye eloquent voices,

Now soft as breathings of a distant flute,
Now strong as when rejoices,
The trumpet in the victory and pursuit;
Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call
My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall

I know you now-I see

With more than natural light-ye are the good The wise departed—ye

« PreviousContinue »