Drop, drop into the grave, Old Leaf,
Drop, drop into the grave;
Thy acorns grown, thy acorns sown,-
Drop, drop into thy grave.
December's tempests rave, Old Leaf,
Above thy forest grave, Old Leaf;
Drop, drop into thy grave!
"Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"-Job.
AND where is he? Not by the side
Of her whose wants he loved to tend; Nor o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend. That form beloved he marks no more, Those scenes admired no more shall see; Those scenes are lovely as before, And she as fair;-but where is he?
No, no; the radiance is not dim,
That used to gild his fav'rite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him
Are dear to life and nature still :
But, ah! his home is not as fair;
Neglected must his gardens be
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, "Where is he?"
His was the pomp, the crowded hall;
But where is now this proud display?
His riches, honours, pleasures, all
Desire could frame; but where are they?
And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea,
Surrounded by admiring bands,
Seem'd proudly strong-and where is he?
The churchyard bears an added stone,
The fireside shows a vacant chair;
Here Sadness dwells, and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there:
The life is gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been no more shall be;
The well-known form, the welcome tread,
O where are they, and where is he?
A passage from a poem entitled The Buccaneer, by RICHARD H. DANA, one of the best of the American poets.
THE island lies nine leagues away;
Along its solitary shore
Of craggy rock and sandy bay
No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.
But where the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy heaving sea
The black duck with her glossy breast
Sits swinging silently;
How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.
And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the sabbath bell
Rings cheerful far and wide,
Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks
That feed about the vale amongst the rocks.
Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,
In former days within the vale;
Flapp'd in the bay the pirate's sheet,
Curses were on the gale.
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murder'd men:
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.
But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;
A quiet look is in each face,
Subdued and holy fear;
Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done-
Come listen how from crime this isle was won.
From POPE's immortal Essay on Man.
SEE through this air, this ocean, and this earth,
All matter quick, and bursting into birth.
Above, how high progressive life may go!
Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
Vast chain of being! which from God began,
Nature's ethereal, human, angel, man,
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,
No glass can reach; from infinite to thee;
From thee to nothing.-On superior powers
Were we to press, inferior might on ours;
Or in the full creation leave a void,
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd;
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike,
Tenth, or ten-thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
And if each system in gradation roll,
Alike essential to the amazing whole,
The least confusion, but in one, not all
That system only, but the whole, must fall.
Let earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly,
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky;
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
Being on being wreck'd, and world on world;
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod,
And nature tremble to the throne of God.
All this dread order break-for whom? for thee?
Vile worm !—oh, madness! pride! impiety!
What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread,
Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head?
What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind?
Just as absurd for any part to claim
To be another in this general frame;
Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains
The great directing Mind of All ordains.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That changed through all, and yet in all the same,
Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame,
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees:
Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt Seraph that adorns and burns;
To him no high, no low, no great, no small :
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Cease then, nor Order Imperfection name;
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Submit-in this or any other sphere,
Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear;
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour,
All nature is but art unknown to thee;
All chance direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood;
All partial evil, universal good:
And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear-Whatever is, is right.
By MOSES BROWNE-a name quite strange to us, but a poem well worth preserving here for its fanciful, yet really poetical merits.
SWEET stream! where most my haunts delight;
Whose scenes to solemn thought invite;
May my calm life resemble thee
Such pleasure give, so useful be!
As passing straws, and buoyant leaves,
Thy yielding surface but receives;
While pearls, that lure the searching eye,
Deep-treasured in thy bosom lie.
May trifles such reception find,
Float lightly transient o'er my mind;
While weightier thoughts admission win,
Sink its whole depths, and rest within.
As the large face the heavens expose,
Thy pure, reflecting mirror shows;
Yet paints, in small terrestrial scenes,
Some bordering flowers, or pendant greens;
So, with resemblances divine,
My copying life direct to shine:
While Earth's faint forms, grown distant, less
Their finer images express.
Teach me thy constancy: to force
O'er bars and straits a stubborn course;
Not idly in suspension held,
Thy path not changed, though oft repell'd.
Thy patience teach my ruffled soul,
When like thy waves its motions roll;
Though vex'd to foam, when passions fray
In gentle smiles to pass away.
Teach me thy rule of temperate bliss,
Well-pleased thy flowery banks to kiss ;
Yet by no sweets allured aside,
Till ocean stops thy restless tide.
To me a pattern wise dispense,
Meekly to taste the charms of sense;
Still pressing to my wish'd abode,
Nor fix'd till at my centre-God.
|