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JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, LL. D.

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

SURE, to the mansions of the blest

When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll; Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul.

That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam The more it lingers upon earth. Closed in this dark abode of clay,

The stream of glory faintly burns:Not unobserved, the lucid ray

To its own native fount returns.

But when the LORD of mortal breath

Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death

Which speeds an infant to the tomb

No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quench'd the radiance of the flame; Back to its Gon the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came.

Fond mourner! be that solace thine!

Let hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine,

The anguish of a mother's heart. O, think! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumber'd saints above,

Bask in the bosom of their God.

Of their short pilgrimage on earth
Still tender images remain :
Still, still they bless thee for their birth,
Still filial gratitude retain.
Each anxious care, each rending sigh,
That wrung for them the parent's breast,
Dwells on remembrance in the sky,
Amid the raptures of the blest.

O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the LORD of life implore;
And oft from sainted bliss descend,
Thy wounded quiet to restore.
Oft, in the stillness of the night,
They smooth the pillow of thy bed;
Oft, till the morn's returning light,

Still watchful hover o'er thy head.

Hark! in such strains as saints employ, They whisper to thy bosom peace; Calm the perturbed heart to joy,

And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear:

Their part and thine inverted see:Thou wert their guardian angel here,

They guardian angels now to thee.

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SAMUEL WOODWORTH.*

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood!

When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure,

For often at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, How quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell, Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips; Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though fill'd with the nectar that JUPITER Sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well.

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Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,

On thy breath their fragrance borne.
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind,

Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,

Nor in the circling air a heart;
Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, O, take that heart from me.

* Mr. WOODWORTH is the author of several volumes of songs, comedies, &c. He was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, in 1785, and now resides in New York.

+ Doctor SHAW was born in Maryland, in 1778, and died

ROBERT M. BIRD, M. D.*

ODE TO THE MOON.

O, MELANCHOLY moon,

Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon
Under the hills that catch thy waning ray,

Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres,
The friend of grief, the confidant of tears,
Mine earliest friend wert thou:

My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under

The locust tree, and, through the chequer'd bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee. Youth grew; but, as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the That was the early music of my soul, [name And seem'd upon thy pictured disc to trace Remember'd features of a radiant face. And manhood, though it bring

A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill, The boyish yearning to be with thee still. Would it were so; for earth Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail; And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to Turn to a moody melody of wail, [mirth, And through her stony throngs I go alone, Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone. Would it were so; for still Thou art my only counsellor, with whom Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill, Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom Of solitude, which is so sad and sore, Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core. A boyish thought, and weak :

:

I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee;
And then, perhaps, lie down in solemn rest,
With naught but thy pale beams upon my breast.
Let it be so indeed!

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone;
And let me perish where no heart shall bleed,
And naught, save passing winds, shall make my

moan;

No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me no pale face but thine.

at sea, near the West India Islands, in 1809. He was secretary to General EATON, at Tunis, in 1800; and in 1803, accompanied Lord SELKIRK, on his expedition to form a settlement on St. John's Island in Upper Canada. A collection of his poems was published in Philadelphia, in the year after his death.

*Author of "Calavar," "The Infidel," "The Hawks of Hawk Hollow" and other romances; and of "The Gladiator, a Tragedy," &c.

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AN infant boy was playing among flowers, Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, To mark the artless joy and blooming grace Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair He smiled, and press'd a rosy dimple there.

Next Boyhood follow'd, with his shout of glee, Elastic step, and spirit wild and free

As the young fawn, that scales the mountain height,
Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight;
Time cast a glance upon the careless boy,
Who frolick'd onward with a bound of joy! [eye
Then Youth came forward; his bright glancing
Seem'd a reflection of the cloudless sky!
The dawn of passion, in its purest glow,
Crimson'd his cheek, and beam'd upon his brow,
Giving expression to his blooming face,
And to his fragile form a manly grace;

His voice was harmony, his speech was truth-
Time lightly laid his hand upon the youth.

Manhood next follow'd, in the sunny prime
Of life's meridian bloom; all the sublime
And beautiful of nature met his view,
Brighten'd by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew
The rich perspective of a scene as fair
As that which smiled on Eden's sinless pair;
Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway,
Thrill'd his warm heart, and with electric ray
Illumed his eye, yet still a shade of care,
Like a light cloud that floats in summer air,
Would shed at times a transitory gloom,
But shadow'd not one grace of manly bloom.
Time sigh'd, as on his polish'd brow he wrought
The first impressive line of care and thought.
Man in his proud maturity came next;

A bold review of life, from the broad text
Of nature's ample volume! He had scann'd
Her varied page, and a high course had plann'd;
Humbled ambition, wealth's deceitful smile,
The loss of friends, disease, and mental toil,
Had blanch'd his cheek, and dimm'd his ardent eye,
But spared his noble spirit's energy!
Gon's proudest stamp of intellectual grace
Still shone unclouded on his care-worn face!
On his high brow still sate the firm resolve
Of judgment deep, whose issue might involve
A nation's fate. Yet thoughts of milder glow
Would oft, like sunbeams o'er a mound of snow,
Upon his cheek their genial influence cast,
While musing o'er the bright or shadowy past:
Time, as he mark'd his noblest victim, shed
The frost of years upon his honour'd head.

Last came, with trembling limbs and bending form,

Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm,

Mrs. KATHERINE AUGUSTA WARE is a native of Massachusetts, and was at one time editor of a periodical published in Boston, called "The Bower of Taste." She has for several years resided in England, and a collection of her writings, entitled "Power of the Passions, and other Poems," appeared in London since the commencement of the present year, (1842.)

Man, in the last frail stage of human life-
Nigh pass'd his every scene of peace or strife.
Reason's proud triumph, passion's wild control,
No more dispute their mastery o'er his soul;
As rest the billows on the sea-beat shore,
The war of rivalry is heard no more;
Faith's steady light alone illumes his eye,
For Time is pointing to Eternity!

HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT."

GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before; For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrow less track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back.

Each bird, and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore,

I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore:
Its charms I no longer obey or invoke,
Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke.
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light;
I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night;
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves;
And will take a new Manito-such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes;
I shall wash from my face every cloud-colour'd stain;
Red-red shall, alone, on my visage remain!
I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow;
By night and by day I will follow the foe;
Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor

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J. K. MITCHELL.*

THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE.

O! FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
"Tis as green and as wide and as wild as the sea:
O'er its soft silken bosom the summer winds glide,
And wave the wild grass in its billowy pride.
The city's a prison too narrow for thee-
Then away to the prairies so boundless and free:
Where the sight is not check'd till the prairie and
skies,

In harmony blending, commingle their dyes.
The fawns in the meadow-fields fearlessly play-
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away!
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near,
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer.
Let England exult in her dogs and her chase--
O! what's a king's park to this limitless space!
No fences to leap and no thickets to turn,
No owners to injure, no furrows to spurn.
But, softly as thine on the carpeted hall,
Is heard the light foot of the courser to fall;
And close-matted grass no impression receives,
As ironless hoofs bound aloft from the leaves.
O, fly to the prairie! the eagle is there:
He gracefully wheels in the cloud-speckled air;
And, timidly hiding her delicate young,
The prairie-hen hushes her beautiful song.
O, fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me!
The vine and the prairie-rose blossom for thee;
And, hailing the moon in the prairie-propp'd sky,
The mocking-bird echoes the katydid's cry.

Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their steeds,
The free prairie-hunter no shepherd-boy needs;
The bison, like clouds, overshadow the place,
And the wild, spotted coursers invite to the chase.
The farmer may boast of his grass and his grain--
He sows them in labour, and reaps them in pain;
But here the deep soil no exertion requires,
Enrich'd by the ashes, and clear'd by the fires.
The woodman delights in his trees and his shade;
But see! there's no sun on the cheek of his maid;
His flowers are faded, his blossoms are pale,
And mildew is riding his vapourous gale.
Then fly to the prairie! in wonder there gaze,
As sweeps o'er the grass the magnificent blaze,
The land is o'erwhelm'd in an ocean of light,
Whose flame-surges break in the breeze of the night.
Sublime from the north comes the wind in his wrath,
And scatters the reeds in his desolate path;
Or, loaded with incense, steals in from the west,
As bees from the prairie-rose fly to their nest.
O, fly to the prairie! for freedom is there!
Love lights not that home with the torch of despair!

Doctor MITCHELL, Professor of the Practice of Medicine in the Jefferson Medical College, at Philadelphia, is a native of Shepherdstown, in Virginia. He was educated at one of the universities of Scotland, and studied his profession in Philadelphia. In 1839, he published a volume, entitled "Indecision, and other Poems."

No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny, No gossips to slander, no neighbour to pry.

But, struggling not there the heart's impulse to hide, Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock side, And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring, Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colour'd wing.

ELIZABETH TOWNSEND.*

[of all

THE INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD.
WHERE art thou? Thou! Source and Support
That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,
Unfelt, unknown--alas! unknowable!
I look abroad among thy works: the sky,
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,
And speaking winds, and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air—
Though hail'd as gods of old, and only less-
Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not Thee!
I ask Thee from the past; if, in the years
Since first intelligence could search its source,
Or in some former, unremember'd being,
(If such, perchance, were mine,) did they behold
And next interrogate futurity-
[Thee?

So fondly tenanted with better things
Than e'er experience own'd-but both are mute;
And past and future, vocal on all else,
So full of memories and phantasies,
Are deaf and speechless here! Fatigued, I turn
From all vain parley with the elements, [ward.
And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn in-
From each material thing its anxious guest,
If, in the stillness of the waiting soul,
He may vouchsafe himself, Spirit to spirit!
O, Thou, at once most dreaded and desired,
Pavilion'd still in darkness, wilt Thou hide Thee?
What though the rash request be fraught with fate,
Nor human eye may look on thine and live?
Welcome the penalty! let that come now,
Which soon or late must come. For light like this
Who would not dare to die?

Peace, my proud aim,
And hush the wish that knows not what it asks.
Await His will, who hath appointed this
With every other trial. Be that will
Done now as ever. For thy curious search,
And unprepared solicitude to gaze
On Him-the Unreveal'd-learn hence, instead,
To temper highest hope with humbleness.
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts,
Till rent the veil, no longer separating
The holiest of all; as erst disclosing
A brighter dispensation; whose results
Ineffable, interminable, tend

E'en to the perfecting thyself, thy kind,
Till meet for that sublime beatitude,
By the firm promise of a voice from Heaven,
Pledged to the pure in heart!

*Of Boston.

REVEREND R. C. WATERSTON.*

THE DYING ARCHER.

THE day has near ended, the light quivers through The leaves of the forest, which bend with the dew, The flowers bow in beauty, the smooth-flowing

stream

Is gliding as softly as thoughts in a dream;

The low room is darken'd, there breathes not a sound, While friends in their sadness are gathering round; Now out speaks the Archer, his course well nigh

done,

"Throw, throw back the lattice, and let in the sun."

The lattice is open'd; and now the blue sky
Brings joy to his bosom, and fire to his eye; [year,
There stretches the greenwood, where, year after
He "chased the wild roe-buck and follow'd the deer."
He gazed upon mountain, and forest, and dell,
Then bow'd he, in sorrow, a silent farewell:
"And when we are parted, and when thou art dead,
O, where shall we lay thee?" his followers said.

Then up rose the Archer, and gazed once again
On far-reaching mountain, and river, and plain;

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Now bring me my quiver, and tighten my bow,
And let the winged arrow my sepulchre show!"
Out, out through the lattice the arrow has pass'd,
And in the far forest has lighted at last;
And there shall the hunter in slumber be laid,
Where wild deer are bounding beneath the green
shade.

His last words are finish'd: his spirit has fled,
And now lies in silence the form of the dead.
The lamps in the chamber are flickering dim,
And sadly the mourners are chanting their hymn;
And now to the greenwood, and now on the sod,
Where lighted the arrow, the mourners have trod;
And thus by the river, where dark forests wave,
That noble old Archer hath found him a grave!

JAMES T. FIELDS.t

THE VILLAGER'S WINTER EVENING SONG.

Nor a leaf on the tree, not a bud in the hollow, Where late swung the blue-bell and blossom'd

the rose; And hush'd is the cry of the swift-darting swallow That circled the lake in the twilight's dim close.

Gone, gone are the woodbine and sweet-scented brier That bloom'd o'er the hillock and gladden'd the vale;

And the vine that uplifted its green-pointed spire Hangs drooping and sere on the frost-cover'd pale.

* Of Boston.

Mr. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, in New Hampshire, but has for several years resided in Boston. His principal poem, entitled "Commerce," was published in 1839. His writings are distinguished for a natural simplicity and elegance, and generally relate to rural or do. mestic subjects.

And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain That prattled and shone in the light of the moon; Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain, And lock'd up in silence its frolicksome tune.

Then heap up the hearth-stone with dry forest branches,

And gather about me, my children, in glee; For cold on the upland the stormy wind launches, And dear is the home of my loved ones to me!

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

UNDERNEATH the sod, low lying,
Dark and drear,

Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever-bending o'er her,
Eyes that weep;

Forms that to the cold grave bore her,
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above;

Souls like thine with God inherit
Life and love!

SACO FALLS.

Rush on, bold stream! thou sendest up
Brave notes to all the woods around,
When morning beams are gathering fast,
And hush'd is every human sound;
I stand beneath the sombre hill,
The stars are dim o'er fount and rill,
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away;
Dash on, bold stream! I love the roar
Thou sendest up from rock and shore.
'Tis night in heaven--the rustling leaves
Are whispering of the coming storm,
And, thundering down the river's bed,

I see thy lengthen'd, darkling form;
No voices from the vales are heard,
The winds are low, each little bird
Hath sought its quiet, rocking nest,
Folded its wings, and gone to rest:
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away.

O! earth hath many a gallant show--
Of towering peak and glacier height,
But ne'er, beneath the glorious moon,

Hath nature framed a lovelier sight Than thy fair tide with diamonds fraught, When every drop with light is caught, And, o'er the bridge, the village girls Reflect below their waving curls, While merrily thy waters play In welcome music, far away!

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