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To the mossy way-side tavern

Comes the noisy throng no more,
And the faded sign, complaining,

Swings, unnoticed, at the door;
While the old, decrepit tollman,

Waiting for the few who pass,
Reads the melancholy story

In the thickly-springing grass.
Ancient highway, thou art vanquish'd;

The usurper of the vale
Rolls, in fiery, iron rattle,

Exultations on the gale.
Thou art vanquish'd and neglected;

But the good which thou hast done,
Though by man it be forgotten,

Shall be deathless as the sun.

Though neglected, gray, and grassy,

Still I pray that my decline
May be through as vernal valleys

And as blest a calm as thine.


At length the long leave-taking is all o'er;
The train descends; and lo, the happy vale
Is closed from sight beyond the mournful hill,
And all the West, before the onward troop,
Lies in the far unknown. As goes a bride,
With pain and joy alternate in her breast,
To find a home within the alien walls
Of him who hath enticed her hence, her heart
More hoping than misgiving,—90, to-day,
Departed the slow train; and now the miles,
Gliding beneath with gradual but sure pace,
Bring them at last to unfamiliar scenes.
Thoughtful they hold their onward, plodding course,
Each in his own reflection wrapt; for now,
With every step, some ancient tie is broke,
Some dream relinquish'd, or some friend given up:
While old associations spring, self-call’d,
Even as tears, unbidden. Thus, a while,
They keep the silent tenor of their way;
Till, like a sudden, unexpected bird,
Which from the still fields soars into the air,
Flooding the noon with melody, up swells
The gladsome voice of Arthur into song,
Cheering the drooping line.


Bid adieu to the homestead, adieu to the vale,
Though the memory recalls them, give grief to the gale:
There the hearths are unlighted, the embers are black,
Where the feet of the onward shall never turn back.
For as well might the stream that comes down from the mount,
Glancing up, heave the sigh to return to its fount ;
Yet the lordly Ohio feels joy in his breast
As he follows the sun, onward, into the West.
Oh, to roam, like the rivers, through empires of woods,
Where the king of the eagles in majesty broods;
Or to ride the wild horse o'er the boundless domain,
And to drag the wild buffalo down to the plain;
There to chase the fleet stag, and to track the huge bear,
And to face the lithe panther at bay in his lair,
Are a joy which alone cheers the pioneer's breast;
For the only true hunting-ground lies in the West !
Leave the tears to the maiden, the fears to the child,
While the future stands beckoning afar in the wild;
For there Freedom, more fair, walks the primeval land,
Where the wild deer all court the caress of her hand.
There the deep forests fall, and the old shadows fly,
And the palace and temple leap into the sky.
Oh, the East holds no place where the onward can rest,
And alone there is room in the land of the West !

New Pastoral


MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, the sister of Lucretia,' and quite as remarkable for precocity of intellect, was born at Plattsburg, New York, on the 26th of March, 1823. Like her sister, she was of delicate and feeble frame from her infancy, and, like her, she had an early passion for knowledge. Her mother rather restrained than incited her; but, before she could even read well, she would talk in the language of poetry,—of "the pale, cold moon," of the stars " that shone like the eyes of angels,” &c. At six years old, she was so far advanced in literature and intelligence as to be the companion of her mother when confined to her room by protracted illness. She read not only well, but elegantly: her love of reading amounted to a passion, and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with astonishment a child, not seven years old, reading with enthusiastic delight Thomson's “Seasons," the “ Pleasures of Hope, " Cowper's “ Task," and even Milton, and marking with taste and discrimination the passages that struck her. But the Bible was her daily study, over which she

See p. 600.

did not hurry as a task, but would spend an hour or two in commenting with her mother on the contents of the chapter she had read.

In 1833, when she was ten years old, she had a severe attack of scarlet fever, from which she recovered but slowly; and her father, thinking that the climate and situation of Saratoga would benefit her, removed thither in that year. But she showed her love for the wilder scenes of her “ Native Lake” in the following sweet verses—remarkable for one so young-op the charms of


Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam,
Reflect each bending tree so light
Upon thy bounding bosom bright:
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
The little isles that deck thy breast,
And calmly on thy bosom rest,
How often, in my childish glee,
I've sported round them bright and free!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
How oft I've watch'd the freshening shower
Bending the summer tree and flower,
And felt my little heart beat high
As the bright rainbow graced the sky!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
And shall I never see thee more,
My native lake, my much-loved shore?
And must I bid a long adieu,
My dear, my infant home, to you?
Shall I not see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain ?

In 1834, she was again seized by illness,-a liver-complaint, which üy sympathy affected her lungs, and confined her to her room for four months. On ber recovery, her genius, which had seemed to lie dormant in sickness, broke forth with a brilliancy that astonished her friends; and she poured out, in rapid succession, some of her best pieces. But her health was evidently declining. The death of a beloved brother, in 1835, affected her deeply; and, with short and transient gleams of health amid dark and dismal prospects, this amiable and gifted child slept, as she herself trusted, in the arms of her Redeemer, on the 25th of November, 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months.'

1 Read an article in the “London Quarterly Review," by the poet Southey, vol. Ixix. p. 91. In commenting upon Washington Irving's charming Memoir of this wonderful child, the “ Democratic Review" for July, 1841, thus remarks: "This is a record, by one of the finest writers of the age, of one of the most remarkable prodigies that the poetical literature of any country has produced.”

In 1833, while on a visit to New York, she expressed, in the following beautiful lines, her


I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair!
To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old mansion so dear
Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear.
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this pure summer-day.
I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet!
There a sister reposes, unconscious, in death,-
'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded, her breath;
A father I love is away from me now,-
Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call;
But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all.


O mother! would the power were mine

To wake the strain thou lovest to hear,
And breathe each trembling new-born thought

Within thy fondly listening ear,
As when, in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wander'd free.
But, mother! now a shade hath pass'd

Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapp'd

The remnant of my brief career:
No song, no echo can I win;
The sparkling fount hath dried within.
The torch of earthly hope burns dim,

And fancy spreads her wings no more;
And oh, how vain and trivial seem

The pleasures that I prized before!
My soul, with trembling steps and slow,

Is struggling on through doubt and strife;
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,

The pathway to eternal life!
Then, when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in “ days of yore."

This was the last poem she ever wrote.

I said that Hope had pass'd from earth,

'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven:
When mine are wash'd in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell the lay.
When God shall guide my soul above
By the soft chords of heavenly love, -
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart,
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise ;
And all not offer'd at his shrine,
Dear mother, I will place on thine.


The following is the dedication to “Songs of Summer:”—

TO GEORGE H. BOKER. Not mine the tragic poet's art,

Anon your bitter Fool appears, His empire of the human heart:

Masking in mirth his cynic eneers;
That world is shut from me,

Wo hear his bells, and smile,
But you possess the key.

But long to weep the while.
I see you in your wide domain,

A narrower range to me belongs,
Surrounded by a stately train,

A little land of summer songs,
That lived and died of yore:

A realm of thought apart
But now they die no more!

From all that wrings the heart,
The Moor Calaynos: Anne Boleyn:

To win you to my small estate,
The Guzman and the cruel queen;

Old friend, I greet you at the gate,
And that unhappy pair

And from its fairest bower
That float in hell's murk air !

Bring you this simple flower.


George HENRY BOKER was born in the city of Philadelphia in 1824, and was graduated at Princeton College in 1841. After travelling some time in Europe for literary improvement, he returned home “to devote a life of opulent leisure to the cultivation of letters and to the enjoyment of the liberal arts and of society.” In 1847 appeared his first publication, under the title of The Lesson of Life, and other Poems; and the next year, Calaynos, a Tragedy, which was well received. The scene is laid in Spain, and the plot is designed to illustrate the hostile feeling between the Spanish and Moorish races. His next production was Anne Boleyn, a Tragedy, which shows more maturity of thought than Calaynos, and a finer vein of poetical feeling. These were followed by The Betrothal, Francesca da Rimini, and other plays. In 1856 appeared a collection of his dramatic and miscellaneous poems, in two beautiful volumes, from the press of Ticknor & Fields.

1 “The glow of his images is chastened by a noble simplicity, keeping them within the line of human sympathy and natural expression. He has followed the masters of dramatic writing with rare judgment. He also excels many gifted

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