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Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection! BY HORACE SMITH.

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Day-stars! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle Ye are to me a type of resurrection From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,

And second birth. And dew-drops on her lovely altars sprinkle Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, As a libation!

Far from all teachers and from all divines, Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly

My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye,

Priests, serinons, shrines !
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy

Incense on high !
Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate,

What numerous emblems of instructive duty

It is not beauty I demand,
Your forms create !

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 'Neath cloister'd boughs each floral bell that swingeth,

Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, And tolls its perfume on the passing air,

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.., Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
A call to prayer!

Your lips, that seem on roses fed,
Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Attest the feebleness of mortal hand;

Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed, -
But to that fane most catholic and solemn

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,
Which God hath planned !

Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

A breath that softer music speaks Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. . Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky!

These are but gauds; nay, what are lips ?

Coral beneath the ocean-stream, There, -as in solitude and shade I wander

Whose brink when your adventurer slips, Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod,

Full oft he perisheth on them.
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God, -

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft,

That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers,

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,

Do Greece or llium any good ?
Sapplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook !

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn,
Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; Weep without sin and blush without a crime,

There's many a white hand holds an urn,

With lover's hearts to dust consumed. O, may I deeply learn and ne'er surrender Your love sublime !

For crystal brows, there's naught within; «« Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory,

They are but empty cells for pride; Arrayed,” the lilies cry, « in robes like ours :" He who the Siren's hair would win How vain your grandeur ! O, how transitory

Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Are human flowers !

Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist!

A tender heart, a loyal mind,
With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, Which with temptation I would trust,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Yet never linked with error find ;-
Of love to all!

One in whose gentle bosom I
Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure,

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Blooming o'er fields and wave by day and night,

Like the care-burdened honey-fly, From every source your sanction bids me treasure

That hides his murmurs in the rose ;Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages ! what instructers hoary

My earthly comforter! whose love For such a world of thought could furnish scope ?

So indefeasible might be,
Each fading calyx a memento mori,

That, when my spirit won above,
Yet fount of hope !

Hers could not stay, for sympathy.



to be surrounded by circumstances a little more danBY LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

gerous and exciting, and perhaps you, who now walk

abroad in the sunshine of respectability, might have (Written just after John C. Colt avoided capital punishment, come under the ban of human laws, as you have

by suicide.) Every year of my life I grow more and more con.

into frequent disobedience of the divine; and then vinced, that it is wisest and best to fix our attention

that one foul blot would have been regarded as the on the beautiful and good, and dwell as little as pos

hieroglyphic symbol of your whole life. Between sible on the evil and the false. Society has done my you and the inmate of the penitentiary, society sees

a difference so great, that you are scarcely recognizspirit grievous wrong, for the last few weeks, with its legal bull-baitings, and its hired murderers. ed as belonging to the same species; but there is They have made me ashamed of belonging to the

One who judgeth not as man judgeth. human species; and were it not that I struggled

When Mrs. Fry spoke at Newgate, she was wont hard against it, ard prayed earnestly for a spirit of

to address both prisoners and visiters as sinners. forgiveness, they would have made me hate my race.

When Dr. Channing alluded to this practice, she Yet feeling thus, I did wrong to them. Most of them meekly replied, In the sight of God, there is not, had merely

ught the contagion of murder, and real- perhaps, so much difference as men think.' In the ly were not aware of the nature of the fiend they often a glimmering evidence that the divine spark is

midst of recklessness, revenge, and despair, there is harbored. Probably there was not a single heart in the community, not even the most brutal, that not quite extinguished. Who can tell into what a would not have been sostened, could it have entered holy flame of benevolence and self-sacrifice it might into confidential intercourse with the prisoner as Dr.

have been kindled, had the man been surrounded Anthon did. All would then have learned that he

from his cradle by an atmosphere of love? was a human being, with a heart to be melted, and

Surely these considerations should make us judge a conscience to be roused, like the rest of us; that mercifully of the sinner, while we hate the sin with under the turbid and surging tide of proud, exaspe- wait for us all. The highest and holiest example

tenfold intensity, because it is an enemy that lies in jated feelings, ran a warm current of human affections, which, with more genial influences, might

teaches us to forgive all crimes, while we palliate have fowed on deeper and stronger, mingling its. waters with the river of life. All this each one would

Would that we could learn to be kind-always have known, could he have looked into the heart of

and everywhere kind! Every jealous thought I the poor criminal as God looketh. But his whole cherish, every angry word I utter, every repulsive life was judged by a desperate act, done in the in- tone, is helping to build penitentiaries and prisons, sanity of passion; and the motives and the circum- and to fill them with those who merely carry the stances were revealed to the public only through the same passions and feelings farther than I do. It is cold barbarisms of the law, and the fierce exaggera

an awful thought; and the more it is impressed upon tions of an excited populace; therefore he seemed me, the more earnestly do I pray to live in a state like a wild beast, walled out from human sympa

of perpetual benediction. thies,-not as a fellow-creature, with like passions

• Love hath a longing and a power to save the gathered world,

And rescue-universal man from the hunting hell-hounds of his and feelings as themselves.

doings.' Carlyle, in his French Revolution, speaking of one And so I return, as the old preachers used to say, of the three bloodiest judges of the Reign of Terror, to my first proposition; that we should think gently says : - Marat too had a brother, and natural affec. of all, and claim kindred with all, and include all, tions; and was wrapt once in swaddling-clothes, and without exception, in the circle of our kindly symslept safe in a cradle, like the rest of us. We are pathies. I would not thrust out even the bangman, too apt to forget these gentle considerations when though methinks if I were dying of thirst, I would talking of public criminals.

rather wait to receive water from another hand than Il we looked into our souls with a more wise hu- his. Yet what is the hangman but a servant of the mility, we should discover, in our own ungoverned law? And what is the law but an expression of anger the germ of murder ; and meekly thank God public opinion? And if public opinion be brutal, that we, too, had not been brought into temptations and thou a component part thereof, art thou not the too fiery for our strength. It is sad to think how hangman's accomplice? In the name of our com the records of a few evil days may blot out from the mon Father, sing thy part of the great chorus in the memory of our fellow-men whole years of generous truest time, and thus bring this crashing discord into thoughts and deeds of kindness; and this, too, when harmony ! each one has before him the volume of his own And if at times, the discord proves too strong for broken resolutions, and oft-repeated sins. The temp- thee, go out into the great temple of Nature, and tation which most easily besets you, needed, per drink in freshness from her never-failing fountain. haps, to be only a little stronger; you needed only | The devices of men pass away as a vapour ; but


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LIBRE VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED. (UNI) 178 she changes never. Above all fluctuations of opi- | Nay, verily; for it often humbles me toltears, to nion, and all the tumult of the passions, she smiles think how much I am loved more than I deserve : ever, in various but unchanging beauty. I have while thousands, far nearer to God, pass on their gone to her with tears in my eyes, with a heart full thorny path, comparatively uncheered by love and of the saddest forebodings, for myself and all the hu- blessing. But it came into my heart to tell you how man race; and lo, she has shown me a babe pluck. much these things helped me to be good ; how they ing a white clover, with busy, uncertain little fingers, were like roses dropped by unseen hands, guiding me and the child walked straight into my heart, and through a wilderness-path unto our Father's manprophesied as hopefully as an angel; and I believed sion. And the love that helps me to be good, I her, and went on my way rejoicing. The language wonld have you bestow upon all, that all may beof nature, like that of music, is universal; it speaks come good. To love others is greater happiness to the heart, and is understood by all. Dialects than to be beloved by them; to do good is more blesbelong to clans and sects; tones to the universe. sed than to receivé. The heart of Jesus was so full High above all language, floats music on its amber of love, that he called little children to his arms, and cloud. It is not the exponent of opinion, but of feel- folded John upon his bosom; and this love made ing. The heart made it; therefore it is infinite. It him capable of such divine self-renunciation, that he reveals more than language can ever utter, or could offer up even his life for the good of the world. thoughts conceive. And high as music is above The desire to be beloved is ever restless and unsatismere dialects-winging its godlike way, while verbs fied; but the love that flows out upon others is a and nouns go creeping-even so sounds the voice of perpetual well-spring from on high. This source of Love, that clear, treble note of the universe, into the happiness is within the reach of all; here, if not heart of man, and the ear of Jehovah.

elsewhere, may the stranger and the friendless satisfy In sincere humility do I acknowledge that if I am the infinite yearnings of the human heart, and find less guilty than some of my human brothers, it is therein refreshment and joy. mainly because I have been beloved. Kind emotions Believe me, the great panacea for all the disorders and impulses have not been sent back to me, like in the universe, is Love. For thousands of years the dreary echoes, through empty rooms. All round me world has gone on perversely, trying to overcome at this moment are tokens of a friendly heart-warmth. evil with evil; with the worst results, as the conA sheaf of dried grasses brings near the gentle dition of things plainly testifies. Nearly two thouimage of one who gathered them for love; a varied sand years ago, the prophet of the Highest proclaimgroup of the graceful lady-fern tells me of summered that evil could be overcome only with good. But rambles in the woods, by one who mingled thoughts when the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith of me with all her glimpses of nature's beauty. A on the earth ?' If we have faith in this holy princirose-bush, from a poor Irish woman, speaks to me of ple, where is it written on our laws or our customs? her blessings. A bird of paradise, sent by friend- Write it on thine own life : and men reading it ship to warm the wintry hours with thoughts of sun shall say, lo, something greater than vengeance is ny Eastern climes, cheers me with its floating beau- here; a power mightier than coercion. And thus ty, like a fairy fancy. Flower-tokens from the best the individual faith shall become a social faith ; and of neighbors, have come all summer long, to bid me to the mountains of crime around us, it will say, a blithe good morning, and tell me news of sunshine Be thou removed, and cast into the depths of the and fresh air. A piece of sponge, graceful as if it sea!' and they will be removed ; and the places that grew on the arms of the wave, reminds me of Gre knew them shall know them no more. cian seas, and of Hylas borne away by water- This hope is coming toward us, with a halo of nymphs. It was given me for its uncommon beau- sunshine round its head; in the light it casts before, ty; and who will not try harder to be good, for let us do works of zeal with the spirit of love. Man being deemed a fit recipient of the beautiful ? A root, may be redeemed from his thraldom! He will be which promises to bloom into fragrance, is sent by redeemed. For the mouth of the Most High hath an old Quaker lady, whom I know not, but who spoken it. It is inscribed in written prophecy, and says, “I would fain minister to thy love of flowers.' He utters it to our hearts in perpetual revelation. Affection sends childhood to peep lovingly at me To you, and me, and each of us, He says, Go, bring from engravings, or stand in classic grace, embodied my people out of Egypt, into the promised land.' in the little plaster cast. The far-off and the near, To perform this mission, we must love both the the past and the future, are with me in my humble evil and the good, and shower blessings on the just apartment. True, the mementoes cost little of the as well as the unjust. Thanks to our Heavenly world's wealth; for they are of the simplest kind; Father, I have had much friendly aid on my own spibut they express the universe---because they are ritual pilgrimage; through many a cloud has pierced thoughts of love, clothed in forms of beauty. a sunbeam, and over many a pitfall have I been

Why do I mention these things ? From vanity? guided by a garland. In gratitude for this, fain would

I help others to be good, according to the small mea- | Afar in the desert I love to ride,
sure of my ability. My spiritual adventures are with the silent Bush.boy alone by my side :
like those of the little boy that run away from Pro. When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
vidence.' When troubled or discouraged, my soul With its scenes of oppression, corruption and strife;
seats itself on some door-step—there is ever some The proud man's frown and the base man's fear,
one to welcome me in, and make "a nice little bed' The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear,
for my weary heart. It may be a young friend, And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
who gathers for me flowers in summer, and grasses, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
ferns, and red berries in the autumn; or it may When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
be sweet Mary Howitt, whose mission it is to turn And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-
the sunny side of things to human eyes;' or Charleso, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Dickens, who looks with such deep and friendly Afar in the desert alone to ride!
glance into the human heart, whether it beats be. There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
neath embroidered vest, or tattered jacket; or the and to bound away with the eagle's speed,
serene and gentle Fenelon ; or the devout Thomas With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, -
á Kempis; or the meek-spirited John Woolman; or The only law of the desert land !
the eloquent hopefulness of Channing; or the cathe-
dral tones of Keble, or the saintly beauty of Raphael, Afar in the desert I love to ride,
or the clear melody of Handel. All speak to me with the silent Bush-boy alone by my side :
with friendly greeting, and have somewhat to give Away, away from the dwellings of men,
my thirsty soul. Fain would I do the same, for By the wild 'deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
all who come to my door-step, hungry, and cold, By the valleys remote where the oribi plays,
spirituálly or naturally. To the erring and the Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
guilty, above all others, the door of my heart shall And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
never open outward. I have too much need of mercy. By the skirts of gray forests o’erhung with wild-vine ;
Are we not all children of the same Father ? and Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
shall we not pity those who among pit-falls lose And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
their way home?

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild ass is dinking his fill.


Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side :
O'er the brown karroo, where the fleeting cry

Of the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively,
Afar in the desert I love to ride,

And the timorous quagga's shrill-whistling neigh With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,

Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, And the fleet.footed ostrich over the waste From the fond recollections of former years ; Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, And shadows of things that have long since fled Hieing away to the home of her rest, Flit over the brain, like ghosts of the dead : Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Bright visions of glory, that vanished too soon, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon; In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. Attachments, by fate or by falsehood reft; Companions of early days, lost or left;

Afar in the desert I love to ride, And my native land, whose magical name

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side :
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;

Away, away, in the wilderness vast,
The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime; Where the white man's foot hath never passed,
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time

And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan
When the feelings were young and the world was new, Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan ;
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, forgone;

Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; And I, a lone exile, remembered by none;

Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,

With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; Aweary of all that is under the sun ;

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, With that sadness of heart which no stranger may Save poisonous thorns that pieree the foot; scan,

And the bitter melon, for food and drink, I fly to the desert afar from man!

s the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink ;

A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears to refresh the aching eye ;
But the barren earth, and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread, void of living sight or sound.

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring,

Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,
Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh.

When will he awaken?

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
A still small voice comes through the wild,
Like a father consoling his fretful child,
Which baniskes bitterness, wrath and fear,

He has been dreaming of old heroic stories,

And the poet's world has entered in his soul;
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories,
When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's


When will be awaken?
Asks the midnight's stately queen.
Lo, the appointed midnight! the present hour is

It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air ;
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited;
Waited with a love too mighty for despair !

Soon he will awaken!

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing

flowers depart ;

Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but is THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION.


Music that is murmured from Nature's inmost heart. Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round

Soon he will awaken him, Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid;

To his and midnight's queen! Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, Lovely is the green earth,—she knows the hour is Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is


Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ;
When will be awaken?

Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly

O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying

dreaming boy. Night after night, and the cry has been in vain;

Soon he will awaken! Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, But the tones of the beloved ones were never heard Red as the red rose towards the morning turning, again.

Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his When will he awaken?

own; Asked the midnight's silver queen.

While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning

With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping;

was known. Parents, kindred, comrades have mourned for him

Yes, he has awakened as dead;

For the midnight's happy queen! By day the gathered clouds have had him in their What is this old history, but a lesson given, keeping,

How true love still conquers by the deep strength And at night the solemn shadows round his rest

of truth,—, are shed.

How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, When will be awaken?

Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth?

'T is for such they waken! Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring; Long bas Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, above ;

Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gilted When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,

few; Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken Love?

To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true.
When will he awaken?

So doth the soul awaken,
Asks the midnight's weary queen.

Like that youth to night's fair queen!

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