Rushing from the height of heaven:
Now, like armies battle-riven,
When the purple streams are fed,
With the freightage of the dead;
When the fight has shower'd the plain,
With a broad and gory rain;
When, upon the mountain's side,
Stands the remnant of their pride,
With the shatter'd bow and plume,
Like the spectres round a tomb?
Or the fiery element
Is in sudden beauty blent,
As at some enchanter's call,
Till ascends a glorious hall,
Lit with richer hues than stream
From the sunset's amber gleam;
When upon the dazzled sight
Rush the dwellers of the light,
Stately, silent, splendid, cold,
Seeming council high to hold
On some great celestial war :
While the central polar star,
High above the airy camp,
Hangs its pale, eclipsing lamp,
Till the thronging pomps are past,
Swifter than the tempest's blast;
And o'er earth and sky afar
Burns the undiminish'd star.
Spirit! whither art thou gone?
Is the thunder-cloud thy throne?
List we not thy voice of fear
When the whirlwind rushes near?
Is it thou that bidd'st us shake,
When the tempest rides the lake;
When the lightning's blinding glare
Lays the ancient mountains bare?
Are not thine the cries that roll
Terror on the Charib's soul?
Now we see thee in the cloud;
Now thy voice is thunder-loud;
Now thou'rt in the lightning's fire:
Com'st thou for us, king and sire?
ON THE PICTURE OF A YOUNG GIRL.
A BEAUTIFUL and laughing thing,
Just in her first apparelling
Of girlish foveliness: blue eyes,
Such blue as in the violet dwells,
And rose-bud lips of sweets, such sweets
The bee hoards in his fragrant cells.
'Tis not a blush upon her cheek-
Oh blushes but of love can speak ;
That brow is all too free from care
For Love to be a dweller there.
Alas, that Love should ever fling
One shadow from his radiant wing!
But that fair cheek knows not a cloud,
And health and hope are in its dyes.
She has been over hill and dale,
Chasing the summer butterflies.
Yet there is malice in her smile,
As if she felt her woman's power,
And had a gift of prophecy,
To look upon that coming hour
When, fear'd by some, yet loved by all,
Young Beauty holds her festival.
I LOVE this glad season, as yearly it comes,
With its cold to our meadows, and mirth to our homes;
I love in the landscape when whiten'd with snow,
To mark the bright leaves of the green holly bough.
I love in the merry fresh days of the spring,
To mark the trees budding, and hear the birds sing;
And now, while our holiday feelings o'erflow,
How cheerfully bright is the green holly bough.
I love in the warmth of the summer-sunn'd hours,
To wander alone in the sweet leafy bowers;
But I love in this season to mingle the glow
Of social delight 'neath the green holly bough.
I love in the autumn to mark o'er the trees,
The fruitage all ripening in sunshine and breeze;
And
love in the winter, when stormy winds blow,
To mark all uninjured the green holly bough.
I love the warm blaze of the festival halls,
When garlands of bright flowers hang on the walls;
But the fire, nor the feast, nor the garlands can show,
A brightness surpassing the green holly bough.
I love the old custom which yearly suspends
The mystical misletoe over its friends;
But friendship, or love, as sweet kisses may know,
Beneath the safe shade of the green holly bough.
I love the fresh jay, the pledge of regard;
The conqueror's laurel-the lay of the bard;
The fragrant myrtle which lovers bestow,
But most the bright leaves of the green holly bough.
Then gather it quickly, the berries and spray,
And hang it up high on this festival day;
Let wine, mirth, and music, unitedly flow,
All soberly, under the green holly bough.
ALONE beneath the moon I roved,
And thought how oft in hours gone by,
I heard my Mary say she loved
To look upon a moonlight sky!
The day had been one lengthen'd shower,
Till moonlight came, with lustre meek,
To light up every weeping flower,
Like smiles upon a mourner's cheek.
I call'd to mind from Eastern books
A thought that could not leave me soon ;-
"The moon on many a night-flower looks,
The night-flower sees no other moon."
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover sighs to thee;
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me!
THE leaves are falling from the trees,
The flowers are fading all;
More chill and boisterous is the breeze,
More hoarse the waterfall:
Thy sky, o'ermantled now with clouds,
Looks gray, and waned, and pale;
The mist-fog spreads its hoary shrouds
O'er mountain, grove, and vale.
How lapse our years away! how fade
The raptures of the mind!
Onward we pass to storm and shade,
And leave blue skies behind:
Like yellow leaves, around us fall
The friends best loved and known;
And when we most have need of all,
We oft are most alone.
Still more alone! blithe Spring comes round;
Rich Summer-tide smiles by;
And golden Autumn paints the ground,
Till Winter's storm-blasts fly.
One after one, friends drop away,
As months on months roll on;
And hour by hour, and day by day,
The old are more alone.
Still more alone! alas! 'tis vain
New hopes, new hearts to find;
What magic can restore again
The visions of youth's mind?
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