His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view,
Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw Ir. trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.
The Closing Year.
'Tis midnight's holy hour,-and silence now
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling,—'t is the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,-
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks,—and breathe,
In mournful cadences that come abroad
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,
Gone from the Earth forever.
For memory and for tears.
'T is a time Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale,
Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness.
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,— And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man,—and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous,-and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded.
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of midday,—and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions to their home
In the dim land of dreams.
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on, He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag,—but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions.
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow,—cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,-mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain,-new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations, and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void. Yet, Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.
I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,— The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon,
Her health! and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his child
I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair— And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious
I know his heart is fond and kind; I know he loveth me: But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed
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