The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past;
The trembling hands on the deep are cast;
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks,-the struggle is o'er.
Down, down where the storm is hush'd to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell;
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipp'd shell its music keep;
There thou shalt slumber well.
The green and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side;
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.
A peopled home is the ocean-bed;
The mother and child are there:
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe, with its silken hair :
As the water moveth, they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play:
And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.
DOWNWARD the PERI turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze,
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,
Alone beside his native river,—
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the conqu'rer, "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear."
Silent that youthful warrior stood—
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to th' Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft, though pointed wel;
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!
Yet mark'd the PERI where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last— Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before his free-born spirit fled!
"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, My welcome gift at the Gates of Light Though foul are the drops that oft distil
On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Liberty shed, so holy is,
It would not stain the purest rill,
That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering, heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws,
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"
WHEN the sweet day in silence hath departed,
And twilight comes, with dewy, downcast eyes,
The glowing spirits of the mighty-hearted
Like stars around me rise.—
Spirits whose voices pour an endless measure,
Exhaustless as the founts of glory are ;
Until my trembling soul, o'erswept with pleasure,
Throbs like a flooded star.
Old Homer's song, in mighty undulations,
Comes surging, ceaseless, up the oblivious main ;I hear the rivers from succeeding nations Go answering down again :
Hear Virgil's strain in changeful currents startling, And Tasso's sweeping round through Palestine ;
And Dante's deep and solemn river rolling
Through groves of midnight pine.
I hear the iron Norseman's numbers ringing
Through frozen Norway, like a herald's horn;
And like a lark hear glorious Chaucer singing
Away in England's morn.
In Rhenish halls I hear the Pilgrim lover
Weave his wild story to the wailing strings,
'Till the young maiden's eyes are brimming over,
Like the sweet cup she brings.
And hear from Scottish hills the soul's unquiet,
Pouring in torrents their perpetual lays,
As their impetuous mountain runnels riot
In the long rainy days :-
The world-wide Shakspeare, the imperial Spenser,
Whose shafts of song o'ertop the angel's seats;-
While delicate, as from a silver censer,
Float the sweet dreams of Keats!
Nor these alone; for, through the growing present,
Westward the starry path of Poesy lies-
Her glorious spirit, like the evening crescent,
Comes rounding up the skies.
I see the beauty which her light impartest!
I hear the masters of our native song!
The gentle-hearted Allston, poet-artist;
And Dana wild and strong.
And he, whose soul like angel harps combining,
Anthemed the solemn "Voices of the night.'
I see fair Zophiel's radiant spirit shining,
Pale intellectual light.
And Brainard, Sands, whose sweet memento mori
Their own songs chime like melancholy bells,
And him who chanted Melanie's sad story
Along the Cascatelles.
And Bryant, in his own broad kingdom mildly
Walking by streams, through woods and summer fields ;
And iron-handed Whittier, when he wildly
The fiery falchion wields!
WHO is yon woman in her dark canoe,
Who strangely toward Niagara's fearful gulf
Floats on unmoved?
Firm and erect she stands,
Clad in such bridal costume as befits
The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge
Of her embroidered mantle, flecked with gold,
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast,
As though the spirit of that dread abyss,
In terrible sublimity, had quelled
All thought of earthly things.
Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lips,
Half bleached with terror, steals the frequent sound
Of" Mother! Mother!"
She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild,
The death-song of her people. High it rose
Above the tumult of the tide that bore
The victims to their doom. The boy beheld
The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye,
And held his breath with awe.
Her song grew faint,—
And as the rapids raised their whitening heads,
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide,
She raised him in her arms, and clasped him close.
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove
On toward the unfathomed gulf, and the chill spray
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head
Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him,
With a low, stifled sob.
And thus they took
Their awful pathway to eternity.
One ripple on the mighty river's brink,
Just when it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge,
And at the foot of this most dire abyss
One flitting gleam-bright robe-and raven tress
And feathery coronet-and all was o'er,-
Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge
Sounding their epitaph!
VERY pale lies Annie Clayville;
Still her forehead, shadow-crowned,
And the watchers hear her saying,
As they softly tread around:
"Go out, reapers, for the hill-tops
Twinkle with the summer's heat;
Lay out with your swinging cradles
Golden furrows of ripe wheat !
While the little laughing children
Lightly mixing work with play,
From beneath the long green winrows,
Glean the sweetly scented hay;
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams
In the silver flowing rye ;
Ears grow heavy in the cornfields
That will claim you by-and-by.
Go out, reapers, with your sickles,
Gather home the harvest store!
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,
I shall go with you no more!"
Round the red moon of October
White and cold the eve-stars climb,
Birds are gone, and flowers are dying;
'Tis a lonesome, lonesome time.
Yellow leaves along the woodland
Surge to drift; the elm-bough sways,
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