Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, Turn ye to Plymouth rock, and where they knelt Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to God.

WINTER.

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird,
The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry.
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart,
So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough,
And from the harvest shouting. Man should rest
Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the tossed bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its scattered cordage, and restore
Its riven sails so should the toilworn mind

Refit for Time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impaired
By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save. The ruddy boy [sport,
Comes with his shouting schoolmates from their
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star
Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth,
And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand
Doth shake the snowflakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of heaven
To "bless the lad." The timid infant learns
Better to love its sire, and longer sits
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip
Prints on his brow such language as the tongue
Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast
With dove eyed Meekness, and bland Charity,
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts
The minstrel teacher of thy well tuned soul,
And when the last drop of its cup is drained—
Arising with a song of praise-go up
To the eternal banquet.

NIAGARA.

FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him
Eternally-bidding the lip of man

Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime

Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,
Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young Creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,
For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty,
But as it presses with delirious joy
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

MEEK dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white winged messenger On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Did them with tear drops nurse ye?

-Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand, Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness— Fearless, yet frail-and, clasping his chill hands, Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale, And freer dreams of heaven.

With shadowy finger trace thine effigy,
Who sent them to their audit unannealed,
And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer
Given at the cannon's mouth? Thou, who didst sit
Like eagle on the apex of the globe,

And hear the murmur of its conquered tribes,
As chirp the weak voiced nations of the grass,
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou, who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frostwork crown
Of the throned Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarked,
Even by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tombstone? Bid the

throng

Who poured thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
And breathed thy thunders on the battle field,
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
And each dry bone its severed fellow find,
Piling their pillared dust as erst they gave
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem
A second time the puny pride of man
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs,
To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art,
Like a dead lion in his thicket lair,
With neither living man nor spirit condemned
To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes,
Who served as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strewed
Till meagre Famine on their vitals preyed,
To pay the reckoning. France! who gave so free
Thy life stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed over half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead Cæsar's tomb,
And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence,
To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quailed, and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome.
-Turn, Austria! iron browed and stern of heart,
And on his monument, to whom thou gavest
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride,

Grave "Austerlitz," and fiercely turn away.
-As the reined war horse snuffs the trumpet blast,
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,

And bid her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades
Of lettered ease, oh, Germany! come forth
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll,
Such as thou spreadst at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold Romance
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream,
Or History trusted to her sybil leaves.
-Hail, lotus crowned! in thy green childhood fed
By stiff necked Pharaoh and the shepherd kings,
Hast thou no tale of him who drenched thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir! when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit?-Glorious isle!
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like,
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
-Ho! fur clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
-But there was silence: for no sceptred hand
Received the challenge. From the misty deep,
Rise, island spirits! like those sisters three
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life-
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms,
And cheered his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtained couch which none disturb,
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness,
Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears,
Around this urn.-But Corsica, who rocked
His cradle at Ajaccio, turned away;
And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear;
And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray
'Neath the Pacific's smiling, bade the moon,
With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze
To an unhonored tomb.-Then Earth arose,
That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne,
And to the echoed question, " Who shall write
NAPOLEON'S epitaph ?" as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answered, “None!”

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that polished brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes

There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt

Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
For ever. There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
The seal of silence. But there beamed a smile,
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,
Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal
The signet ring of Heaven.

THE COUNTRY CHURCH.

Ir stood among the chestnuts-its white spire
And slender turrets pointing where man's heart
Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs,
Abruptly beautiful, above its head,

Shutting with verdant screen the waters out,
That just beyond, in deep sequestered vale,
Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs
And varying sounds of village industry
Swelled from its margin.......

But all around

The solitary dell, where meekly rose
That consecrated church, there was no voice
Save what still Nature in her worship breathes,
And that unspoken lore with which the dead
Do commune with the living...... And methought
How sweet it were, so near the sacred house
Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke,
And sabbath after sabbath gathered strength
To do his will, thus to lie down and rest,
Close 'neath the shadow of its peaceful walls;
And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up
Our simple tombstone witness to that faith
Which can not die.

Heaven bless thee, lonely church,
And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band
From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee,
And drink the waters of eternal life:
Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies,
Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand
To guide the living and to guard the dead.

SOLITUDE.

DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark background 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount,
For which it long had thirsted mid the strife
And fever of the world.-I thought to be
There without witness: but the violet's eye
Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild rose smiled,
And the young pendent vine flower kissed my cheek.
There were glad voices too: the garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told
Its history. Up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one. Even busy life
Woke in that dell: the dexterous spider threw
From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare.
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought
To be alone and silent in thy realm,
Spirit of life and love! It might not be :
There is no solitude in thy domains,
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast
He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief.
Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world
Without a witness: even the desert place

Speaketh thy name; the simple flowers and streams
Are social and benevolent, and he
Who holdeth converse in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

SUNSET ON THE ALLEGANY.

I was a pensive pilgrim at the foot
Of the crowned Allegany, when he wrapped
His purple mantle gloriously around,
And took the homage of the princely hills,
And ancient forests, as they bowed them down,
Each in his order of nobility.

-And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retired
Behind that solemn shadow: and his train
Of crimson, and of azure, and of gold,
Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint,
And ray on ray, till all the concave caught
His parting benediction.
But the glow

Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank
In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood
In awful state, like dread embassador
[severe
"Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frowned
Upon the world beneath, and lifted up
The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky,
To witness 'gainst its sins: and is it meet
For thee, swoln out in cloud-capped pinnacle,
To scorn thine own original, the dust
That, feebly eddying on the angry winds,
Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee,
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach

This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root
Draws depth and nutriment?

But lo! a star,

The first meek herald of advancing night,
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence
Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star!
Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world,
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes
Thee light, and man salvation.

Not to mark
And treasure up his follies, or recount
Their secret record in the court of Heaven,
Thou com'st. Methinks thy tenderness would
With trembling mantle, his infirmities. [shroud,
The purest natures are most pitiful;
But they who feel corruption strong within
Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace
Of their own image, in another's breast.

-So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies His own mad visage, furiously destroys The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star! Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls, While race on race their little circles mark, And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, Who through this evening scene may wander on, And from yon mountain's cold magnificence Turn to thy milder beauty-point to all, The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, A silent teacher of its boundless love.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL.

A VOICE upon the prairies,

A cry of woman's wo,

That mingleth with the autumn blast

All fitfully and low;

It is a mother's wailing:

Hath earth another tone

Like that with which a mother mourns
Her lost, her only one!

Pale faces gather round her,

They marked the storm swell high That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, But their cold, blue eyes are dry. Pale faces gaze upon her,

As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother,

So she wept her tears alone.
Long o'er that wasted idol

She watched, and toiled, and prayed,
Though every dreary dawn revealed
Some ravage death hath made,
Till the fleshless sinews started,

And hope no opiate gave,

And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,

An echo from the grave.

She was a gentle creature,

Of raven eye and tress;

And dovelike were the tones that breathed

Her bosom's tenderness,

Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent,
To revel in her olive cheek,
So richly eloquent.

I said Consumption smote her,
And the healer's art was vain,
But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplored her pain;
None, save that widowed mother,
Who now, by her open tomb,
Is writhing, like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.

Alas! that lowly cabin,

That bed beside the wall,
That seat beneath the mantling vine,
They're lone and empty all.

What hand shall pluck the tall green corn,
That ripeneth on the plain?

Since she for whom the board was spread

Must ne'er return again.

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden,

Nor let thy murmuring shade

Grieve that those pale browed ones with scorn
Thy burial rite surveyed;

There's many a king whose funeral
A black robed realm shall see,

For whom no tear of grief is shed
Like that which falls for thee.

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden,

Beneath thy native tree!

The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee:

But there's many a one funeral With nodding plumes may be, Whom Nature nor affection mourn As here they mourn for thec.

INDIAN NAMES.

YE say they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;

That, mid the forests where they roamed,
There rings no hunter's shout:
But their name is on your waters-
Ye may not wash it out.

"Tis where Ontario's billow

Like Ocean's surge is curled; Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world;

Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the west;
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins,

That clustered o'er the vale,
Have disappeared, as withered leaves
Before the autumn's gale:

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown;
Connecticut has wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within its rocky heart,

And Allegany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust:

Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.

A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE.

A BUTTERFLY basked on a baby's grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow:
"Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,
When she of the blue and sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low?"
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:

"I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings:
Wouldst thou call the blest one back?"