TO THE EVENING WIND. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that passed away, Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, HYMN OF THE CITY. NOT in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see 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 With everlasting murmur, deep and loud— 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human-kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound Voices and footfalls of the numberless throngLike the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. And when the hours of rest The quiet of that moment, too, is thine; THE MAIDEN'S SORROW, SEVEN long years has the desert rain Thought of thy fate in the distant west, There, I think, on that lonely grave, There the turtles alight, and there Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone. In the dreams of my lonely bed, All day long I think of my dreams. This deep wound that bleeds and aches, OCTOBER. Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, In the gay woods and in the golden air, In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass, CAROLINE GILMAN. [Born in 1794, daughter of a Mr. Howard. She married a Unitarian minister, and wrote a number or popular works very generally in prose-Recollections of a New England Housekeeper, &c., &c.]. MUSIC ON THE CANAL. I WAS weary with the daylight, As the lazy boat went on, And felt as though a friend was lost The meadows, in a firefly glow, Alas! no warmth had they; I turned in sorrow from their glare, And tear-drops gathered in my eyes, And, when the voice of mirth was heard, I longed to press my children To my sad and homesick breast, And slowly went my languid pulse, And sighed for home's repose; That crumbles over death. 1 |