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Lo! once again our feet we set
The roots of spectral beeches;
Of faery-folks and witches.
But all things else about her drawn
Dear heart !- the legend is not vain Which lights that holy hearth again; And, calling back from care and pain,
And death's funereal sadness, Draws round its old familiar blaze The clustering groups of happier days, And lends to sober manhood's gaze
A glimpse of childish gladness.
And, knowing how my life hath been
Thou wilt not chide my turning
John GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
to my Sister,
WITH A COPY OF “SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW
On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges
Sloped the rough land to the grisly north; And whose hemlocks, clinging to the ledges,
Like a thinned banditti staggered forth In a crouching, wormy-timbered hamlet
Mother Margery shivered in the cold, With a tattered robe of faded camlet
On her shoulders - crooked, weak, and old.
DEAR sister! while the wise and sage
Should stoop to boyhood's folly -
Of clouded melancholy.
With wonders and romances !
Of wild and wizard fancies.
Time on her had done his cruel pleasure;
For her face was very dry and thin, And the records of his growing measure
Lined and cross-lined all her shrivelled skin. Scanty goods to her had been allotted,
Yet her thanks rose oftener than desire; While her bony fingers, bent and knotted,
Fed with withered twigs the dying fire.
Raw and weary were the northern winters;
Winds howled piteously around her cot,
Moan the misery she bemoaned not.
And hung snow-wreaths round her naked bed; While the wind-flaws muttered on the cinders,
Till the last spark fluttered and was dead.
So she walked while feeble limbs allowed her,
Knowing well that any stubborn grief She might meet with could no more than crowd
her To that wall whose opening was relief.
Life had fresher hopes when she was younger,
But their dying wrung out no complaints ; Chill, and penury, and neglect, and hunger
These to Margery were guardian saints. When she sat, her head was, prayer-like, bending;
When she rose, it rose not any more; Faster seemed her true heart graveward tending
Than her tired feet, weak and travel-sore.
So she lived, an anchoress of sorrow,
Lone and peaceful, on the rocky slope ;
New fire of them for the lamp of hope.
Rattled tremulous at the grated tomb, Heaven flashed round her joys beyond her hoping, And her young soul gladdened into bloom.
GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.
An Epitaph on the Admirable Wramatic
Poet, W. Shakespeare.
She was mother of the dead and scattered —
Had been mother of the brave and fair ; But her branches, bough by bough, were shattered,
Till her torn breast was left dry and bare. Yet she knew, though sadly desolated,
When the children of the poor depart, Their earth-vestures are but sublimated,
So to gather closer in the heart.
With a courage that had never fitted
Words to speak it to the soul it blessed, She endured, in silence and unpitied,
Woes enough to mar a stouter breast. Thus was born such holy trust within her,
That the graves of all who had been dear, To a region clearer and serener,
Raised her spirit from our chilly sphere.
What needs my Shakespeare for his honored
bones The labor of an age in piled stones! Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a starry-pointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy
name Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiv
ing: And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
They were footsteps on her Jacob's ladder ;
Angels to her were the loves and hopes Which had left her purified, but sadder;
And they lured her to the emerald slopes Of that heaven where anguish never flashes
Her red fire-whips - happy land, where flowers Blossom over the volcanic ashes
Of this blighting, blighted world of ours.
All her power was a love of goodness;
All her wisdom was a mystic faith That the rough world's jargoning and rudeness
Turns to music at the gate of death.
AROUND the tomb, O bard divine,
Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes, Long may the deathless ivy twine,
And summer pour her waste of roses !
And many a fount shall there distil,
And many a rill refresh the flowers; But wine shall gush in every rill,
And every fount yield milky showers.
Thus — shade of him whom nature taught
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure Who gave to love his warmest thought,
Who gave to love his fondest measure
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Thus, after death if spirits feel,
Thou may'st from odors round thee streaming, A pulse of past enjoyment steal, And live again in blissful dreaming.
ANTIPATER OF SIDON. (Greek.) Paraphrase of Thomas MOORE.
The Shepherd's Hunting.
How little fades from earth when sink to rest
breast ! Though nought of all we saw the grave may
spare, His life pervades the world's impregnate air; Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our footsteps
lies, His spirit breathes amid his native skies ; With meaning won from him for ever glows Each air that England feels, and star it knows; His whispered words from many a mother's voice Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice; And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to
earth Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth. Amid the sights and tales of common things, Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of
kings, Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round, Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground, His visions mingle, swell, command, And haunt with living presence heart and eye; And tones from him, by other bosoms caught, Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought : And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill, Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering will. Above the goodly land, more his than ours, He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers,
PRYTHEE, Willy! tell me this -
Is there any discontent
Tom the piper doth not play
Why, doth that so evil seem
Yea! but no man now is still
Why hath Willy then so long
That were very much to grant. But doth this hold alway, lad Those that sing not must be sad ? Didst thou ever that bird hear Sing well that sings all the year
THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.
Then I with the rest was free,
She hath wove in Daphne's tree, That they may not blasted be; Which with time she edged about, Lest the work should ravel out; And that it might wither never, Intermixed it with live-ever. These are to be shared among Those that do excel for song, Or their passions can rehearse In the smooth'st and sweetest verse. Then for those among the rest That can play and pipe the best, There's a kidling with the dam, A fat wether and a lamb. And for those that leapen far, Wrestle, run, and throw the bar, There's appointed guerdons too: He that best the first can do Shall for his reward be paid With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid With fine bone of a strange beast That men bring out of the west; For the next a scrip of red, Tasselled with fine colored thread ; There's prepared for their meed That in running make most speed. Or the cunning measures foot, Cups of turned maple-root, Whereupon the skilful man Hath engraved the loves of Pan; And the last hath for his due A fine napkin wrought with blue. Then, my Willy, why art thou Careless of thy merit now? What dost thou here, with a wight That is shut up from delight In a solitary den, As not fit to live with men ! Go, my Willy! get thee gone — Leave me in exile alone; Hie thee to that merry throng, And amaže them with thy song ! Thou art young, yet such a lay Never graced the month of May, As, if they provoke thy skill, Thou canst fit unto thy quill. I with wonder heard thee sing At our last year's revelling.
Phila! rather let me stay,