WHEN EYES ARE BEAMING;

OR THEFAREWELL SONG,WRITTEN BY HEBER,AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TOMISS M. BARRY,BY M. KELLER.PRESENTED BY J. G. OSBOURN, NO. 112 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILAD’A

OR THE

FAREWELL SONG,

WRITTEN BY HEBER,

AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO

MISS M. BARRY,

BY M. KELLER.

PRESENTED BY J. G. OSBOURN, NO. 112 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILAD’A

When eyes are beaming,What never tongue might tell,When tears are streamingFrom their crystal cell,When hands are link’d that

When eyes are beaming,

What never tongue might tell,

When tears are streaming

From their crystal cell,

When hands are link’d that

dread to part,And heart is met by throbbing heart,Oh! bitter, bitter is the smartOf them that bid farewell! farewell!

dread to part,

And heart is met by throbbing heart,

Oh! bitter, bitter is the smart

Of them that bid farewell! farewell!

Second Verse.When hope is chiddenThat fain of bliss would tell,And love forbiddenIn the heart to dwell;When fetter’d by a viewless chain,We turn and gaze, and turn again,Oh! death were mercy to the pain,Of them that bid farewell!

Second Verse.

When hope is chiddenThat fain of bliss would tell,And love forbiddenIn the heart to dwell;When fetter’d by a viewless chain,We turn and gaze, and turn again,Oh! death were mercy to the pain,Of them that bid farewell!

When hope is chidden

That fain of bliss would tell,

And love forbidden

In the heart to dwell;

When fetter’d by a viewless chain,

We turn and gaze, and turn again,

Oh! death were mercy to the pain,

Of them that bid farewell!

THE MARINER RETURNED.

———

BY REV. EDWARD C. JONES.

———

Come back—come back with your sun-lit eyes—

Oh, sing me your olden melodies—

I have piled the oak on the ingle wide.

And bright is the hall of my boyhood’s pride;

I long to gaze on the household throng,

With the blended laugh and the fireside song,

I long to print on my mother’s cheek

The kiss, whose feeling no tongue may speak,

I long for a clasp of my father’s hand,

And the welcome strain of that sister band,

And the love-lit glance of my brother’s eye,

Would waken my soul to ecstasy.

I have sped me back from the India grove,

With the shells and birds that my kindred love;

I have brought the gems for my maiden’s hair,

To shine like the silver starlets there,

The pearl from the sea-cave’s calm retreat,

I have borne it home, with a footstep fleet,

And the rich-dyed plume of the songster gay,

I have brought as a radiant prize away.

’Tis true my cheek has a dusky shade,

For the southern gale with my locks has played,

’Tis true the seasons that sped away

Have left the marks of the tell-tale gray,

And the plough of time, with a furrow now,

Has come in its turn to my sunburnt brow,

But oh! in my heart unchanged their lies

A throng of reviving memories,

And one touch of love shall awake once more

Each vision bright of the days of yore.

Oh, lone one, come from the far green sea,

That household band cannot come to thee,

For she with the calm and pensive eye,

Who cradled thy head in infancy,

And he whose bosom would bound with joy,

As he joined in laugh with his first-born boy,

And they who watched with a sister’s pride

The scion that grew by their parents’ side,

And the brother, too, who with joy and grace

Would part the ringlets from off thy face,

They have gone in turn in a shadowy band;

Oh, yes, they have flown to the better land,

They have traced their names on the slab of white:

Go read the line, if it dim thy sight,

And standing there, with their dust beneath,

And the eye of faith on their seraph-wreath,

Oh vow, in the strength of God’s blessed Son,

To win the crown that your kindred won,

And then forever each household tie

Will firmly link in the far-off sky,

And each form beloved shall be clasped by thee,

Oh, mariner, come from the sounding sea.

BURIAL OF A GERMAN EMIGRANT’S CHILD AT SEA.

———

BY J. T. F.

———

Noflowers to lay upon his little breast,No passing bell to note his spirit home—We lowered him gently to his place of rest,Parting with tears at eve the ocean foam.No turf was round him, but the heaving surgeEntombed those lids that closed so calm and slow,While solemn winds, with their cathedral dirge,Sighed o’er his form a requiem sad and low.Ah! who shall tell the maddening grief of loveThat swept her heart-strings in this hour of wo!Weep, childless mother! but, oh, look aboveFor aid that only Heaven can now bestow.Gaze, blue-eyed stranger, on that silken hair,Weep, but remember that thy God will standBeside thee here in all thy wild despair,As o’er the green mounds of thy Fatherland.

Noflowers to lay upon his little breast,No passing bell to note his spirit home—We lowered him gently to his place of rest,Parting with tears at eve the ocean foam.

Noflowers to lay upon his little breast,

No passing bell to note his spirit home—

We lowered him gently to his place of rest,

Parting with tears at eve the ocean foam.

No turf was round him, but the heaving surgeEntombed those lids that closed so calm and slow,While solemn winds, with their cathedral dirge,Sighed o’er his form a requiem sad and low.

No turf was round him, but the heaving surge

Entombed those lids that closed so calm and slow,

While solemn winds, with their cathedral dirge,

Sighed o’er his form a requiem sad and low.

Ah! who shall tell the maddening grief of loveThat swept her heart-strings in this hour of wo!Weep, childless mother! but, oh, look aboveFor aid that only Heaven can now bestow.

Ah! who shall tell the maddening grief of love

That swept her heart-strings in this hour of wo!

Weep, childless mother! but, oh, look above

For aid that only Heaven can now bestow.

Gaze, blue-eyed stranger, on that silken hair,Weep, but remember that thy God will standBeside thee here in all thy wild despair,As o’er the green mounds of thy Fatherland.

Gaze, blue-eyed stranger, on that silken hair,

Weep, but remember that thy God will stand

Beside thee here in all thy wild despair,

As o’er the green mounds of thy Fatherland.

Painted by BrownEngraved by JackmanHERMIONE.Graham’s Magazine

Painted by BrownEngraved by Jackman

HERMIONE.

Graham’s Magazine

HERMIONE.

WINTER’S TALE. ACT V. SCENE III.

Her natural posture!Chide me, dear stone; that I may say, indeed,Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she,In thy not chiding; for she was as tenderAs infancy and grace.Oh, thus she stood,Even with such life of majesty, (warm life,As now it coldly stands,) when first I wooed her!——’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;Bequeath to death your numbness, for from himDear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs;(Hermione comes down from the pedestal.)Start not: her actions shall be holy as,You hear, my spell is lawful; do not shun her;Until you see her die again; for then,You kill her double: Nay, present your hand:When she was young you woo’d her; now in ageIs she become the suitor!

Her natural posture!

Chide me, dear stone; that I may say, indeed,

Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she,

In thy not chiding; for she was as tender

As infancy and grace.

Oh, thus she stood,

Even with such life of majesty, (warm life,

As now it coldly stands,) when first I wooed her!

——

’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;Bequeath to death your numbness, for from himDear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs;

’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;

Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,

I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;

Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs;

(Hermione comes down from the pedestal.)

Start not: her actions shall be holy as,You hear, my spell is lawful; do not shun her;Until you see her die again; for then,You kill her double: Nay, present your hand:When she was young you woo’d her; now in ageIs she become the suitor!

Start not: her actions shall be holy as,

You hear, my spell is lawful; do not shun her;

Until you see her die again; for then,

You kill her double: Nay, present your hand:

When she was young you woo’d her; now in age

Is she become the suitor!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Men, Women, and Books. A Selection of Sketches, Essays, and Critical Memoirs, from his Uncollected Prose Writings. By Leigh Hunt. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo.

Hunt, after a long life of petty persecution, and a long struggle with poverty and calumny, seems destined to have his old age crowned with roses, and his books applauded with a universal three times three. He has been pensioned by the government, pensioned by the heir of Shelley, has had complimentary benefits, and is continually having complimentary notices. The present volumes are made up of selections from his contributions to periodical literature, including a few articles written for the Westminster and Edinburgh Reviews. There is considerable variety in the topics, with much individuality running through them all. The portrait with which the first volume is embellished, had better have been suppressed. It is the most decidedly cockney visage we ever saw engraved on steel, and would confirm the worst impressions obtained of him through the critiques of Blackwood’s Magazine. It has an air of impudent sentimentality, smirking conceit, and benevolent imbecility, which we can hardly reconcile with our notions of the author of “Rimini,” and “Captain Sword and Captain Pen.”

These volumes have the characteristics which make all of Hunt’s essays delightful to read. They have no depth of thought or feeling, they evince no clear knowledge of any principles, intellectual or moral; but they are laden with fine impressions and fine sensations of many captivating things, and an unctuous good-nature penetrates them all. They are never profound, and never dull. With a gay and genial impertinence the author throws off his impressions of every subject which he meets in his path; and morality itself is made to look jaunty. When his remarks are good for nothing as opinions, he still contrives to make them charming as fancies or phrases. There is hardly an instance in the two volumes where he is not pleasantly wrong, when he has attempted to settle any debated question in morals or metaphysics. The essays in which he is most successful, are those relating to the refinements of literature and minor moralities of society. He is a writer whom we delight to follow when he talks of Suckling, Pope, Lady Montagu, or Madame de Sevigne; but when he touches a man like Milton, or a man like Shelley, the involuntary cry is, “hands off!” The finest thing in the present collection is the exquisite prose translation of Grisset’s “Ver-Vert.” In such niceties Hunt is unequalled.

The publishers have issued these volumes in a handsome style. In mechanical execution as in intellectual character, they are well fitted for the parlor table.

Louis the Fourteenth, and the Court of France in the Seventeenth Century. By Miss Pardoe. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo.

The authoress of this book is well calculated to do her subject justice. She has the requisite industry, and the requisite tact, and the result is a work as instructing as it is attractive. In reading history, where every thing is seen through a certain medium of dignity, few realize the ignoble origin of many remarkable events, and the meannesses to which remarkable personages often descend. A work like the present tears away the flimsy veil which covers both, and enables us to see glory in its night-gown and slippers, government at its toilet, and events in their making. France, under Louis the Fourteenth, with its external grandeur and internal meanness, its great men and its intriguing women, its charlatanrie and harlotonrie, loses much in such a mode of treatment, but the reader gains more than France loses. Miss Pardoe follows with her keen, patient mind, the manifold turns of court diplomacy, and discerns, with feminine sagacity, all the nicer and finer threads of the complicated web of intrigue. As a woman, she is acute to discover the hand and brain of her own sex in every incident where women took a part; and none but a woman could fully unveil many of the events which elevated or disgraced France during the reign of Louis. The sharp and cynical Frederick of Prussia said, years ago, that “the petticoat history of the seventeenth century remained to be written.” A considerable portion of Miss Pardoe’s work supplies this need as regards France. Her book, full as it is of kings, warriors, statesmen, priests, nobles, artists, poets, is still more laden with women.

The Harpers have issued the work in a style of great elegance and beauty, with illustrative engravings. It cannot fail to attract many readers, not only because it deals with an important epoch in history, but also because its details have the interest of romance.

The Good Genius that Turned Every Thing into Gold, or the Queen Bee and the Magic Dress. By the Brothers Mayhew. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo.

This is the first number of the “Friends’ Library,” a series of publications which the enterprising publishers intend to issue in an attractive form. “The Good Genius” comes before us in a most splendid dress, with five engravings, and illuminated covers. It is one of the most interesting of fairy tales, told with all the charms of vivid description, and abounding in allusions to actual life. It shows the fleeting nature of that boundary to man’s wishes which he callsenough; a boundary which recedes as he advances; and it beautifully teaches that after a human being has had opportunities to gratify every passion, he finds at last that the only joy of life is in the spirit of patient industry. The main object of the book being to interest the young in those qualities of character which are most important to their happiness and success, the authors have done well in selecting a fascinating story, teeming with wonders, as the medium through which they can best attain their object. The railroad and magnetic telegraph are introduced in a fairy guise with fine effect, and the reader is forcibly struck with the fact, that genius and industry have realized now more that fancy could once imagine. We hope the brothers Mayhew may live long and write often. There are some writers whom we should regret to see inspired by the Genius of industry. The authors of this charming little story are not of that number.

The Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man’s Recreation. By Izack Walton. With Biographical Preface and Copious Notes by the American Editor. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is the best edition of Walton’s Angler ever published in England or America. Of the book itself it isalmost needless to speak, for it is read wherever the English language is spoken. It is a quaint, humane, practical, poetical, and most delicious volume. For summer reading, under the trees, or by the rocks of the sea-shore, it is almost unmatched. The reader for the time is equal to Walton himself, in “possessing his soul in much quietness.” To the angler the book is both a classic and a companion. The person who reads it for the first time is to be envied. The American editor has performed his task of illustration and comment with the spirit both of an antiquary and a lover, and has really added to the value of the original. To all men and women, vexed with cares and annoyances of any kind, we commend this sunny volume. They will feel it as a minister of peace and quiet thoughts.

Fresh Gleanings: or a New Sheaf from the Old Fields of Continental Europe. By Ik. Marvel. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

The title of this work is not more quaint that its mechanical execution. As it is like no other book of travels, so it is printed like no other. It seems as if the author felt that his subject had been so exhausted, that the public would not believe in the epithet “fresh,” unless the printing was “fresh” also. We can hardly praise the book more than by saying that the title is true. Almost every page is alive with a fresh, keen, observing, thoughtful, tolerant, fanciful, and sensible mind. The author’s manner of writing is characteristic, and, except that it sometimes reminds us of Sterne, is as new as his matter. Even the occasional affectation in his style appears like something which has grown into his mind, not plastered upon it. Among the many merits of his descriptions and narrations, we have been especially struck with his originality in blending his own emotions with what he describes. He represents objects not only as pictures, but he gives the associations, and the mysterious trains of thought they awaken. There is a certain strangeness, so to speak, in his descriptions, which, without marring the distinctness of objects, adds to them a charm derived from a curious fancy, and a thoughtful intellect.

We suppose that most of our readers are aware that Ik. Marvel is but another name for Donald G. Mitchell.

Notes on the Parables of Our Lord. By Richard Cherevix French, A. M. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

A work like this, learned enough for the scholar, and plain enough for the worshiper, has long been wanted. The author has given the subject the most profound study, and examined almost every thing bearing upon it, either directly or incidentally; and has produced a work in which the results of patient thought and investigation are presented in a style of great sweetness and clearness. The diction, considered in respect to its tone rather than its form, reminds us of Newman, one of those masters of composition who are too apt to be overlooked by the mere man of letters, from the exclusive devotion of their powers to theology.

The Crown of Thorns. A Token for the Sorrowing. By Edwin H. Chapin. Boston: A Tompkins. 1 vol. 24mo.

Mr. Chapin is a Boston clergyman, of strong and cultivated intellect, and eloquent both as a writer and speaker. The present little volume is full of deep feeling and fine reflection, and will go right to the hearts of those for whom it was especially written. As a literary production it well sustains the author’s reputation. The style is nervous and animated, the topics are well chosen and well treated, and a tone of earnestness gives meaning and character to every page. A great deal is compressed in a small compass.

The Months. By William H. C. Hosmer. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

We have read this unpretending little volume with great pleasure. Its gifted author unites to a fervid and sparkling imagination a profound and enthusiastic love of Nature, and a rare and poetical appreciation of its beauties. It is a daring task to undertake the description of the seasons after Thomson; but Mr. Hosmer has succeeded in presenting the distinctive features of our ever changing and ever beautiful American scenery, with a grace and truthfulness that will challenge the admiration of every reader of taste. “Each of the within,” say the neat and modest preface, “is marked by its own distinctive features, clothed in its appropriate garb, and hallowed by the recollection of the events which have occurred during its stay. The year which came with the one closes with the other. There is, in this constant, never-ending change, something congenial to the nature of man, which is stamped on every thing around him. Were our skies to be ever of an azure blue, clear and unclouded, we should soon become wearied with the sameness of their aspect.

“Who would be doomed to gaze uponA sky without a cloud or sun?”

“Who would be doomed to gaze upon

A sky without a cloud or sun?”

We select, as a seasonable and gratifying specimen of the author’s manner, the following, from his description of October:

The partridge, closely ambushed, hearsThe crackling leaf—poor, timid thing!And to a thicker covert steersOn swift, resounding wing:The woodland wears a look forlorn,Hushed is the wild bee’s tiny horn.The cricket’s bugle shrill—Sadly is Autumn’s mantle torn,But fair to vision still.Bright flowers yet linger—from the mornYon Cardinal hath caught its blush,And yellow, star-shaped gems adornThe wild witch-hazel bush;Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,That brings to frailer blossoms blight,The germs of fruit they bear,That, living on through Winter white,Ripens in Summer air.Yon streamlet, to the woods around,Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,Oh! how unlike the joyous soundWherewith it welcomed June!Wasting away with grief, it seems,For flowers that flaunted in the beamsOf many a sun-bright day—Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreamsWhen life hath reached its May.

The partridge, closely ambushed, hears

The crackling leaf—poor, timid thing!

And to a thicker covert steers

On swift, resounding wing:

The woodland wears a look forlorn,

Hushed is the wild bee’s tiny horn.

The cricket’s bugle shrill—

Sadly is Autumn’s mantle torn,

But fair to vision still.

Bright flowers yet linger—from the mornYon Cardinal hath caught its blush,And yellow, star-shaped gems adornThe wild witch-hazel bush;Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,That brings to frailer blossoms blight,The germs of fruit they bear,That, living on through Winter white,Ripens in Summer air.

Bright flowers yet linger—from the morn

Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,

And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn

The wild witch-hazel bush;

Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,

That brings to frailer blossoms blight,

The germs of fruit they bear,

That, living on through Winter white,

Ripens in Summer air.

Yon streamlet, to the woods around,Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,Oh! how unlike the joyous soundWherewith it welcomed June!Wasting away with grief, it seems,For flowers that flaunted in the beamsOf many a sun-bright day—Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreamsWhen life hath reached its May.

Yon streamlet, to the woods around,

Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,

Oh! how unlike the joyous sound

Wherewith it welcomed June!

Wasting away with grief, it seems,

For flowers that flaunted in the beams

Of many a sun-bright day—

Fair flowers!—more beautiful than dreams

When life hath reached its May.

The Power of the Soul over the Body, considered in Relation to Health and Morals. By Geo. Moore, M. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo.

Such books as this, if generally circulated, cannot fail to do a vast deal of good. Dr. Moore is well adapted to make the subject he has chosen interesting and intelligible, and the subject itself comprehends topics of great practical importance. In his mode of treating his theme, the author avoids all the technicalities of his profession, addressing the public, not physicians. The style, bating a little effort after rounded sentences, is clear and precise.

O’Sullivan’s Love, a Legend of Edenmore; and the History of Paddy Go-Easy and his Wife Nancy. By William Carleton, author of “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.” Philadelphia: Carey & Hart.

Mr. Carleton is one of the most powerful of the many novelists who have aimed to illustrate Irish character. He gives us the true Irishman, in his passions, his blunders, his blarney, and his potatoes. His pathos and humor are both excellent. The present novel well sustains his high and honorable reputation.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 171, story just it happened ==> story justasit happenedpage 174, answer, he plead, and ==> answer, hepleaded, andpage 176, looses her identity, ==>losesher identity,page 211, mountain-dew of Glenlivat ==> mountain-dew ofGlenlivet

page 171, story just it happened ==> story justasit happened

page 174, answer, he plead, and ==> answer, hepleaded, and

page 176, looses her identity, ==>losesher identity,

page 211, mountain-dew of Glenlivat ==> mountain-dew ofGlenlivet

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 4, October 1847]

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