of the Heart, and other poems, were published at Cambridge, in 1835, is a follower of WORDSWORTH. His School of the Heart is
THIS gentle, meditative poet, whose School | SMITH'S pure-hearted vicar would not have objected to. The dedication of these volumes is: "To the playmate of his childhood, the joy of his youth, and the dear companion of his cares and studies, these poems are dedicated by her affectionate husband." Mr. ALFORD has since written The Abbot of Machelvage, published
"Excursion" in a minor key. It is in a vein of high religious feeling and attachment to the English church, of which Mr. ALFORD is a clergyman. It is such poetry as GOLD-by Pickering.
A CHURCHYARD COLLOQUY.
STAND by me here, beloved, where thick crowd On either side the path the headstones white: How wonderful is death-how passing thought That nearer than yon glorious group of hills, Aye, but a scanty foot or two beneath This pleasant sunny mound, corruption teems ;And that one sight of that which is so near Could turn the current of our joyful thoughts, Which now not e'en disturbs them.
Not, like the rest, full of the dazzling noon,
But sober brown-round which the ivy twines
Its searching tendril, and the yew-tree shade
Just covers the short grave. He mourn'd not ill
Who graved the simple plate without a name:
"This grave's a cradle, where an infant lyes,
Rockt faste asleepe with death's sad lullabyes."
And yet methinks he did not care to wrong
The genius of the place, when he wrote "sad:"
The chime of hourly clock, -the mountain stream
That sends up ever to thy resting-place
Its gush of many voices and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm-embosom'd farms among the dells,-
These, little slumberer, are thy lullabyes:
Who would not sleep a sweet and peaceful sleep,
Thus husht and sung to with all pleasant sounds?
And I can stand beside thy cradle, child,
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain sailing slowly on,
Whose beaconed top peers over on the vale ;-
And upward narrowing in thick-timbered dells
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight-each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,
Now smooth'd in clear black pools; then in thevales,
Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on,
By cots and farms and quiet villages
And meadowsbrightest green. Who would not sleep, Rock'd in so fair a cradle ?
That one word "death," comes over my sick brain Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon: Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade, Mountain and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream,
In a thick dazzling darkness. - Who art thou
Under this hillock on the mountain side ?
I love the like of thee with a deep love,
And therefore call'd thee dear-thee who art now
A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes
Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad-
Not revelry of streams, nor pomp of clouds;
Not the blue top of mountain-nor the woods
That clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee.
Go to, then-tell me not of balmiest rest
In fairest cradle-for I never felt
One half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on death. Our days and years
Pass onward-and the mighty of old time
Have put their glory by, and laid them down
Undrest of all the attributes they wore,
In the dark sepulchre-strange preference
To fly from beds of down and softest strains
Of timbrel and of pipe, to the cold earth,
The silent chamber of unknown decay:
To yield the delicate flesh, so loved of late
By the informing spirit, to the maw
Of unrelenting waste; to go abroad
From the sweet prison of this moulded clay,
Into the pathless air, among the vast
And unnamed multitude of trembling stars;
Strange journey, to attempt the void unknown
From whence no news returns; and cast the freight
Of nicely treasured life at once away.
Come, let us talk of death-and sweetly play
With his black locks, and listen for a while
To the lone music of the passing wind
In the rank grass that waves above his bed.
Is it not wonderful, the darkest day Of all the days of life-the hardest wrench That tries the coward sense, should mix itself In all our gentlest and most joyous moods, A not unwelcome visitant-that thought, In her quaint wanderings, may not reach a spot Of lavish beauty, but the spectre form Meets her with greeting, and she gives herself To his mysterious converse? I have roam'd Through many mazes of unregistered And undetermined fancy; and I know That when the air grows balmy to my fee! And rarer light falls on me, and sweet sounds
Dance tremulously round my captive ears,
I soon shall stumble on some mounded grave;
And ever of the thoughts that stay with me,
(There are that flit away) the pleasantest
Is hand in hand with death: and my bright hopes,
Like the strange colours of divided light,
Fade into pale uncertain violet
About some hallow'd precinct. Can it be
That there are blessed memories join'd with death,
Of those who parted peacefully, and words
That cling about our hearts, utter'd between
The day and darkness, in Life's twilight time?
BEFORE the day the gleaming dawn doth flee :-
All yesternight I had a dreary dream;
Methought I walk'd in desert Academe
Among fallen pillars and there came to me,
All in a dim half-twilight silently,
A very sad old man-his eyes were red
With over-weeping-and he cried and said
"The light hath risen but shineth not on me."
Beautiful Athens, all thy loveliness
Is like the scarce remember'd burst of spring
When now the summer in her party dress
Hath clothed the woods, and fill'd each living thing
With ripest joy-because upon our time
Hath risen the noon, and thou wert in thy prime.
THE sweetest flower that ever saw the light,
The smoothest stream that ever wander'd by,
The fairest star upon the brow of night,
Joying and sparkling from his sphere on high,
The softest glances of the stockdove's eye,
The lily pure, the marybud gold-bright,
The gush of song that floodeth all the sky
From the dear flutterer mounted out of sight,-
Are not so pleasure-stirring to the thought,
Not to the wounded soul so full of balm,
As one frail glimpse, by painful straining caught
Along the past's deep mist-enfolded calm,
Of that sweet face, not visibly defined,
But rising clearly on the inner mind.
SLOWLY and softly let the music go,
As ye wind upwards to the gray church tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low-
Tread lightly on the pathside daisy flower.
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunn'd drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour; then turn away,-
Go to hope's prison, and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day
Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old,-
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.
"THE MASTER IS COME, AND CALLETH FOR THEE."
RISE, said the Master, come unto the feast :-
She heard the call, and rose with willing feet:
But thinking it not otherwise than meet
For such a bidding to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace gate
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.
We have not seen her yet; though we have been
Full often to her chamber door, and oft
Have listen'd underneath the postern green,
And laid fresh flowers, and whisper'd short and soft:
But she hath made no answer, and the day
From the clear west is fading fast away.
Orr have I listen'd to a voice that spake Of cold and dull realities of life. Deem we not thus of life: for we may fetch Light from a hidden glory, which shall clothe The meanest thing that is with hues of heaven. If thence we draw not glory, all our light Is but a taper in a chamber'd cave, That giveth presence to new gulfs of dark. Our light should be the broad and open day; And as we lose its shining, we shall look Still on the bright and daylight face of things.
Is it for nothing that the mighty sun Rises each morning from the Eastern plain Over the meadows fresh with hoary dew ? Is it for nothing that the shadowy trees On yonder hill-top, in the summer night Stand darkly out before the golden moon ? Is it for nothing that the autumn boughs Hang thick with mellow fruit, what time the
Presses the luscious juice, and joyful shouts
Rise in the purple twilight, gladdening him
Who labour'd late, and homeward wends his way
Over the ridgy grounds, and through the mead,
Where the mist broods along the fringed stream?
Far in the Western sea dim islands float,
And lines of mountain coast receive the sun
As he sinks downward to his resting-place,
Minister'd to by bright and crimson clouds-
Is it for nothing that some artist hand
Hath wrought together things so beautiful?
Noon follows morn, the quiet breezeless noon :
And pleasant even, season of sweet sounds
And peaceful sights and then the wondrous bird
That warbles like an angel, full of love,
From copse and hedgerow side pouring abroad
Her tide of song into the listening night.
Beautiful is the last gleam of the sun
Slanted through twining branches: beautiful
The birth of the faint stars-first clear and pale
The steady-lustred Hesper, like a gem
On the flush'd bosom of the West; and then
Some princely fountain of unborrow'd light,
Arcturus, or the Dogstar, or the seven
That circle without setting round the pole.
Is it for nothing at the midnight hour,
That solemn silence sways the hemisphere,
And ye must listen long before ye hear
The cry of beasts, or fall of distant stream,
Or breeze among the tree-tops-while the stars
Like guardian spirits watch the slumbering earth?
A SPIRITUAL AND WELL-ORDERED MIND
Of some cathedral pile, ranged orderly,
Rich tabernacles throng of sainted men,
Each in his highday robes magnificent,
Some tipp'd with crowns, the church's nursing sires,
And some, the hallow'd temple's serving-men,
With crosiers deep emboss'd, and comely staves
Resting aslant upon their reverend form,
Guarding the entrance well; while round the walls,
And in the corbels of the massy nave,
All circumstances of living child and man
And heavenly influence, in parables
Of daily passing forms is pictured forth:
So all the beautiful and seemly things
That crowd the earth, within the humble soul
Have place and order due; because there dwells
In the inner temple of the holy heart
The presence of the spirit form above:
There are his tabernacles; there his rites
Want not their due performance, nor sweet strains
Of heavenly music, nor a daily throng
Of worshippers, both those who minister
In service fix'd-the mighty principles
And leading governors of thought; and those
Who come and go, the troop of fleeting joys-
All hopes, all sorrows, all that enter in
Through every broad receptacle of sense.
HYMN FOR ALL-SAINTS DAY IN THE MORNING.
STAND up before your God
You army bold and bright,
Saints, martyrs, and confessors,
In your robes of white;
The church below doth challenge you
To an act of praise;
Ready with mirth in all the earth
Her matin song to raise.
Stand up before your God
In beautiful array,
Make ready all your instruments
The while we mourn and pray;
For we must stay to mourn and pray
Some prelude to our song;
The fear of death has clogg'd our breath And our foes are swift and strong.
But ye before your God
Are hushed from all alarm,
Out through the grave and gate of death
Ye have past into the calm;
Your fight is done, your victory won,
Through peril, and toil, and blood;
Among the slain on the battle plain
We buried ye where ye stood.
Stand up before your God,
Although we cannot hear
The new song he hath taught you
With our fleshly ear;
Our bosoms burn that hymn to learn,
And from the church below
E'en while we sing, on heavenward wing
Some happy souls shall go.
Ye stand before your God,
But we press onward still,
The soldiers of his army,
The servants of his will:
A captive band in foreign land
Long ages we have been;
But our dearest theme and our fondest dream
Is the home we have not seen.
We soon shall meet our God,
The hour is wafting on,
The day-spring from on high hath risen,
And the night is spent and gone;
The light of earth it had its birth
And it shall have its doom;
The sons of earth they are few in birth,
But many in the tomb.
I KNOW not how the right may be :-
But I give thanks whene'er I see
Down in the green slopes of the West
Old Glastonbury's tower'd crest.
I know not how the right may be :-
But I have oft had joy to see,
By play of chance, my road beside,
The cross on which the Saviour died.
I know not how the right may be :-
But I loved once a tall elm tree,
Because between its boughs on high
That cross was open'd in the sky.
I know not how the right may be :-
But I have shed strange tears to see,
Passing an unknown town at night,
In some warm chambers full of light,
A mother and two children fair
Kneeling with lifted hands at prayer.
I know not how it is my boast
Of Reason seems to dwindle down;
And my mind seems down-argued most
By freed conclusions not her own.
I know not how it is unless
Weakness and strength are near allied;
And joys which most the spirit bless
Are farthest off from earthly pride.
ELIZA COOK has been a frequent contributor | affections. They are free, spirited, animated to the English literary periodicals for several by a generous, joyous feeling, yet feminine, years, and her productions have been very quiet, tranquillizing. generally reprinted in the gazettes of this country, so that her name is nearly as familiar to American readers as those of Mrs. HEMANS and Mrs. NORTON. Her poems are of that class which is most sure to win the popular favour. They have a social character, and portray with simplicity and truth, the kindly | edition.
KING Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour;
And the first he took was a white-robed girl,
With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl,
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear:
He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain.
[gone.
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"
The sire was robb'd of his eldest born,
And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn:
Other scions were round, as good and fair,
But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir.
"My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry;
"Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die."
The valued friend was snatch'd away,
Bound to another from childhood's day;
And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair,
"Oh! he sleeps in the tomb-let me follow him
A mother was taken, whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown,
Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone:
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of wo,
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light,
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Breathing where none might hear or see-
"Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be."
Death smiled as he heard each earnest word:
"Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferr'd;
I'll see thee again in a fleeting year,
And, if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise then thou shalt share the rest
Of the being now pluck'd from thy doating breast;
Then, if thou cravest the coffin and pall
As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall."
And Death fled till Time on his rapid wing
Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king.
Miss Cook is now about twenty-five years of age. She resides in London. The largest collection of her writings, "Melaia, and other Poems," was published by Tilt, in 1840, and has been reprinted in the present year, by Langley, of New York, in a very elegant
But the lover was ardently wooing again,
Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain;
He had found an idol to adore,
Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before :
His step was gay, his laugh was loud,
As he led the way for the bridal crowd;
And his eyes still kept their joyous ray,
[lay.
Though he went by the grave where his first love
"Ha! ha!" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear
That I am a guest not wanted here!"
The father was seen in his children's games,
Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names!
And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms
Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms :
His voice rung out in the merry noise,
He was first in all their hopes and joys;
He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one.
"Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart.
"Nay! nay!" shriek'd the father; "in mercy
The friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherish'd with glowing pride
A stranger form that sat by his side;
His hand the hand of that stranger press'd;
He praised his song, he echo'd his jest;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
"See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"
But the orphan child! Oh, where was she?
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the churchyard's sod,
Mingling the names of mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unheal'd still;
And her smother'd prayer was yet heard to crave
A speedy home in the self-same grave.
Hers was the love all holy and strong;
Hers was the sorrow fervent and long;
Hers was the spirit whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead.
Death linger'd there, and paused awhile;
But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile. "There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find, But a mother leaves no equal behind."
And the kindest blow Death ever gave
Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.
WHOM do we crown with the laurel leaf?
The hero god, the soldier chief,
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel,
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel,
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes,
Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes:
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath,
Pluck'd from the gory field of death ?
Whom do we crown with summer flowers ?
The young and fair in their happiest hours.
But the buds will only live in the light
Of a festive day or a glittering night;
We know the vermil tints will fade-
That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid:
And who can prize the coronal
That's form'd to dazzle, wither and fall?
Who wears the cypress, dark and drear ?
The one who is shedding the mourner's tear:
The gloomy branch for ever twines
Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines.
'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart,
That hath seen its dearest hopes depart.
Oh, who can like the chaplet band
That is wove by melancholy's hand?
Where is the ivy circlet found ?
On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd
In the purple stream-who drinks and laughs
Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs.
Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown,
With its gems of grape-juice trickling down;
But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl,
It has stain for the heart and shade for the soul.
But there's a green and fragrant leaf
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief:
"Tis the purest amaranth springing below,
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow :
It is not the right of the monarch or lord,
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword;
For the lowliest temples gather a ray
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay.
Oh, beautiful bay! I worship thee-
I homage thy wreath-I cherish thy tree;
And of all the chaplets fame may deal,
'Tis only to this one I would kneel:
For as Indians fly to the banian branch,
When tempests lower and thunders launch,
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life.
HE led her to the altar,
But the bride was not his chosen :
He led her, with a hand as cold
As though its pulse had frozen. Flowers were crush'd beneath his tread,
A gilded dome was o'er him ;
But his brow was damp, and his lips were pale,
As the marble steps before him.
His soul was sadly dreaming
Of one he had hoped to cherish;
Of a name and form that the sacred rites,
Beginning, told must perish.
He gazed not on the stars and gems
Of those who circled round him;
But trembled as his lips gave forth
The words that falsely bound him.
Many a voice was praising,
Many a hand was proffer'd;
But mournfully he turn'd him
From the greeting that was offer'd.
Despair had fix'd upon his brow
Its deepest, saddest token;
And the bloodless cheek, the stifled sigh,
Betray'd his heart was broken.
DEAR Kate, I do not swear and rave,
Or sigh sweet things as many can;
But though my lip ne'er plays the slave,
My heart will not disgrace the man.
I prize thee-ay, my bonnie Kate,
So firmly fond this breast can be,
That I would brook the sternest fate
If it but left me health and thee.
I do not promise that our life
Shall know no shade on heart or brow;
For human lot and mortal strife
Would mock the falsehood of such vow. But when the clouds of pain and care
Shall teach us we are not divine, My deepest sorrows thou shalt share, And I will strive to lighten thine. We love each other, yet perchance The murmurs of dissent may rise; Fierce words may chase the tender glance,
And angry flashes light our eyes. But we must learn to check the frown,
To reason rather than to blame;
The wisest have their faults to own,
And you and I, girl, have the same.
You must not like me less, my Kate,
For such an honest strain as this;
I love thee dearly, but I hate
The puling rhymes of "kiss" and "bliss." There's truth in all I've said or sung;
I woo thee as a man should woo; And though I lack a honey'd tongue, Thou 'lt never find a breast more true.
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