WE

EEHAWKEN! In thy mountain scenery yet, adore of Nature in her wild

All we

And frolic hour of infancy is met;

And never has a summer morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high

Amid thy forest solitudes he climbs

O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger which sublimes The breathless moment-when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear

Like the death music of his coming doom,

And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume

The currents in his veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling-like the moan
Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view
Ocean and earth and heaven burst before him;
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him,
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;

And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there
In wild reality. When life is old

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this: nor lives there one

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

T1

HE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peaceWhere Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The Mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian's grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of day

And when the sun set, where were they? And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left a poet here?

For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

331

-Byron.

B

LEST land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like
throng,

In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.

With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

Lo, Bethlehem's hill-side before me is seen,
With the mountains around and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.

Oh, here with His flock the sad wanderer came-
These hills He toiled over in grief, are the same-

The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed Him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.

Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near

To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.

Oh, the outward hath gone!-but, in glory and power,
The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!
-John Greenleaf Whittier.

T

More near, from out the Cæsar's palace came
The owl's long cry, and interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through leveled battle-

Grovel on earth in distinct decay,

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries,
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,

And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still
rule

Our spirits from their urns.

-Lord Byron.

K

NOWEST thou the land which lovers ought to
choose:

Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews;
In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,

The purple vintage clusters in the sun;
Odors of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,
Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees,
And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves,
Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless
Belov'd-speed we from this sullen strand,

[loves.

Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand.
Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye
But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky;
And, flying fast and free before the gale,
The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail;

And waters glittering in the glare of noon,

Or touched with silver by the stars and moon,
Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light,
When the far fisher's fire affronts the night.
Lovely as loved! toward that smiling shore
Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more.

It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth:
Nature is delicate and graceful there,

The place's genius, feminine and fair;

The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful!-to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and and be all pain forgot.
-Edward C. Pinkney.

Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men,

Fisher of fish would'st thou live instead,

Haggling for pence with the other ten, Cheating the market at so much a head, Griping the bag of the traitor dead?

[dazed:

At the triple crow of the Gallic cock
Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be
What bird comes next in the tempest shock?
Vultures! See-as when Romulus gazed,
To inaugurate Rome for a word amazed!
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

T°

'O men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow; Spreads its long arms amidst the waters roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;

The slow canal, the yellow blossomed vale,
The willow tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain-
A new creation rescued from his reign.
Thus while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here displayed.

-Oliver Goldsmith.

IN

'N the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow lands

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nurembeg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,

Memories haunt thy pointed gables like the rooks that round them throng.

Memories of Middle Ages, when the emperors rough and bold

Had their dwellings in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,

That their great, imperial city stretched its hand to every clime.

In the courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,

Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

On the square, the oriel window, where in old heroic days

Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of art;

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,

By a former age commissioned as apostles to our

Own

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust: