Would I, like ye, might seek some kindlier shore, Where flowers that bloom shall know nor chill nor death, Where souls that love shall find no parting breath! Roll on bright waves, and find a fairer clime Than that which bounds these shores of sense and time; Roll on bright waves, and bear my thoughts away TO THE OCEAN. [Thoughts on Salisbury Beach.] Majestic Ocean! from Creation's day Rolls Thy deep anthem on Earth's list'ning shore; Swift rush Thy surges, swiftly glide away; So pass man's generations and are o'er. Glad as Thy joyous waves they sped along. As countless as Thy surf's white beads their tears; How few the footsteps of that mighty throng Left on Time's shifting sands adown the years. Thou speakest of a time we never knew, Ere man's short vision met Thy boundless gaze; When virgin forests in their beauty grew, And lit Thy depths but heaven's o'erarching rays. Unfettered did'st Thou rove from shore to shore, Earth bent her youthful face Thy mirror o'er, Still will roll on when we are dust, who gaze, The deep-toned rhythm of Thy ceaseless hymn ! Still, Thou untamed, Thy snowy crest will raise, From morning's purple light, to evening dim. Still will Thy waves rush madly on the shore, Wrecking themselves 'gainst rock or shelving beach. So sends the heart its love forevermore Far out unto the goal it ne'er may reach. AMERICAN CHROMOS. O skilful Art! that tak'st from Nature's hand The modest wild flower near the plashing brook, Fair violets clustering in each shady nook, The bird's neat nest where leaves and berries cling; The Plymouth May Flower printed by thine art Doth seem to send its fragrance round the room, And to our wintry hours and gloom impart A summer joy and delicate perfume. Where poverty the boon to Taste denies Of costly paintings and of marbles grand, Thy cheaper Art the needed gift supplies, Bidding each narrow room in beauty stand! Work on, O Hand! that bids the humble eye Till every poor man's cot a gem shall own. Work on, O Skill! while Nature smiles to see OUR PASTURES. They stretch beyond the city's ken, Where waving trees and rustling grass The bird's sweet song, the cattle's low, Fall soothingly upon the ear Like songs of rest to weary men ; For Nature's music soft and clear Doth weary not, though we may hear Her sweet strains o'er and o'er again. Here Spring the first green carpet weaves In sheltered nook and moistened spot, And raises 'neath the russet leaves Each tiny flower in dell and grot. Here Summer spreads her luscious store And little feet come tripping o'er The short, green sward on hill and lea. Here Autumn lights his signal fires Till swamp and height are all aglow, And when the last warm flush expires, Old Winter drops his fleecy snow And binds within his sheltering tomb Within her heart each well-loved scene, The summer's charms in wintry hours, Youth's fleeting joys, joys that have been, To cheer and bless 'mid failing powers. WINTER'S COMING. Old Winter came with pleasant smile That with their sunny hues beguile The absence of the Summer's hours. And bending softly o'er the earth He turned to brown her grassy hair, And hushed those rippling thrills of mirth Where brooklets ran o'er rocks so bare; So bare, save where green mosses rest, The rocks' ribbed armor close between. Of Summer's beauty-pictures rise O give us, Winter, for our loss, The leafy spray, the icy flower; |