DREAM-MUSIC, OR THE SPIRIT-FLUTE.

THERE, pearl of beauty! lightly press,
With yielding form, the yielding sand;
And while you sift the rosy shells

Within your dear and dainty hand,
Or toss them to the heedless waves,
That reck not how your treasures shine,
As oft you waste on careless hearts

Your fancies, touched with light divine-
I'll sing a lay, more wild than gay-
The story of a magic flute :
And as I sing, the waves shall play
An ordered tune, the song to suit.
In silence flowed our grand old Rhine-
For on his breast a picture burned,
The loveliest of all scenes that shine,
Where'er his glorious course has turned.
That radiant morn the peasants saw

A wondrous vision rise in light,
They gazed, with blended joy and awe-
A castle crowned the beetling height.

Far up amid the amber mist,

That softly wreathes each mountain-spire, The sky its clustered columns kissed,

And touched their snow with golden fire:

The vapor parts-against the skies,

In delicate tracery on the blue, Those graceful turrets lightly rise, As if to music there they grew! And issuing from its portal fair,

A youth descends the dizzy steeps; The sunrise gilds his waving hair,

From rock to rock he lightly leaps : He comes-the radiant angel boy!

He moves with more than human grace; His eyes are filled with earnest joy,

And heaven is in his beauteous face.
And whether bred the stars among,
Or in that luminous palace born,
Around his airy footsteps hung ·

The light of an immortal morn.
From steep to steep he fearless springs,
And now he glides the throng amid,
So light, as if still played the wings

That 'neath his tunic sure are hid. A fairy flute is in his hand

He parts his bright, disordered hair, And smiles upon the wondering band— A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air. Anon, his blue, celestial eyes

He bent upon a youthful maid, Whose looks met his in still surprise, The while a low, glad tune he played. Her heart beat wildly-in her face

The lovely rose-light went and came; She clasped her hands with timid grace, In mute appeal, in joy and shame. Then slow he turned-more wildly breathed The pleading flute, and by the sound

Through all the throng her steps she wreathed,
As if a chain were o'er her wound.
All mute and still the group remained,
And watched the charm, with lips apart,
While in those linked notes enchained,
The girl was led, with listening heart.
The youth ascends the rocks again,

And in his steps the maiden stole,
While softer, holier grew the strain,
Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul!
And fainter fell that fairy tune;

Its low, melodious cadence wound,
Most like a rippling rill at noon,

Through delicate lights and shades of sound: And with the music, gliding slow,

Far up the steep their garments gleam; Now through the palace-gate they go,

And now-it vanished like a dream! Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine! The mountain's wild terrific height, But where has fled the work divine That lent its brow a halo light? Ah! springing arch and pillar pale Had melted in the azure air; And she-the darling of the daleShe too had gone-but how, and where?..... Long years rolled by, and lo! one morn, Again o'er regal Rhine it came— That picture from the dream-land borne, That palace built of frost and flame. Behold! within its portal gleams

A heavenly shape-oh, rapturous sight!
For lovely as the light of dreams

She glides adown the mountain height!
She comes the loved, the long-lost maid!
And in her hand the charmed flute;
But ere its mystic tune was played,

She spake the peasants listened mute:
She told how in that instrument

Was chained a world of winged dreams; And how the notes that from it went Revealed them as with lightning gleams— And how its music's magic braid

O'er the unwary heart it threw,
Till he or she whose dream it played
Was forced to follow where it drew,
She told how on that marvellous day
Within its changing tune she heard
A forest fountain's plaintive play,

A silver trill from far-off bird-
And how the sweet tones, in her heart,
Had changed to promises as sweet,
That if she dared with them depart,

Each lovely hope its heaven should meet. And then she played a joyous lay,

And to her side a fair child springs, And wildly cries, "Oh, where are they, Those singing birds, with diamond wings?" Anon a loftier strain is heard—

A princely youth beholds his dream,

And, by the thrilling cadence stirred,

Would follow where its wonders gleam. Still played the maid—and from the throng, Receding slow, the music drew

A choice and lovely band along

The brave, the beautiful, the true! The sordid, worldly, cold, remained,

To watch that radiant troop ascendTo hear the fading fairy strain

To see with heaven the vision blend!

And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine,

That sculptured dream rose calm and mute;
Ah, would that now once more 't would shine,
And I could play the fairy flute !
I'd play, Marie, the dream I see,

Deep in those changeful eyes of thine,
And thou perforce shouldst follow me
Up-up where life is all divine!

TO MY PEN.

DosT know, my little vagrant pen,
That wanderest lightly down the paper,
Without a thought how critic men

May carp at every careless caper?
Dost know, twice twenty thousand eyes,
If publishers report them truly,
Each month may mark the sportive lies

That track, oh shame! thy steps unruly?

Now list to me, my fairy pen,

And con the lessons gravely over; Be never wild or false again,

But "mind your Ps and Qs," you rover! While tripping gayly to and fro,

Let not a thought escape you lightly, But challenge all before they go,

And see them fairly robed and rightly.

You know that words but dress the frame, And thought's the soul of verse, my fairy!

So drape not spirits dull and tame

In gorgeous robes or garments airy.

I would not have my pen pursue
The "beaten track"-a slave for ever;
No! roam as thou wert wont to do,

In author-land, by rock and river.
Be like the sunbeam's burning wing,
Be like the wand in Cinderella-
And if you touch a common thing,

Ah, change to gold the pumpkin yellow! May grace come fluttering round your steps, Whene'er, my bird, you light on paper, And music murmur at your lips,

And truth restrain each truant caper. Let hope paint pictures in your way, And love his seraph-lesson teach you; And rather calm with reason stray, Than dance with folly-I beseech you! In Faith's pure fountain lave your wing, And quaff from feeling's glowing chalice;

But touch not falsehood's fatal spring,

And shun the poisoned weeds of malice. Firm be the web you lightly spin,

From leaf to leaf, though frail in seeming, While Fancy's fairy dew-gems win

The sunbeam Truth to keep them gleaming. And shrink not thou when tyrant wrong

O'er humble suffering dares deride thee: With lightning step and clarion song,

Go! take the field, with Heaven beside thee. Be tuned to tenderest music when

Of sin and shame thou'rt sadly singing; But diamond be thy point, my pen,

When folly's bells are round thee ringing! And so, where'er you stay your flight,

To plume your wing or dance your measure, May gems and flowers your pathway light, For those who track your tread, my treasure! But what is this? you've tripped about, While I the mentor grave was playing; And here you've written boldly out

The very words that I was saying!

And here, as usual, on you've flown

From right to left-flown fast and faster, Till even while you wrote it down,

You've missed the task you ought to master.

NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN CHILD. WHERE foams the fall-a tameless stormThrough Nature's wild and rich arcade, Which forest trees, entwining, form,

There trips the mountain maid.

She binds not her luxuriant hair
With dazzling gem or costly plume,
But gayly wreathes a rosebud there,
To match her maiden bloom.
She clasps no golden zone of pride
Her fair and simple robe around;
By flowing riband, lightly tied,

Its graceful folds are bound.
And thus attired-a sportive thing,

Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild— Proud Fashion! match me in your ring,

New England's mountain child! She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart For paltry gold or haughty rank, But gives her love, untaught by art, Confiding, free, and frank.

And, once bestowed, no fortune change

That high and generous faith can alter; Through grief and pain, too pure to range, She will not fly or falter.

Her foot will bound as light and free
In lowly hut as palace hall;

Her sunny smile as warm will be,

For love to her is all.

Hast seen where in our woodland gloom

The rich magnolia proudly smiled?So brightly doth she bud and bloom, New England's mountain child!

"ASHES OF ROSES."

I PRAYED that God would take my child-
I could not bear to see
The look of suffering, strange and wild,
With which she gazed on me :

I prayed that God would take her back,
But ah! I did not know
What agony at last 't would be
To let my darling go.
She faded-faded in my arms,
And with a faint, slow sigh,
Her fair young spirit went away.
Ah God! I felt her die!
But oh! so lightly to her form
Death's kindly angel came,
It only seemed a zephyr passed

And quenched-a taper's flame;
A little flower might so have died-
So tranquilly she closed

Her lovely mouth, and on my breast
Her helpless head reposed.
Where'er I go, I hear her low

And plaintive murmur ring;

I feel her little fairy clasp

Around my finger cling,

For oh! it seemed the darling dreamed,
That while she clung to me,

Safe from all harm of Death or pain

She could not help but be,

That I, who watched in helpless grief,

My flower fade away,

That I-ah, Heaven!-had life and strength

To keep her from decay!

She clung there to the very last

I knew that all was o'er,

Only because that dear, dear hand,

Could press mine own no more.

Oh God! give back, give back my child!
But one, one hour, that I

May tell her all my passionate love
Before I let her die!

Call not the prayer an impious one,
For THOU didst fill my soul
With this fond, yearning tenderness,
That nothing can control!
But say instead, "Beside thy bed

Thy child's sweet spirit glides,
For pitying Love has heard the prayer
Which heavenly wisdom chides!"

I know, I know that she is blest:
But oh! I pine to see

Once more the pretty, pleading smile
She used to give to me;

I pine to hear that low, sweet trill
With which, where'er I came,
Her little, soft voice welcomed me,
Half welcome and half blame!
I know her little heart is glad-
Some gentle angel guides
My loved one on her joyous way,
Where'er in heaven she glides,

Some angel far more wisely kind

Than ever I could be,

With all my blind, wild mother-love,

My Fanny, tends on thee;

And every sweet want of thy heart
Her care benign fulfils,

And every whispered wish for me,
With lulling love she stills.
Upborne by its own purity,

Thy light form floats away,

And heaven's fair children round it throng,
And woo thee to their play,

Where flowers of wondrous beauty rise,
And birds of splendor rare,
And balm and bloom and melody
Divinely fill the air.

I hush my heart, I hide my tears,
Lest he my grief should guess

Who watched thee, darling, day and night,
With patient tenderness;

"T would grieve his generous soul to see
This anguish, wild and vain,

And he would deem it sin in me
To wish thee back again;
But oh! when I am all alone,

I can not calm my grief,

I think of all thy touching ways
And find a sweet relief:

Thy dark blue, wishful eyes look up
Once more into my own,

Thy faint soft smile one moment plays-
One moment thrills thy tone:
The next-the vision vanishes,
And all is still and cold;

I see thy little, tender form-
Oh misery! in the mould!
I shut my eyes, and pitying Heaven
A happier vision gives,

Thy spirit dawns upon my dream-
I know my treasure lives.

No, no, I must not wish thee back,
But might I go to thee!

Were there no other loved ones here
Who need my love and me;

I am so weary of the world

Its falsehood and its strife-
So weary of the wrong and ruth
That mar our human life!
Where thou art, Fanny, all is love
And peace and pure delight;
The soul that here must hide its face,
There lives serene in right;

And ever, in its lovely path,

Some new, great truth divine,
Like a clear star that dawns in heaven,
Undyingly doth shine.

My child, while joy and wisdom go

Through that calm sphere with thee,
Oh, wilt thou not sometimes look back,
My pining heart to see!

For now a strange fear chills my soul-
A feeling like despair,

Lest thou forget me mid those scenes-
Thou dost not need me there!