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Looking each other wildly in the eyes ;
(He rushes away.
ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE.
By HALLECK, an American poet.
Friend of my better days:
None named thee but to praise.
Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep;
Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts whose truth was proven
Like thine are laid on earth,
To tell the world their worth;
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Whose weal and woe were thine
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow :
And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free :
That mourns a man like thee.
AUTUMN-AND LIFE'S AUTUMN. Extracted from a volume of poems published a few years ago, called The Mountain Decameron. SEPTEMBER woods, September skies, so soft and sunny all ! Unfaded and unfallen your leaves, and yet so soon to fall : Ah, what avails that dying smile which gilds your fading
green? White Winter peeps, like Death, behind, to shut the fare
Stretch'd beautiful the landscape lies, a mockery of May, Like some fair corpse, yet beautiful, laid out but for decay; Howl, ye wild winds ! beat, wintry rains !-Heaven's groans
and tears !-more meet Than such a smile o'er Summer dead,-80 green a
Less sad the wild woods yellowing, their empty arms less sad, When all their leaves, as torn-off hair, they strew like
mourners mad On all the winds, and naked stand, the mountain's skeletons, High beating o’er the waterfalls that thunder back their
September skies, September woods ! How like Life's soft
decline, When round a heart too old to hope its farewell beauties
shine! When every pangless minute steals a mournful preciousness, Till e'en Life's blessings turn to pain, so soon no more to
With health's mock spring in every limb, its glow, its easy
breath, More horror flings round thy black frost, thy springless
Winter, Death ! Though like this winter in disguise, Death steals on with a
smile, It comes, it comes, eclipsing all this bloomy world the
As one borne down a pleasant stream toward a terrific fall,
precipice ! Though, like your sapless leaves still green, still hangs th’
unalter'd hair, Time, that delays its snow, will soon the very skull lay
bare. Oh, Autumn woods, and fields, and flowers ! to you Spring
comes again To clothe, to paint, to beautify! To man the mourner
The blossom shall remount its bough, each little flower its
bankEach, blushing to the Spring-God's smile, resume its being's Th' immortal violet burst the sod: while man, proud man,
whose foot Treads its pale beauty down shall lie in darkness 'neath its
Though Faith points to a prouder home for Man's ejected
soul, His mortal part what creed forbids a backward eye to roll? A valley shepherd, call'd to change his cottage for a throne, Might sigh to leave his fields, his fold, and all his little own. So I, while men more worthy, more ambitious of Heaven's
crown, O’erlook Death's gulf, I shivering stand, and still look back
or down : Not golden groves of angels tempt my wishes from these
vales, Enough of Paradise for me, "mine own romantic” Wales !
THE SPIRIT LAND.
By Mrs. HEMANS.
The Indians imagine that the way is long, and the only communication between Heaven and Earth is by means of the wild forest-bird, seldom seen. How beautifully Mrs. HEMANS embodies the idea in the following poem! Thou art come from the spirit-land, thou bird !
Thou art come from the spirit-land !
And tell of the shadowy band.
We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,
They are there-and they weep no more.
And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the fountain of Youth ere now,
Which none may find below.
And we know that they will not be lured to earth,
From the land of deathless flowers,
Though their hearts were once with ours;
Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,
Which are told to others now !
But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain !
Can those who have loved forget ?
Do they love, do they love us yet ?
And the father of his child ?
His wanderings through the wild ?
We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
But say, do they love there still ?
By FREDERICK TENNYSON, brother of the Laureat, who has lately published a volume of very beautiful poems, from which this is taken.
The winds are hush'd, the clouds have ceased to sail,
And lie like islands in the Ocean-day,
The flowers hang down their heads, and far away A faint bell tinkles in a sun-drown'd vale ;
No voice but the cicala's whirring note-No motion but the grasshoppers that leap;
The reaper pours into his burning throat The last drops of his flask, and falls asleep.
The rippling flood of a clear mountain stream
The sleepy music with its murmuring tones