I do imagine that the free clouds play
Above those eminent heights, that somewhere Day Rides his triumphant way,
And hath secure dominion
Over our stern oblivion,-
But see no path thereout
To free from doubt.
ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.
Born at Mendham, New Jersey, 1818—
THE OLD ABBEYS.*
YE abbeys and ye arches!
How few and far between
The remnants of your glory
In all their pride are seen;
A thousand fanes are fallen,
And the bat and owl repose
Where once the people knelt them,
And the high TE DEUM rose.
But their dust and stones are precious
In the eyes of pious men,
And the baron hath his manor,
And the king his own again!
And again the bells are ringing
With a free and happy sound,
And again TE DEUM riseth
In all the churches round.
Now, pray ye for our mother,
That England long may be,
The holy, and the happy,
And the gloriously free!
Who blesseth her is blessed!
So peace be in her walls;
And joy in all her palaces,
And cottages and halls!
All ye, who pray in English,
Pray God for England, pray!
And chiefly, thou, my country,
In thy young glory's day!
Pray God those times return not,
'Tis England's hour of need!
Pray for thy mother, daughter!
Plead God for England, plead!
Born at New Brunswick, in New Jersey, 1818
BOBOLINK! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle,
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again !
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white!
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thy endless, gushing mirth.
When the ides of May are past,
June and summer nearing fast,
While from depths of blue above
Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power,-
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,—
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious, pleasing themes,-
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure
By thy glad ecstatic measure.
A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives us no such tone again,
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.
Gayest songster of the Spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fann'd,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosom'd in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ;
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our northern Summer's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more Southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.
Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness;
Fill
my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring.
Born at Cambridge, Mass: 1819—
GOD sends His teachers unto every age,
To every clime, and every race of men,
With revelations fitted to their growth
And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth
Into the selfish rule of one sole race.
Therefore each form of worship that hath sway'd
The life of man, and given it to grasp
The master-key of knowledge-reverence,
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right;
Else never had the eager soul, which loathes
The slothful down of pamper'd ignorance,
Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.
There is an instinct in the human heart
Which makes that all the fables it hath coin'd,
To justify the reign of its belief
And strengthen it by beauty's right divine,
Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift,
Which, like the hazel-twig, in faithful hands,
Points surely to the hidden springs of truth.
For, as in nature naught is made in vain,
But all things have within their hull of use
A wisdom and a meaning, which may speak
Of spiritual secrets to the ear
Of spirit: so, in whatsoe'er the heart
Hath fashion'd for a solace to itself,
To make its inspirations suit its creed,
And from the niggard hands of Falsehood wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is
A sympathy with Nature, which reveals,
Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore.
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still
As the immortal freshness of that grace
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.
A youth named Rhocus, wandering in the wood,
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall;
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree,
He propp'd its gray trunk with admiring care,
And with a thoughtless footstep loiter'd on.
But, as he turn'd, he heard a voice behind
That murmur'd-" Rhocus!" "Twas as if the leaves,
Stirr'd by a passing breath, had murmur'd it;
And, while he paused bewilder'd, yet again
It murmur'd-" Rhoecus!" softer than a breeze.
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes
What seem'd the substance of a happy dream
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.
It seem'd a woman's shape, yet all too fair
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek
For any that were wont to mate with gods.
All naked like a goddess stood she there,
And like a goddess all too beautiful
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.
"Rhocus! I am the Dryad of this tree
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words,
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew—
“And with it I am doom'd to live and die ;
The rain and sunshine are my caterers,
Nor have I other bliss than simple life;
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give,
And with a thankful joy it shall be thine."
Then Rhocus with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, Answer'd-"What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." After a little pause she said again,
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone
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