STANZAS. THE dead leaves strew the forest walk, There perch'd, and raised her song for me. Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love. Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there, Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. Go there, with all the birds, and seek A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, And leave me lonely with the night. I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone,See-that it all is fair and bright, Feel-that it all is cold and gone. THE STORM OF WAR. O! ONCE was felt the storm of war! And up the farmer sprang; And waves around it howl; And yonder sail'd the merchant ship, That loved the might of the blackening storm, The stream, that was a torrent once, The sword is broken, and the spear Is but a pruning-hook. And keeps him well from harm; Another breeze is on the sea, Each star that decks it pure and bright, THE GUERILLA. THOUGH friends are false, and leaders fail, Is the wild Guerilla's curse. No trumpets range us to the fight: No signal sound of drum Tells to the foe, that, in their might, The hostile squadrons come. No sunbeam glitters on our spears, No warlike tramp of steeds Gives warning-for the first that hears Shall be the first that bleeds. The night-breeze calls us from our bed, And darkness gives the signal dread "T is clear in the sweet vale below, And misty on the hill; The skies shine mildly on the foe, But lour upon us still. This gathering storm shall quickly burst, And spread its terrors far, And at its front we'll be the first, And with it go to war. O! the mountain peak shall safe remain- Upon the mountain head, THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. On the deep is the mariner's danger, Lone looker on despair, The only witness there. Who watches their course, who so mildly Careen to the kiss of the breeze? Who hovers on high o'er the lover, And her who has clung to his neck? Whose wing is the wing that can cover, With its shadow, the foundering wreck? "Tis the sea-bird, &c. My eye in the light of the billow, My wing on the wake of the wave, My foot on the iceberg has lighted, When hoarse the wild winds veer about; My eye, when the bark is benighted, Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair; The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there. Here, say old men, the Indian magi made Or tangled dell. Here PHILIP came, and MIANTONIMO, And here the black fox roved, that howl'd and shook Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, Such are the tales they tell. "T is hard to rhyme I chance to love; And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, And whistle to the note of many a deed Done on this river-which, if there be need, I'll try to prove. *This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam. SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. [Born, 1796.] SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH Commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years. In this series he published most of the poems of which he is known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published a volume entitled "The Outcast, and other Poems," most of the contents of which had previously been printed; and, in 1841, “Sketches from a Student's Window," a collection of poems and prose writings that had originally appeared in "The Token" and other periodicals. Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is questionable whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully. BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS. I. I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's newHow the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. II. Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the CarribeeBright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,So they danced aid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween; For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme; So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales 24 But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch— And, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced-be it known-'t was not in the clime Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime; Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip! O, no! 't was the land of the fruit and the flowerWhere summer and spring both dwelt in one bower Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough, And the other with blossoms encircled its brow,Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave; Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, For they were to hold a revel that night, IV. Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, To gather their gear for the revel bright. To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, In emulous speed some sportive flewAnd deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, While others for topaz and emerald stray, Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. As these are gathering the rarest of gems, Others are plucking the rarest of stems. They range wild dells where the zephyr alone To the blushing blossoms before was known; Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strungWhere temples of nature with arches of bloom, Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine; Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, And gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower. V. The hour is come, and the fairies are seen Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now; VI. Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them there! Such a scampering never before was seen THE RIVER. O, TELL me, pretty river! Whence do thy waters flow? And whither art thou roaming, So pensive and so slow? My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers; My cradle was a fountain, O'ercurtain'd by wild flowers. "One morn I ran away, "And then, mid meadowy banks, "But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave I hear the ocean's roar, And there must be my grave!" THE LEAF. It came with spring's soft sun and showers, But its companions pass'd away, And slumber'd in the ocean's breast. Thus life begins-its morning hours, Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone. And, like the leaf, he sinks forever. LAKE SUPERIOR. "FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, With listening ear, in sadness broods; Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. Nor can the light canoes, that glide The spell of stillness reigning there. The thunder-riven oak, that flings The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone; Wave of the wilderness, adieu! And fill these awful solitudes! God is thy theme. Ye sounding cavesWhisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves! THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS. THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They gather gems with sunbeams bright, To grace their own fair queen of flowers. Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well. Then, take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, While that confiding heart receives The thought it whispers to thine ear. |