Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 63

These and all else, were to me the same as they are to you; I project myself a moment to tell you--also I return.

[Footnote 86: Was born in New York in 1819, and has been printer, teacher, and later, an official at Washington. His poetry, though irregular in form, and often coa.r.s.e in sentiment, is decidedly original and vigorous.]

=_Amelia B. Welby, 1819-1852._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_402._= "THE BEREAVED."

It is a still and lovely spot Where they have laid thee down to rest; The white rose and forget-me-not Bloom sweetly on thy breast, And birds and streams with liquid lull Have made the stillness beautiful.

And softly through the forest bars Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes, Float ever in, like winged stars, Amid the purpling glooms.

Their sweet songs, borne from tree to tree, Thrill the light leaves with melody.

Alas! too deep a weight of thought Had filled thy heart in youth's sweet hour; It seemed with love and bliss o'erfraught; As fleeting pa.s.sion-flower Unfolding 'neath a southern sky, To blossom soon, and soon to die.

Alas! the very path I trace, In happier hours thy footsteps made; This spot was once thy resting place, Within the silent shade.

Thy white hand trained the fragrant bough That drops its blossoms o'er me now.

Yet in those calm and blooming bowers I seem to feel thy presence still, Thy breath seems floating o'er the flowers, Thy whisper on the hill; The clear, faint starlight, and the sea, Are whispering to my heart of thee.

No more thy smiles my heart rejoice, Yet still I start to meet thy eye, And call upon the low, sweet voice, That gives me no reply-- And list within my silent door For the light feet that come no more.

=_Rebecca S. Nichols,_= about =_1820-._= (Manual, pp. 503, 524.)

From "Musings."

=_403._=

How like a conquerer the king of day Folds back the curtains of his orient couch, Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way Through skies made brighter by his burning touch; For, as a warrior from the tented field Victorious, hastes his wearied limbs to rest, So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield, And sink, fair Night, upon thy gentle breast.

Fair Vesper, when thy golden tresses gleam Amid the banners of the sunset sky, Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high; Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss, And gentle thoughts like angels round me throng, Breathing of worlds (O, how unlike to this!) Where dwell eternal melody and song.

=_Alice Cary._=

"The Old House."

=_404._= ATTRACTIONS OF OUR EARLY HOME.

My little birds, with backs as brown As sand, and throats as white as frost, I've searched the summer up and down, And think the other birds have lost The tunes, you sang so sweet, so low, About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom So hid the gra.s.s you grew upon, A child's foot scarce had any room Between you,--are you dead and gone?

I've searched through fields and gardens rare, Nor found your likeness any where.

My little hearts, that beat so high With love to G.o.d, and trust in men, Oh come to me, and say if I But dream, or was I dreaming then, What time we sat within the glow Of the old house-hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true, I searched the world all far and wide, And never found the like of you: G.o.d grant we meet the other side The darkness 'twixt us, now that stands, In that new house not made with hands!

=_Sidney Dyer,_=[87] about =_1820-._=

=_405._= THE POWER OF SONG.

However humble be the bard who sings, If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers, His name, above the proudest line of kings, Shall live immortal in his truthful numbers.

The name of him who sung of "Home, sweet home,[88]"

Is now enshrined with every holy feeling; And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome, Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling.

The simple lays that wake no tear when sung, Like chords of feeling from the music taken, Are, in the bosom of the singer, strung, Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.

[Footnote 87: A Baptist clergyman, who has lived for many years at Indianapolis, Indiana; the author of numerous songs.]

[Footnote 88: John Howard Payne.]

=_Austin T. Earle,[89] 1821-._=

From "Warm Hearts had We."

=_406._=

The autumn winds were damp and cold, And dark the clouds that swept along, As from the fields, the grains of gold We gathered, with the husker's song.

Our hardy forms, though thinly clad, Scarce felt the winds that swept us by, For she a child, and I a lad, Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

We heaped the ears of yellow corn, More worth than bars of gold to view: The crispy covering from it torn, The n.o.blest grain that ever grew; Nor heeded we, though thinly clad, The chilly winds that swept us by; For she a child, and I a lad, Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

[Footnote 89: Was born in Tennessee; a well-known Western writer of both verse and prose.]

=_Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From "Sylvia, or the Last Shepherd."