Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 53

=_Edward Coate Pinkney, 1802-1828_.= (Manual, p. 521.)

=356=. A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone; A woman, of her gentle s.e.x the seeming paragon, To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds; And something more than melody dwells ever in her words.

The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows, As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers; And lovely pa.s.sions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, the idol of past years.

Of her bright face, one glance will trace a picture on the brain, And of her voice, in echoing hearts a sound must long remain; But memory such as mine of her, so very much, endears When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle s.e.x, the seeming paragon.

Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

=_Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-._= (Manual, pp. 478, 503, 531.)

=357.= HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, or leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

From "May Day."

=_358._= DISAPPEARANCE OF WINTER.

Not for a regiment's parade, Nor evil laws or rulers made, Blue Walden rolls its cannonade, But for a lofty sign Which the Zodiac threw, That the bondage-days are told, And waters free as winds shall flow.

Lo! how all the tribes combine To rout the flying foe.

See, every patriot oak-leaf throws His elfin length upon the snows, Not idle, since the leaf all day Draws to the spot the solar ray, Ere sunset quarrying inches down, And half-way to the mosses brown; While the gra.s.s beneath the rime Has hints of the propitious time, And upward pries and perforates Through the cold slab a thousand gates, Till the green lances peering through Bend happy in the welkin blue, * * * * *

The ground-pines wash their rusty green, The maple-tops their crimson tint, On the soft path each track is seen, The girl's foot leaves its neater print.

The pebble loosened from the frost Asks of the urchin to be tost.

In flint and marble beats a heart, The kind Earth takes her children's part, The green lane is the school-boy's friend, Low leaves his quarrel apprehend, The fresh ground loves his top and ball, The air rings jocund to his call, The br.i.m.m.i.n.g brook invites a leap, He dives the hollow, climbs the steep.

The youth reads omens where he goes, And speaks all languages, the rose.

The wood-fly mocks with tiny noise The far halloo of human voice; The perfumed berry on the spray Smacks of faint memories far away.

A subtle chain of countless rings The next unto the farthest brings, And, striving to be man, the worm Mounts through all the spires of form.

From "Voluntaries II."

=_359._= INSPIRATION OF DUTY.

In an age of joys and toys, Wanting wisdom, void of right, Who shall nerve heroic boys To hazard all in Freedom's fight,-- Break shortly off their jolly games, Forsake their comrades gay, And quit proud homes and youthful dames, For famine, toil, and fray?

Yet on the nimble air benign Speed nimbler messages, That waft the breath of grace divine To hearts in sloth and ease.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is G.o.d to man, When duty whispers low, _Thou must_, The youth replies, _I can_.

Stainless soldier on the walls, Knowing this,--and knows no more,-- Whoever fights, whoever falls Justice conquers evermore, Justice after as before.--

=_Thomas C. Upham,[82] 1799-1873._=

=_360._= ON A SON LOST AT SEA.

Boy of my earlier days and hopes! Once more, Dear child of memory, of love, of tears!

I see thee, as I saw in days of yore, As in thy young, and in thy lovely, years.

The same in youthful look, the same in form; The same the gentle voice I used to hear; Though many a year hath pa.s.sed, and many a storm Hath dashed its foam around thy cruel bier.

Deep in the stormy ocean's hidden cave Buried, and lost to human care and sight, What power hath interposed to rend thy grave?

What arm hath brought thee thus to life and light?

I weep,--the tears my aged cheek that stain, The throbs that once more swell my aching breast, Embodying one of anxious thought and pain, That wept and watched around that place of rest.

O leave me not, my child! Or, if it be, That coming thus, thou canst not longer stay, Yet shall this kindly visit's mystery Give rise to hopes that never can decay.

Dear cherished image from thy stormy bed!

Child of my early woe, and early joy!

'Tis thus at last the sea shall yield her dead, And give again my loved, my buried boy.

[Footnote 82: A philosophical and religious writer of much merit and earnestness; author of a volume of poems; for a long time professor of moral and mental philosophy in Bowdoin College. A native of New Hampshire.]

=_Jacob Leonard Martin,[83] 1803-1848._=

=_361_=. THE CHURCH OF SANTA CROCE, FLORENCE.

Tomb of the mighty dead,[84] ill.u.s.trious shrine, Where genius, in the majesty of death, Reposes solemn, sepulchred beneath, Temple o'er every other fane divine!

Dark Santa Croce, in whose dust recline Their mouldering relics whose immortal wreath.

Blooms on, unfaded by Time's withering breath, In these proud ashes what a prize is thine!

Sure it is holy ground I tread upon; Nor do I breathe unconsecrated air, As, rapt, I gaze on each undying name.

These monuments are fragments of the throne Once reared by genius on this spot so fair, When Florence was the seat of arts and early fame.