Pride of the South, thy glittering spiresPoint to the arching sky,While tower and palace proudly rearTheir stately forms on high;Thy spacious squares spread far and wideAlong the valley green,And bright above thy hundred fanesAn hundred crosses gleam.Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies,Birds of gay song and plume,Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks,Trees, of eternal bloom,Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pureAs infant's rosy mouth,Rare, tempting fruits—all—all are thine,Sweet City of the South.Around thee lime and citron bowersIn peaceful beauty rest,While orange groves stretch far awayTo blue Tezcuco's breast;Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand,Cordillera's mountain line,And lift along thine azure skyTheir silver crests sublime.Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen,And thou hadst wealth and power;But wealth and beauty proved to thee"A darkly glorious dower."Iberia on her rocky heightsBeheld thee from afar,And rolled o'er all thy subject climeThe lurid tide of war.On thee the mighty torrent burst,And with resistless swayBore from thy desperate, struggling sonsTheir gods, their kings away.Then followed weary, weary years,Such as the conquered know,When brave hearts bleed and faint ones breakBeneath their weight of wo.Iberia's brood with iron swayKept down thy fallen ones,And bonds and stripes were freely doledTo thy degraded sons;Then spear and lance were left to rustAlong thy bannered walls,Thine eagle drooped and strangers dweltIn "Montezuma's halls."Oppression's long dark night of painAt length wore slowly on,And, radiant 'mid receding gloom,Hope heralded the dawn.Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sunUprose o'er thine and thee,While thy clear bells with silvery chimeProclaimed a countryFREE.And mingling with their heavenly tonesGlad triumphs swelled the breeze,For that bright sun dispelled the gloomOf rolling centuries.A flood of golden light streamed downO'er valley mount and plain,Thy joyous eagle plumed his wingAnd soared aloft again.Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored,The joy of other years,And gentler woman's truthful heartWept silent grateful tears;And thou—bathed in thy new-born light—Thou ancient island-gem,Ah! to thy proud fond children's heartsThou wert an Eden then.But thy stern oracles the whileSpoke ever deep and slow—"Dark hours are yet reserved for thee,Ill-fated Mexico!"And after years proved all too soon,Proved to thy bitter pain,Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood,Had flowed, and flowed in vain.How hast thou mourned the civil broilsThat shook thy peaceful homes?How hast thou mourned the broken faithOf thy degenerate sons?The faith thrice broken that incurredColumbia's vengeful sword,Till red o'er many a battle-plainThy blood like water poured.Again the stranger's echoing treadSounds from thy ancient halls—Again the flag of other landsWaves o'er thy captured walls.Thy peerless beauty, storied lore,Thy buried heroes' fame,Wealth, power—ah, what are they to theeWith thy dishonored name!The foe that first beheld thy towersBeyond the lake's green shore,And they who fondly reared thee up,The lordly ones of yore—They did not dream a change like thisCould on thy pride be hurled,Who erst amid thy mountains reignedQueen of the new-found world.
Pride of the South, thy glittering spiresPoint to the arching sky,While tower and palace proudly rearTheir stately forms on high;Thy spacious squares spread far and wideAlong the valley green,And bright above thy hundred fanesAn hundred crosses gleam.
Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies,Birds of gay song and plume,Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks,Trees, of eternal bloom,Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pureAs infant's rosy mouth,Rare, tempting fruits—all—all are thine,Sweet City of the South.
Around thee lime and citron bowersIn peaceful beauty rest,While orange groves stretch far awayTo blue Tezcuco's breast;Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand,Cordillera's mountain line,And lift along thine azure skyTheir silver crests sublime.
Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen,And thou hadst wealth and power;But wealth and beauty proved to thee"A darkly glorious dower."Iberia on her rocky heightsBeheld thee from afar,And rolled o'er all thy subject climeThe lurid tide of war.
On thee the mighty torrent burst,And with resistless swayBore from thy desperate, struggling sonsTheir gods, their kings away.Then followed weary, weary years,Such as the conquered know,When brave hearts bleed and faint ones breakBeneath their weight of wo.
Iberia's brood with iron swayKept down thy fallen ones,And bonds and stripes were freely doledTo thy degraded sons;Then spear and lance were left to rustAlong thy bannered walls,Thine eagle drooped and strangers dweltIn "Montezuma's halls."
Oppression's long dark night of painAt length wore slowly on,And, radiant 'mid receding gloom,Hope heralded the dawn.Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sunUprose o'er thine and thee,While thy clear bells with silvery chimeProclaimed a countryFREE.
And mingling with their heavenly tonesGlad triumphs swelled the breeze,For that bright sun dispelled the gloomOf rolling centuries.A flood of golden light streamed downO'er valley mount and plain,Thy joyous eagle plumed his wingAnd soared aloft again.
Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored,The joy of other years,And gentler woman's truthful heartWept silent grateful tears;And thou—bathed in thy new-born light—Thou ancient island-gem,Ah! to thy proud fond children's heartsThou wert an Eden then.
But thy stern oracles the whileSpoke ever deep and slow—"Dark hours are yet reserved for thee,Ill-fated Mexico!"And after years proved all too soon,Proved to thy bitter pain,Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood,Had flowed, and flowed in vain.
How hast thou mourned the civil broilsThat shook thy peaceful homes?How hast thou mourned the broken faithOf thy degenerate sons?The faith thrice broken that incurredColumbia's vengeful sword,Till red o'er many a battle-plainThy blood like water poured.
Again the stranger's echoing treadSounds from thy ancient halls—Again the flag of other landsWaves o'er thy captured walls.Thy peerless beauty, storied lore,Thy buried heroes' fame,Wealth, power—ah, what are they to theeWith thy dishonored name!
The foe that first beheld thy towersBeyond the lake's green shore,And they who fondly reared thee up,The lordly ones of yore—They did not dream a change like thisCould on thy pride be hurled,Who erst amid thy mountains reignedQueen of the new-found world.
THE RUFFED GROUSE OR PHEASANT
In the Eastern States the true partridge is known by the name of quail, the appellation of partridge being there given to what in Pennsylvania is called the pheasant, and which in the Ornithologies bears the name of the Ruffed Grouse, (Tetrao Umbellus.Wilson.) It inhabits a very extensive range of country, being found at Hudson's Bay, in Kentucky and Indiana, Oregon and the Floridas. Its favorite places of resort are high mountains covered with the balsam, pine, hemlock and other evergreens, and as we descend from such heights to the lower country they become more rare; and in the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida they are very scarce. The manners of the pheasant are solitary, they are seldom found in coveys of more than four or five together, and more usually in pairs, or singly. They are often shot in the mornings in the roads over the mountains bounding the Susquehanna; where they come for gravel. On foggy mornings very considerable numbers may be seen in these situations, moving along with great stateliness, their broad fan-like tail expanded to its fullest extent. Thedrummingof the pheasant, a sound compared by Wilson to that produced by striking two full blown ox bladders together, but much louder; the strokes at first slow and distinct, but gradually increasing in rapidity till they run into each other, resembling the rumbling sound of very distant thunder dying away gradually on the ear. This drumming is the call of the male bird to his mate, and may be heard in a calm day nearly half a mile. Wilson thus describes the manner in which this singular noise is produced. The bird, standing on an old prostrate log, generally in a retired and sheltered situation, lowers his wings, erects his expanded tail, contracts his throat, elevates two tufts of feathers on the neck, and inflates his whole body something in the manner of the turkey-cock, strutting and wheeling about with great stateliness. After a few manœuvres of this kind he begins to strike with his stiffened wings in short and quick strokes, which become more and more rapid until they run into each other, as has been already described. This is most common in the morning and evening, though Wilson states that he has heard them drumming at all hoursof the day. By means of this the pheasant leads the gunner to the place of his retreat, though to those unacquainted with the sound there is great deception in the supposed distance, it generally appearing to be much nearer than it really is. Audubon mentions having often called them within shot by imitating the sound. This he accomplished by beating a large inflated bullock's bladder with a stick, keeping up as much as possible the same time as that in which the bird beats. At the sound produced by the bladder and the stick, the male grouse, inflamed with jealousy, has flown directly toward him, when, being prepared beforehand, he has easily shot it. When flushed, the pheasant flies with great vigor through the woods, beyond the reach of view, springing up at first within a few yards, with a loud whirring noise. Noticing this peculiarity of flight, Mr. Audubon states that when this bird rises from the ground at a time when pursued by an enemy, or tracked by a dog, it produces a loud whirring sound resembling that of the whole tribe, excepting the black-cock of Europe, which has less of it than any other species. The whirring sound is never heard when the grouse rises of its own accord, for the purpose of removing from one place to another; nor, in similar circumstances, is it commonly produced by our little partridge. "In fact," he continues, "I do not believe that it is emitted by any species of grouse, unless when surprised and forced to rise. I have often been lying on the ground in the woods or the fields, for hours at a time, for the express purpose of observing the movements and habits of different birds, and have frequently seen a partridge or a grouse rise on wing within a few yards of the spot where I lay, unobserved by them, as gently and softly as any other bird, and without producing any whirring sound. Nor even when this grouse ascends to the top of a tree does it make any greater noise than other birds of the same size would do."
With a good dog, pheasants are easily found, and what is singular, they will look down upon him from the branches of a tree, where they sit, apparently stupefied, not attempting to fly, but allowing themselves to be shot one by one until all are killed. Should one of those on the higher branches, however, be shot first, the sight of his fall will cause an immediate flight. A figure 4 trap is used with success in taking them, especially when deep snow lies on the ground. They were formerly numerous in the immediate vicinity of Philadelphia, but the advances of the agriculturist have led them to retreat to the interior, and but a very few can be now found within several miles. The pheasant is in the best order in September and October, but in mid-winter those who shoot them should be careful to draw them as soon as possible, as the buds of laurel on which at that season they sometimes feed, if left in the stomach of the dead bird, diffuse their poisonous qualities over its whole body, and render it dangerous food.
AMERICAN PARTRIDGE, OR QUAIL
This well known bird, though not very migratory in its habits, has extended its colonies from New England to Mexico. The spot where they have been raised, if they can at all support life, is their home; and there they will remain until the whole flock is destroyed by sportsmen. This fact sufficiently disproves the asserted identity of our partridge with the quail of the European continent, which is a bird of passage, leaving Europe for Asia at the approach of winter, and returning in very great numbers in the spring. Partridges assemble in small families, varying according to circumstances from three to thirty; and, except in the breeding season, they all live together in a happy and mutual alliance. The quails on the other hand are pugnacious to a proverb—"as quarrelsome as quails in a cage."
The partridges are nearly full grown by the beginning of September, and associated in the usual coveys of from twenty to thirty afford considerable sport to the gunner. The notes of the males at this time are frequent, clear and loud, and they may by skillful imitation of the call be deceived and inducedapproach. Their food consists of grain seed, insects and berries of various kinds. The buckwheat fields suffer severely from their depredations in September and October, affording them at that time abundant food and secure shelter. At night they roost in the middle of a field, on high ground, sitting round in a circle with their heads outward. In this position they place themselves at the commencement of a fall of snow, when their mutual warmth is the better able to resist the effects of frost, and each forms a guard for the whole against the approach of danger. They are not afraid of snow, for they sometimes fly to a drift for safety; it being only when a coating of frozen sleet resists their efforts to leave it that they experience bad effects from it. The loud whirring sound of their flight when flushed is well known. Its steady, horizontal flight renders it an easy prey to the sportsman, especially when he is assisted by a sagacious dog. The flesh of the partridge is peculiarly white, tender and delicate, in this respect unequaled by any other American game.
THE AMERICAN ROBIN
This well known bird, and universal favorite, can require but a very few words at our hands. His unassuming familiarity of manners has caused him to be immortalized in the Songs for the Nursery, and others of Mother Goose's collections for the little ones. His nest is preserved from the rude hands of boyhood by a sort of instinctive veneration for his well known and long established character, and his cheerful, zealous singing not unfrequently causes the older sportsman to take down the armed gun from his shoulder, and suffer the assiduous songster to enjoy his liberty and life.
The robin is particularly fond of gum-berries, and it is only necessary for the sportsman to take his stand near one of these trees when it is covered with fruit, and load and fire his gun. One flock after another will come to it without intermission during the whole day.
Thy leaves are not unfolded yet to the sweet light of love,Thy bosom now is blushing like the sunset clouds above;Thy beauteous form is perfect, thy hopes are fair and bright,Thy dreams are sweet while sleeping in the gentle breeze of night;And though I know a dew-drop tear hath in thy bosom been,'Twas only sent to nourish thee, and make thee pure within:No canker-worm corrodes thy rest, and life is life to thee,And as the past has ever been so may the future be.May all thy dreams be realized, thy hopes be not in vain,Thy life pass calm and sweetly on without a sigh of pain:And when thy leaves shall droop and fall, as droop and fall they must,Thy lovely form will then lie low, to mingle with the dust;And to thy long last resting-place soft winds shall be thy bier,While the fragrance of thy loving heart will ever linger near;To me thy memory will come back when I am lone and sad,And thoughts of thy pure, gentle life shall make my spirit glad.Ah! lovely rose-bud, well I know that both of us must die,And when death comes, may I, like you, leave earth without a sigh;May I, like you, when youth shall fade, still yield the sweet perfume,The incense of a worthy heart, which age can not consume:Farewell, farewell, sweet rose-bud, were I but as pure as thee,My soul would be contented, my spirit would be free,Each wish would then be gratified, each longing have a home,And joy and peace would fill my heart wherever I might roam.
Thy leaves are not unfolded yet to the sweet light of love,Thy bosom now is blushing like the sunset clouds above;Thy beauteous form is perfect, thy hopes are fair and bright,Thy dreams are sweet while sleeping in the gentle breeze of night;And though I know a dew-drop tear hath in thy bosom been,'Twas only sent to nourish thee, and make thee pure within:No canker-worm corrodes thy rest, and life is life to thee,And as the past has ever been so may the future be.May all thy dreams be realized, thy hopes be not in vain,Thy life pass calm and sweetly on without a sigh of pain:And when thy leaves shall droop and fall, as droop and fall they must,Thy lovely form will then lie low, to mingle with the dust;And to thy long last resting-place soft winds shall be thy bier,While the fragrance of thy loving heart will ever linger near;To me thy memory will come back when I am lone and sad,And thoughts of thy pure, gentle life shall make my spirit glad.Ah! lovely rose-bud, well I know that both of us must die,And when death comes, may I, like you, leave earth without a sigh;May I, like you, when youth shall fade, still yield the sweet perfume,The incense of a worthy heart, which age can not consume:Farewell, farewell, sweet rose-bud, were I but as pure as thee,My soul would be contented, my spirit would be free,Each wish would then be gratified, each longing have a home,And joy and peace would fill my heart wherever I might roam.
Y. S.
Light streams through a rift in the cloudThat hangs over green Innisfail—While voices of millions are shouting aloudThe satraps of Tyranny quail:The collar of Shame hath been wornThrough ages of folly and wo—Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borneThe yoke of a merciless foe,Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart,Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.Hot winds from the waste of DespairOn thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air,Again round her brow shall be wreathed:And chisel of Art on the stoneShall name of that martyr engraveWho prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,While foot of one heart-broken slavePolluted the green of that beautiful shore,By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.Gone forth hath the gathering word,And under Hesperian skiesFond exiles the call of their mother have heard,And homeward are turning their eyes:They send o'er the murmuring brineIn answer a shout of applause,And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine,Are ready to shed in a causeThat cannot march on with a faltering strideWhile Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.Land of the valiant! at lastThe brow of thy future is bright;In return for a shadowed and comfortless pastIs dawning an era of light:The Lion of Britain in vainIs baring his teeth for the fray—Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stainShall be wiped from thy forehead away:The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.Invaders thy valor have rued—To deeds that will aye be admiredBear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,And Bryan, the dauntless, expired:Thy sons on the scaffold have died,The block hath been soaked with their gore,And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;But idle it seems to deplore—Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.The Genius of Erin from earth,Uprising, hath broken the bowl,Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,That long dimmed the light of her soul;And millions of high-hearted menWho thus can wild passion restrain,Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,Will arm for the conflict again—And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.Thou isle, on the breast of the seaLike an emerald gracefully set,Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,A brightness belongs to thee yet:In bondage thy magical lyreHath thrilled a wide world with its strains,And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fireThat fast is dissolving thy chains:—The Saxon is watching the issue in fear—He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.
Light streams through a rift in the cloudThat hangs over green Innisfail—While voices of millions are shouting aloudThe satraps of Tyranny quail:The collar of Shame hath been wornThrough ages of folly and wo—Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borneThe yoke of a merciless foe,Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart,Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.
Hot winds from the waste of DespairOn thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air,Again round her brow shall be wreathed:And chisel of Art on the stoneShall name of that martyr engraveWho prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,While foot of one heart-broken slavePolluted the green of that beautiful shore,By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.
Gone forth hath the gathering word,And under Hesperian skiesFond exiles the call of their mother have heard,And homeward are turning their eyes:They send o'er the murmuring brineIn answer a shout of applause,And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine,Are ready to shed in a causeThat cannot march on with a faltering strideWhile Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.
Land of the valiant! at lastThe brow of thy future is bright;In return for a shadowed and comfortless pastIs dawning an era of light:The Lion of Britain in vainIs baring his teeth for the fray—Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stainShall be wiped from thy forehead away:The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.
Invaders thy valor have rued—To deeds that will aye be admiredBear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,And Bryan, the dauntless, expired:Thy sons on the scaffold have died,The block hath been soaked with their gore,And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;But idle it seems to deplore—Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.
The Genius of Erin from earth,Uprising, hath broken the bowl,Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,That long dimmed the light of her soul;And millions of high-hearted menWho thus can wild passion restrain,Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,Will arm for the conflict again—And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.
Thou isle, on the breast of the seaLike an emerald gracefully set,Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,A brightness belongs to thee yet:In bondage thy magical lyreHath thrilled a wide world with its strains,And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fireThat fast is dissolving thy chains:—The Saxon is watching the issue in fear—He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.
The inspiration of thy smile,Thou minstrel of the wayside song,Yet lingers on thy face the whileI see thee climb the Alps along;As if thy harp's unwearied laySustained thee on thy rugged way.There dwells within thy poet-eyesThe spirit of the ancient bards—A soul in which no shadow lies—A glance forever heavenwards;As though the thoughts thy dreams unfurledHung, star-like, o'er a watching world.Methinks the bard who saw at night,Amid the glacier's snow and ice,A youth ascend the spectral height,Unfurling there "the strange device,"Did, with a prophet's pen, foreshowThy form upon those mounts of snow.And when the mists have valeward rolled,Below thy pathway, hard and long,Stern Death shall find thee, pale and cold,Upon the highestpeakofSong—Still grasping, with a frozen hand,The banner ofthatAlpine Land!
The inspiration of thy smile,Thou minstrel of the wayside song,Yet lingers on thy face the whileI see thee climb the Alps along;As if thy harp's unwearied laySustained thee on thy rugged way.
There dwells within thy poet-eyesThe spirit of the ancient bards—A soul in which no shadow lies—A glance forever heavenwards;As though the thoughts thy dreams unfurledHung, star-like, o'er a watching world.
Methinks the bard who saw at night,Amid the glacier's snow and ice,A youth ascend the spectral height,Unfurling there "the strange device,"Did, with a prophet's pen, foreshowThy form upon those mounts of snow.
And when the mists have valeward rolled,Below thy pathway, hard and long,Stern Death shall find thee, pale and cold,Upon the highestpeakofSong—Still grasping, with a frozen hand,The banner ofthatAlpine Land!
Yours ever, J. Bayard Taylor
[The Hindoo philosopher Gautama, now worshiped under the name of Buddha, lived in the fifth century before Christ. He taught the unity of God and Nature, or rather, that the physical and spiritual worlds are merely different conditions of an eternal Being. In the spiritual state, this Being exists in perfect and blissful rest, whose emanations and over-flowings enter the visible world, first in the lowest forms of nature, but rising through gradual and progressive changes till they reach man, who returns after death to the original rest and beatitude.]
How long, oh! all-pervading Soul of Earth,Ere Thy last toils on this worn being close,And trembling with its sudden glory-birth,Its wings are folded in the lost repose?Thy doom, resistless, on its travel liesThrough weary wastes of labor and of pain,Where the soul falters, as its ParadiseIn far-off mirage fades and flies again.From that pure realm of silence and of joy,The quickening glories of Thy slumber shine,Kindling to birth the lifeless world's alloy,Till its dead bosom bears a seed divine.Through meaner forms the spirit slowly rose,Which now to meet its near elysium burns;Through toilsome ages, circling towards repose,The sphere of Being on its axle turns!Filled with the conscious essence that shall grow,Through many-changed existence, up to Man,The sighing airs of scented Ceylon blow,And desert whirlwinds whelm the caravan.On the blue bosom of th' eternal deepIt moves forever in the heaving tide;And, throned on giant Himalaya's steep,It hurls the crashing avalanche down his side!The wing of fire strives upward to the air,Bursting in thunder rock-bound hills apart,And the deep globe itself complains to bearThe earthquake beatings of its mighty heart!Even when the waves are wearied out with toil,And in their caverns swoon the winds away,A thousand germs break through the yielding soil,And bees and blossoms charm the drowsy day.In stillest calms, when Nature's self doth seemSick for the far-off rest, the work goes onIn deep old forests, like a silent dream,And sparry caves, that never knew the dawn.From step to step, through long and weary time,The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan,Till dust instinctive reaches mind sublime—Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man!Here, on the borders of that Realm of Peace,The gathered burdens of existence rest,And like a sea whose surges never cease,Heaves with its care the weary human breast.Oh! bright effulgence of th' Eternal Power,Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll!With silent glory flood the solemn hourWhen star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul!Then shall the spirit sink in rapture down,Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam,Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crownThe wakening moment of a midnight dream.Through all the luminous seas of ether there,Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest;But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer,Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest!
How long, oh! all-pervading Soul of Earth,Ere Thy last toils on this worn being close,And trembling with its sudden glory-birth,Its wings are folded in the lost repose?
Thy doom, resistless, on its travel liesThrough weary wastes of labor and of pain,Where the soul falters, as its ParadiseIn far-off mirage fades and flies again.
From that pure realm of silence and of joy,The quickening glories of Thy slumber shine,Kindling to birth the lifeless world's alloy,Till its dead bosom bears a seed divine.
Through meaner forms the spirit slowly rose,Which now to meet its near elysium burns;Through toilsome ages, circling towards repose,The sphere of Being on its axle turns!
Filled with the conscious essence that shall grow,Through many-changed existence, up to Man,The sighing airs of scented Ceylon blow,And desert whirlwinds whelm the caravan.
On the blue bosom of th' eternal deepIt moves forever in the heaving tide;And, throned on giant Himalaya's steep,It hurls the crashing avalanche down his side!
The wing of fire strives upward to the air,Bursting in thunder rock-bound hills apart,And the deep globe itself complains to bearThe earthquake beatings of its mighty heart!
Even when the waves are wearied out with toil,And in their caverns swoon the winds away,A thousand germs break through the yielding soil,And bees and blossoms charm the drowsy day.
In stillest calms, when Nature's self doth seemSick for the far-off rest, the work goes onIn deep old forests, like a silent dream,And sparry caves, that never knew the dawn.
From step to step, through long and weary time,The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan,Till dust instinctive reaches mind sublime—Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man!
Here, on the borders of that Realm of Peace,The gathered burdens of existence rest,And like a sea whose surges never cease,Heaves with its care the weary human breast.
Oh! bright effulgence of th' Eternal Power,Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll!With silent glory flood the solemn hourWhen star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul!
Then shall the spirit sink in rapture down,Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam,Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crownThe wakening moment of a midnight dream.
Through all the luminous seas of ether there,Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest;But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer,Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest!
It is a sweet and shady spotBeneath the aged trees,Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bendUnto the passing breeze;And joyous song-birds warble thereRich music to the sunny air,And many a golden-tinted beamFails on the spot like childhood's dream.The moss-clad church is standing there,The stream goes laughing by,Sending its gurgling music outAlong a summer sky;The rose has found a dwelling hereBeside the coffin and the bier;And here the lily rears its head,Within thisEdenof the dead.The sunlight glances on the sceneWith many a sombre hue,Caught from the cypress near the stream,Or from the funeral yew;And, spirit-like, above each stoneIs heard the night-wind's whispered tone,As if the spirit lingered there,Enchanted with a scene so fair.The wild bee revels 'mid the flowersThat climb the ruined wall,And, gently drooping, shroud the tombWith Nature's fairest pall;And dirge-like sings the trickling rill,At evening's hour when all is still;Whilst echo answers back againIn mimic notes the plaintive strain.But moonlight gilds the scene anew,Now all is hushed and calm;The very winds seem sunk to rest,O'erladen with their balm;The stars, pale watchers of the night,Look brightly out on such a sight;Whilst from the hill the bird's low wailIs wafted on the evening gale.Be mine the lot, when life's dull dayHas drawn unto a close,And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame,Have sunk to calm repose,By all forgot, to rest my headUnmarked beside the silent dead;Hushed by the murmurs of the waveThat moans around myFather's Grave.
It is a sweet and shady spotBeneath the aged trees,Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bendUnto the passing breeze;And joyous song-birds warble thereRich music to the sunny air,And many a golden-tinted beamFails on the spot like childhood's dream.
The moss-clad church is standing there,The stream goes laughing by,Sending its gurgling music outAlong a summer sky;The rose has found a dwelling hereBeside the coffin and the bier;And here the lily rears its head,Within thisEdenof the dead.
The sunlight glances on the sceneWith many a sombre hue,Caught from the cypress near the stream,Or from the funeral yew;And, spirit-like, above each stoneIs heard the night-wind's whispered tone,As if the spirit lingered there,Enchanted with a scene so fair.
The wild bee revels 'mid the flowersThat climb the ruined wall,And, gently drooping, shroud the tombWith Nature's fairest pall;And dirge-like sings the trickling rill,At evening's hour when all is still;Whilst echo answers back againIn mimic notes the plaintive strain.
But moonlight gilds the scene anew,Now all is hushed and calm;The very winds seem sunk to rest,O'erladen with their balm;The stars, pale watchers of the night,Look brightly out on such a sight;Whilst from the hill the bird's low wailIs wafted on the evening gale.
Be mine the lot, when life's dull dayHas drawn unto a close,And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame,Have sunk to calm repose,By all forgot, to rest my headUnmarked beside the silent dead;Hushed by the murmurs of the waveThat moans around myFather's Grave.
music 1
In the silence of the midnight,When the cares of day are o'er,In my soul I hear the voicesOf the loved ones gone before;
In the silence of the midnight,When the cares of day are o'er,In my soul I hear the voicesOf the loved ones gone before;
music 2
And the words of comfort whisp'ring,Tell they'll watch on ev'ry hand,And I love, I love to list toVoices from the spirit land,And I love, I love to list toVoices from the spirit land.
And the words of comfort whisp'ring,Tell they'll watch on ev'ry hand,And I love, I love to list toVoices from the spirit land,And I love, I love to list toVoices from the spirit land.
In my wanderings, oft there comethSudden stillness to my soul;When around, above, within itRapturous joys unnumber'd roll;Though around me all is tumult,Noise and strife on every hand,Yet within my soul I list toVoices from the spirit land.
In my wanderings, oft there comethSudden stillness to my soul;When around, above, within itRapturous joys unnumber'd roll;Though around me all is tumult,Noise and strife on every hand,Yet within my soul I list toVoices from the spirit land.
Loved ones that have gone before meWhisper words of peace and joy;Those that long since have departed,Tell me their divine employIs to watch and guard my footsteps:Oh, it is an angel band!And my soul is cheered in hearingVoices from the spirit land.
Loved ones that have gone before meWhisper words of peace and joy;Those that long since have departed,Tell me their divine employIs to watch and guard my footsteps:Oh, it is an angel band!And my soul is cheered in hearingVoices from the spirit land.
Oh, there is many a spot in this every-day world of ours as bright and beautiful as those of which we dream, or go miles away to visit and admire; but we must seek for them in the right spirit, ere the dimness will pass away from eyes blinded by the love of foreign novelties. Our own land, ay, even our own city—the crowded mart of commerce, and the vast haunt of poverty and crime, is rich in many a quiet nook, which, although it might arrest the attention if depicted on the gemmed page of the picturesque annual by some summer tourist, it is considered plebeian to notice as we pass them in our daily walks.
We have sat beneath the vines and blue skies of Italy, and heard from her moonlight balconies such strains as made us hold our breath to listen that we might not lose a note ere the perfumed breeze bore it lingeringly away: and in after years, in those English balconies we have described, wept, beneath the same moon, tears that had more of joy than grief in them, at some rude and simple strain which, sung by loved lips, made the charm of our careless and happy childhood. We have stood awe-stricken before the walls of the Colosseum, at Rome, and dreamt of it for evermore! But we have likewise paused opposite the Colosseum in the Regent's Park, investing it in the dim twilight with a thousand beauties that made it an object of interest. We can well remember lingering in the neighborhood, before the mimic church, or convent, as we had been taught to call it, of St. Catharine, with the moonshine gleaming through its arches, and the flickering lights appearing here and there in the diamond-paned windows, watching eagerly for the appearance of those white-robed nuns with which our childish fancy had peopled that quiet place—wondering that they never came. And amid all the architectural glory of foreign churches and cathedrals, since visited, have failed again to realize that simple love of, and faith in the beautiful, which then invested every scene with its peculiar charm. Where the mind makes its own picturesque, it never yet failed to find materials, and is often gifted with a strange power to charm others into seeing with its own loving eyes! So the poet immortalizes the humble home of his boyhood, and in after years men make pilgrimages to the time-worn stile, the
Rustic bridge—the willow tree;Bathing its tresses in the quiet brook;
Rustic bridge—the willow tree;Bathing its tresses in the quiet brook;
which his genius has redeemed from obscurity, and rendered hallowed spots for evermore.
Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,Of glory's deathless name;The bosom love leaves desolateHas naught to do with fame.Vainly philosophy would soar—Love's height it may not reach;The heart soon learns a sweeter loreThan ever sage could teach.The cup may bear a poisoned draught,The altar may be cold,But yet the chalice will be quaffed—The shrine sought as of old.Man's sterner nature turns awayTo seek ambition's goal;Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,May charm his weary soul;—But woman knows one only dream—That broken—all is o'er;For on life's dark and sluggish streamHope's sunbeam rests no more.
Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,Of glory's deathless name;The bosom love leaves desolateHas naught to do with fame.
Vainly philosophy would soar—Love's height it may not reach;The heart soon learns a sweeter loreThan ever sage could teach.
The cup may bear a poisoned draught,The altar may be cold,But yet the chalice will be quaffed—The shrine sought as of old.
Man's sterner nature turns awayTo seek ambition's goal;Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,May charm his weary soul;—
But woman knows one only dream—That broken—all is o'er;For on life's dark and sluggish streamHope's sunbeam rests no more.
How strange it is to those who are in some sense new to the world, to see the way in which time plasters over wounds which we should have imagined that nothing could have healed: wounds which we should have expected to see bleed afresh at the sight of the inflictor, as it was said of old that those of the murdered did at the approach of the murderer. Sometimes we almost feel as if nothing was real in that singular existence calledthe world. Like the performers, who laugh and talk behind the scenes after the close of some dreadful tragedy; we see around us men who have ruined the fortunes and destroyed the happiness of others, women who have betrayed and been betrayed, whose existence has been perhaps devoted to misery and to infamy by the first step they have taken in the path of guilt, and whose hearts, if they did not break grew hard; we see the victims and the destroyers, those who have loved and those who have hated, those who have injured and those who have been injured, mix together in the common thoroughfares of life, meet even in social intimacy, with offered hands and ready smiles; not because "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy;" not because "To those who forgive, shall much be forgiven;" but because what is genuine and true, what is deep and what is strong, takes no root in that worn-out soil on which we tread, thrives not in that withering air which we breathe in that fictitious region which we live in, and which we so emphatically and so presumptuously callthe world.
Speak kindly, oh! speak soothingly,To him whose hopes are crossed,Whose blessed trust in human love,Was early, sadly lost;For wearily—how wearily!Drags life, if love depart;Oh! let the balm of gentle wordsFall on the smitten heart.Go gladly, with true sympathy,Where want's pale victims pine,And bid life's sweetest smiles againAlong their pathway shine.Oh, heavily doth povertyMan's nobler instincts bind;Yet sever not that chain, to castA sadder on the mind.
Speak kindly, oh! speak soothingly,To him whose hopes are crossed,Whose blessed trust in human love,Was early, sadly lost;For wearily—how wearily!Drags life, if love depart;Oh! let the balm of gentle wordsFall on the smitten heart.
Go gladly, with true sympathy,Where want's pale victims pine,And bid life's sweetest smiles againAlong their pathway shine.Oh, heavily doth povertyMan's nobler instincts bind;Yet sever not that chain, to castA sadder on the mind.
He was a fool, and not a philosopher, who said that uncertainty was the just condition of man's mind. In trust, in confidence, in firm conviction, and in faith, is only to be found repose and peace. Assurance is what man's heart and understanding both require, and the very fact of the mind not being capable of obtaining certainty upon many points, is a proof of weakness, not of strength.
The Close of the Year.—The year is closing on us—and the change suggests reflections, which, if rather melancholy, may nevertheless be profitable. We acknowledge that the divisions of time are rather arbitrary—and therefore may vary, as they do vary, in different parts of the world. But whenever we arrive at one of these important epochs, whatever that may be, and wherever it constitutes a point in the popular calendar, we have passed one period of our life, and have so much the less to spend.
If wefeelthe rapidity of time's march in our ordinary festivity, and regret the approaching dissolution of the pleasant assembly, by how much the more do we feel if we pause to think that we are approaching the time when all our associations in life must cease, and we be remembered—not known—and that remembrance day by day growing less and less distinct, as new objects occupy the public eye, or new associations are taken up by those we leave. Nor would we "jump the life to come," by neglecting to make our approximation to that an occasion for such a solicitude as would lead to a preparation.
But we would not have all those reflections gloomy. We would not cloud the close of the year, nor the evening of life with moroseness, as if all were vanity that we had enjoyed, and all were vexation of spirit that was left. Such a use of the season would be a poor return for all the good things which Providence has wrought in our behalf. We know at this season of the year that the mountain summits are covered with snow, and in some places the drooping sides are whitened with the treasures of the clouds, but even these things, chilling as they may appear, are good in their season, and the beauteous covering of the hill-tops may glisten with the reflected rays of the sun, and seem to enjoy the visiter that has descended upon them. All the trees that yield their leaves to the season have for weeks been bare, ready to receive the weight of snow which might fall upon them, and teaching man that preparation is necessary to meet the evils of life and sustain its burthens. Here and there a few evergreens retain their foliage, and appear doubly beautiful amid the waste that is around them.
But it is not alone for their beauty that these objects are worthy of consideration—they teach also. They are full of instruction. Every leaf that glistens with winter's frost, or is crushed dry and rustling beneath our feet, has its lesson—it is well that all do not retain their position—they would be less monitory, less worthy our thought. Nature, in her use of foliage, acts upon the plan which the sybil of old adopted—she writes her lessons upon the leaves—and yet so arranges the truths they should convey, that they become more and more apparent, more and more valuable, as the hand of destructive time diminishes their number.
Elsewhere we have given reflections upon those events by which kingdoms and empires have been shaken in the year now coming to a close. Let us come nearer the heart, and speak of some of those changes by which human affections and individual attachments have been disturbed. Not, however, to quote the instance exactly—that would be to drag up into life the hidden sorrow, and expose to observation the grief which is sanctified for the recesses of the heart, whither in moments of leisure the wounded retire and sit and brood in profitable reflection over the affliction which Providence has allowed. We dare not drag up to day and its exposure each grief that lies buried deep in the grave of the mourner's heart. How truly beautiful, however, is the reflection that the stone of the sepulchre may be rolled away, and that in appropriate seasons the afflicted one makes a retreat from the business and the pleasures of life, and "goeth unto the grave to weep there." Sanctified—as beautiful—be the sorrow that hath not its exponent in the public assembly, that hath no signal by which its existence is to be denoted—no condition of countenance by which its extent is to be measured. Perhaps thesuffererhad not yet obtained permission to call the object hers—and thus is deprived of the privilege of admitted mourning—how deep isthatgrief—it has known only the hope of life which takes with it all of the sunlight thatmakesthe rainbow; without one drop of the storm from which that bow is reflected. Perhaps the youngWIFEsits solitary in the chamber which affection has blessed, and pines amid the thousand emblems of the taste or customs of the dead—perhaps her grief is her inspiration, and she gives to story or to song the promptings of her sorrow, which the world supposes is the gift of joyous inspiration.
Perhaps themotheris pausing in the midst of renewed anguish for the departure of her gifted, her only child, and sits enumerating all his perfections, the greatest of which, and that which sanctified all other virtues, and hid the very shadowings of error, was his deep, constant love for her. Oh, how the maternal heart, smitten by the heaviest of griefs, bathes itself in the fountain of filial love; and when, at last, the over-wrought frame yields to the undermining sorrow, the mourner comforts herself with the reflection of the afflicted monarch of Israel, "I shall go unto him, he shall not come again unto me." These reflections, with all of blighted hopes which parent, lover, friend and patriot have indulged, the falling leaves of autumn suggest; but the evergreen tells us of the survival of affections, of friends, of beauty, and, perhaps, of attainments, and teaches us that while we bend, and may bend in bitter anguish—anguish long indulged beneath the rod of affliction—it is good for us also to kiss the rod—for it has the power of budding anew in the hand of Him who wields it; and the same might which made it the instrument of His afflictive dealings can make it also the means of after joy and peace.
Perhaps, upon the leaves that we examine, the sybil, with rearward glance, has recorded some event for joyous reflection. Have we not been made participants of high gratifications—domestic, social, public associations of instructive and pleasant operation? Have not new affections warmed the heart, or old ones sent out new tendrils to cling with a stronger hold upon us? Perhaps we have had the acquisition of wealth without the augmentation of desires, so that we can make ourselves happy by judicious distribution. Perhaps, above all, and over all, we are better, by the passage of the year, better by newly acquired, and especially newly exercised virtues—virtues that bless others, and, through them, bless ourselves. If so, surely we have grounds for pleasant reflections on the close of the year, and may hope that we have not lived in vain.
The virtues of the human heart are like the water-springs of the earth, their worth is measured by what overflows; nay, as an accumulation even of the purest water must become stagnant, profitless and offensive without an outlet, so what we call the virtues of man become useless and even injurious, unless they extend to others, by overflowing the fountain breast. Virtue is communicable; and those who associate with the good, find an influx of affection and piety, as the woman of faith was cured by touching the hems of the garment, that covered the source and exampleof all health and goodness. If we have sought to acquire good for ourselves, and to do good to others during the present year, reflections upon its approaching close need not be painful; it should be to us a source of high gratification, that, enjoying as we have enjoyed, and mourning as we have mourned, we are nearer the union of the good who have gone before us, and further from the ills that follow upon our footsteps; and as we close our year, or close our life, may we throw back from joyous, grateful hearts, a smile of virtuous pleasure, which shall enrich the stern clouds that have passed us with the bow of promise of pleasures that are to come. C.
Graham's Magazine for 1849.—The new volume of Graham's Magazine, to be commenced with the January number, will, beyond all doubt, be the most elegant volume that has ever been issued of this most popular of all the American monthlies. The ample experience and liberal expenditure of money by the publishers, the ability of its host of contributors, the editorial tact which will be brought into service, and the genius and skill of the artists engaged to embellish it, must more than sustain the high position it has heretofore held in public estimation. The magazine literature of this country is destined to a warmer appreciation in the public regard, as it becomes purged from the sickly sentimentality which degrades public taste, and when the first minds in the nation are found devoting solid thought to adorn and elevate it. A few years since, the highest aim of contemporary competition seemed to be to fill a given number of pages with the silly effusions of a class of writers whose feeble powers and false taste were gradually undermining public regard, and bringing this branch of national literature into contempt and disgrace, but the higher aims of the publishers of the now leading periodicals, evinced in the engagement of the brightest intellect of the country, have raised American periodicals to a scale second to none in the world.
Blackwood and Frazer, in England, and The Knickerbocker and "Graham's Magazine," in America, now stand side by side, and by paying liberally for talent, command the very highest. It may be doubted, however, whether in this country theforceof periodical writing has not been in some degree impaired, by a diversion of the public eye and taste in the smaller class of magazines with feeble aims, to engravings and pictures, many of which are but the refuse of the English Annuals, and the efforts of second rate artists in this country; and also how far those magazines which are marked by ability, and which, as magazines ofArtas well as ofLiterature, embracing in their object and scope, the improvement of a very laudable branch of art—that of engraving—as well as the adornment of the work, should be drawn aside into a competition in thenumberof their engravings, instead of theworthwhich should mark each one of them. It appears to us that this degrading of magazines into picture-books for children, by impoverishing the literary department to swell the number of wretched engravings in a department of art, so called, must impair the value and shorten the existence of any periodical thus conducted.
For ourselves, we have marked out a course in regard to the mere illustrations of this periodical, from which we shall not be diverted. We shall continue to furnish to our readers the most finished and elegant specimens of the American engraver's skill, keeping at the same time in view the value aside from the mereornamentof the engraving, thus catching the public desire in the portrait of a person who may have some claim upon posterity, even though the face may not be the most beautiful; and in sketches of such scenes as deserve to live in the pages of this magazine, either from their own great beauty, from their grandeur, or from association which gives them value to the American eye and mind.
The Female Poets of America.—Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston have presented to the public a delightful volume prepared by Caroline May. It embraces biographical sketches, and extracts from the productions of many of our own native female writers, and serves to render us familiar with those whose sweet strains have often charmed our hearts. The style of execution of the volume in question, corresponds with the excellent character of its contents, and the authoress, publishers and printers have executed their respective parts with great skill and effect.
Burns, as a Poet and as a Man.—The admirers of the gifted Scottish bard, will find an interesting and well executed review of his character as a Poet and a Man, in a volume, prepared by S. Tyler, Esq., of the Maryland bar, and just issued by Baker and Schriver, of New York. We are indebted for a copy to Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston, of this city, who are ever skillful in catering for the intellectual taste of their literary friends.
handWe lay our present number before our readers with feelings of pride and pleasure, confident of the admission, on their part, that a richer or more varied treat has never been presented in the pages of any magazine. Our contributors have supplied us with admirable articles—our artists have acquitted themselves with great ability—our printers have acted well their part—and now, we trust, our patrons will complete our gratification, by being as much pleased with the number before them as we are in making the offering.
handWe thank our editorial brethren throughout the country for the favorable manner in which they continue to notice our Magazine. They do us but justice when they say that all our efforts will be put in exercise to keep our Magazine in the enviable position we have so long occupied. Always in advance of every contemporary, we shall show in the new volume upon which we are entering, what enterprise, zeal and energy can accomplish in the elevation of the standard of literature and the arts.
Kate Walsingham.—This is another of Miss Pickering's delightful novels, just issued from the press ofT. B. Peterson. The story is an interesting one, and the book abounds with brilliant and sparkling beauties.
Lays and Ballads,by T. B. Read.—A volume from the pen of Mr. Read, one of the most accomplished of our contributors, has just been published by Mr. Appleton. The lateness of the hour at which a copy reached us prevents us from noticing it at present as we desire to do. We shall therefore make it the subject of a paragraph in a future number.
J. Bayard Taylor, Esq.—A life-like portrait of our friend and co-laborer,J. B. Taylor, graces this number of the Magazine. We know our readers—our fair ones especially—will admire him; and we would remark,en passant, for their information, that well-looking as he unquestionably is, his merits in this particular are fully equaled by his good qualities of head and heart.