"WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS WITH DAYLIGHT'S YOUNG BEAM."

When the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim!

Oh! 'tis sad, in that moment of glory and song, To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, The glittering band that kept watch all night long O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one:

Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast, Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were there; And their leader, the day-star, the brightest and last, Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air.

Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came, Steals o'er us again when life's twilight is gone; And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of fame, Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on.

Let them fade--but we'll pray that the age, in whose flight, Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall die, May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light Of the morning that withers the stars from the sky.

"INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER."

Innocent child and snow-white flower!

Well are ye paired in your opening hour.

Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet.

White as those leaves, just blown apart; Are the folds of thy own young heart; Guilty pa.s.sion and cankering care Never have left their traces there.

Artless one! though thou gazest now O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, Soon will it tire thy childish eye; Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by.

Throw it aside in thy weary hour, Throw to the ground the fair white flower; Yet, as thy tender years depart, Keep that white and innocent heart.

TO THE RIVER ARVE.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT OF MONT BLANC.

Not from the sands or cloven rocks, Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow; Nor earth, within her bosom, locks Thy dark unfathomed wells below.

Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream Begins to move and murmur first Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.

Born where the thunder and the blast And morning's earliest light are born, Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, By these low homes, as if in scorn: Yet humbler springs yield purer waves; And brighter, gla.s.sier streams than thine, Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, With heaven's own beam and image shine.

Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees; Warm rays on cottage-roofs are here; And laugh of girls, and hum of bees, Here linger till thy waves are clear.

Thou heedest not--thou hastest on; From steep to steep thy torrent falls; Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, It rests beneath Geneva's walls.

Rush on--but were there one with me That loved me, I would light my hearth Here, where with G.o.d's own majesty Are touched the features of the earth.

By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat, Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, Among the blossoms at their feet.

TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE.

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies; Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand A living image of our own bright land, Such as upon thy glorious canvas lies; Lone lakes--savannas where the bison roves-- Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams-- Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams--

Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.

Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair, But different--everywhere the trace of men, Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air.

Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER.

Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.

They little thought how pure a light, With years, should gather round that day; How love should keep their memories bright, How wide a realm their sons should sway.

Green are their bays; but greener still Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, And regions, now untrod, shall thrill With reverence when their names are breathed.

Till where the sun, with softer fires, Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, The children of the pilgrim sires This hallowed day like us shall keep.

HYMN OF THE CITY.

Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see, Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!--here, amidst the crowd Through the great city rolled, With everlasting murmur deep and loud-- Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.