COLD WINTER HAS COME.

Cold winter has come,--God of justice and love,
Look down from thy mansions of gladness above,
Look down on the sorrow, the sadness, and woe,
Of the Winter-king's reign, on thy foot-stool below!
Now is the season of peril and need,
When thy aid and protection is wanted indeed,
Oh, look on the helpless, to soothe, and to cheer,
For Autumn has flown, and cold Winter is here!

Cold winter is here, and ye who have souls,
Can ye sit at your ease by the light, blazing coals,
While ye know that so many are famishing--dying
Of hunger and cold, on the frozen ground lying?
Away on an errand of mercy! for know
One mite of thy gold will make the hearts glow,
And thrill with new life, in those dwellings so drear,
For that heartless old tyrant, cold Winter, is here!

Away! from the halls where the bright wine is flowing,
Where the lip, and the cheek, of beauty are glowing--
Away! for the face of the heavens is scowling,
And the wild northern winds are so dismally howling;
Wrap your mantles around you, and brave the fierce storm,
On such heaven-sent missions, 'twill do ye no harm,--
Give aid to the needy, the desolate cheer,
For their foe and oppressor, COLD WINTER IS HERE!

      THIS WINTER NIGHT.

Lady, hear'st thou not the tinkling,
      Tinkling on the window pane?
And the sprinkling, sprinkling, sprinkling
      Of the chilling sleet, and rain,
      As they fall against the pane?

See, the ruddy coals are gleaming,
      Gleaming with a joyous light,
And the silver tea-board teeming
      With rich fare, this winter night,
      Gleaming 'neath the astral's light!

This winter night is dreary, dreary,--
      Lady, though you hear it not,
Riseth many a "Miserere,"
      From the poor man's wretched cot,
      Lady, though you hear it not.

Hark! I hear the clock is telling,
      Telling, with its mournful tone,
As the sounds come welling, welling,
      Like a troubled spirit's moan,
      That the hour of twelve hath flown.

'Tis now the hour when misery,
      And chill despair, and all
Bad angels, o'er the earth and sea,
      Do hold their high carnival,
      The dreary hovel their banquet hall.

This is the hour when mercy pleadeth
      At the portals of the heart,
And telleth tales, which, if one heedeth,
      Well might make the life-blood start
      From its chambers in the heart.

Man, proud man, and lady bright,
      Ye dwellers in marble halls!
Hear ye not the wind to-night,--
      How it moans, and groans, and calls,
      And beats its wings against the walls?

It tells of famine and despair,
      And bids thee arouse, and go,
Philanthropist, where'er ye are,
      Upon this mundane sphere below,--
      Go, aid thy brother in his woe!

                  LINES--

Dearest Lucy, am I dreaming,
      When I think I see thee now?
Is the pressure only seeming
      Of thy hand upon my brow?
Oh! are not thy dear arms wreathing
      All about my aching head?
Hear I not thy gentle breathing?
      Falls not near me thy soft tread?

Nay! how soon those visions vanish,
      I'm alone, alone once more,
With the thoughts I cannot banish
      Of my own loved native shore.

Oh! to rest but one short hour
      Where the dark, luxurious vine
All around our garden bower,
      With their wealth of ripe fruit 'twine.

There to hear the glad tones ringing,
      With their cadence, wild and free,
Of our own pet Mary, singing
      All her little songs to me;
How the sounds would still the throbbing
      And the tumults of my breast,
Like sweet music, gently robbing
      Each wild thought of its unrest!

Never more my feet shall wander
      Toward that Eden of my soul,
Yet my thoughts grow strangely fonder,
      Bursting through my vain control.
From the cloudless sky how redly
      Falls the sunlight through the door,
With a heat intense and deadly,
      On the rude, uncovered floor.

Thirst and fever, burning, burning,
      Wildly burning heart and brain,--

Weary soul, is there no turning
      From this deep, consuming pain?
Yes, an angel form has spoken,
      From the golden gates above,
And I'm summoned by that token
      To THE REALMS OF Peace and Love.

Softly the shades of evening fell,
Around the home the wanderer loved so well;
The purple grapes were wet with dew,
Where the starlight strayed, and wandered thro'
The spreading leaves of various dies,
Each soft tint caught from the Northern skies;
On the playful breeze the brown ones sped,
To rustle, and fall on the fair young head
Of a tiny maiden, who, listening, sat
At her mother's feet, on the grassy plat;
Earnest, and sweet, was the frequent smile
That lit the young matron's brow the while,
As in the heart's most musical rhyme,
She fondly talked of the coming time;
And thus she said,--"Ere yon moon shall rise,
In her ruby vest in the orient skies,
We'll welcome back the one so dear,
To stray no more from his loved ones here;

He'll smile to see how fair and tall
Has grown the pet of our happy hall;
Oh, I ne'er can tell which heart will be
The happiest ONE of the GLADSOME THREE."
And thus, in pleasant converse passed
The evening hours, until at last
The smiling eyes were closed in sleep,
That soon, too soon, must wake to weep.
Oh! could she have seen--that loving wife,
The prostrate form, and the ebbing life,
Those failing eyes, growing dimmer sill,
As night's shadows fell o'er the sunset hill,--
Have heard the sounds that so faintly came,
To breathe once more her much loved name--
To have dreamed of what was passing there,
Would have been a grief too hard to bear.
Oh! could we rend the veil that lies
Between the future and our eyes,
What would the voice of mortals be,
But one long wail of misery!
But thanks, our Father at the helm!
Beyond the sea of life, thy realm
Has "many mansions," where they go,
Who leave this troubled world below;
There loved ones meet to part no more,
When the fitful dream of life is o'er.

               SONG.

When last the violet buds were peeping,
      Where the scented hawthorns grow,
And the warm sunlight was sleeping
      On the soft, green grass below;
There we parted with a token,
And fond vows from true hearts spoken.

Again the bright spring buds are peeping,
      Where the mountain streamlets flow,
And the warm sunlight is sleeping
      'Mong the daisies, where they blow;
We have met, and we have parted,--
With the words of the broken hearted.

      OUR LITTLE SISTER'S BED.
   The only sister, our little pet CELIA.

Far away in the wild-wood,
      Sequestered and lone,
Where the winds ever breathe
      In their gentlest tone,
On a soft, green mossy knoll,
      Like a mimic mount, or hill,
Whose base is constant washed
      By an ever-flowing rill,--
They laid our little sister,
      While the solemn prayer was said,
To rest forevermore
      In her green, embowered bed.

A few are resting round,
      In still, and deep repose,
From this weary world away,
      From its troubles and its woes.

But, by the lonely flowers
      That are growing on the spot,
The lily and the rose,
      And the sweet forget-me-not--
Should you never mark the stone
      That is standing at the head,
You might know this brightest one
      Was our little sister's bed.

I've thought, as I have listened
      To the music floating round,
On the dewy, scented breezes,
      Through the consecrated ground,
As my soul became entranced
      By the dreamy, soft refrain,
That spirit tones commingled
      Their notes amid the strain;
And that angel eyes were smiling
      So sweetly round my head,
As they drooped their snowy wings
      O'er our little sister's bed.

There are ever such sweet dreams
      Afloating through my brain,
When I visit this sweet spot,
      And they go, and come again,

For it seems so far away
      From earth's turmoil and care,
That Heaven's brightest smiles
      Ever beam and linger there;
While Nature's dearest gifts
      Are in rich profusion spread,
Round the spot where we have made
      Our little sister's bed.

            BARD OF THE EARLY WEST!
Respectfully inscribed to PEYTON S. SYMMES, Esq. of Cincinnati.

Bard of the early West, arouse!
      Too long thy Harp has lain
Neglected, in the halls of Time,--
      Oh, strike its chords again!
The mist of years lies heavy now
      Upon its tuneful breast;
And cares have gathered, like the dew,
      Around its place of rest.

Oh, let those silver-shining chords
      Their strange long slumber break,
And bid, once more, each master tone,
      In thrilling cadence, wake,--
Ere the gloom that shrouds the end of life
      Shall rest upon thy Lyre,
To hush its notes of melody,
      And quench the spirit-fire!

Let it ring out as clear and bold
      As oft, in other days,
And blend its deeper harmonies
      With younger poets' lays!--
Give us those legends of the past,
      Gleamed from the storied West,--
When the children of the forest wilds
      Were cradled on its breast.

Sing us some song that thrilled the soul
      Of dark-eyed maiden then,--
While roaming, like the wild gazelle,
      Through mountain copse and glen;
Or, picture the loved scnes ye saw,
      When,--yet a playful boy--
Ye gathered, on those wood-crowned hills,
      Some curious Indian toy;

While far and wide, o'er hill and plain,
      In stilly silence bound,
(As foot-prints of a vanished race,)
      Rose many a mossy Mound,
Where rest their chiefs, and honored men,
      And maidens young and fair,--
Entombed with mournful songs and rites,
      To slumber softly there.

Then wake those soul-entrancing tales
      Ye learned so long ago,
While, with thy Lyre's sweet changing notes,
      Our hearts keep ebb and flow.
Oh, one more song, (if BUT one more,)
      To echo light and free,
I ask, in these wild rhymes, which here
      I DEDICATE TO THEE!

            LINES--
Respectfully addressed to JUDGE BURNET, of Cincinnati.

When I look through the vista of twenty long years,
And fold back its curtains of sunshine and tears,
I find that old Time has left perfect and whole,
A scene long embalmed in the depths of my soul:
There, is glowingly painted a fair little girl,--
Her brow overshadowed by many a curl:
Her low cottage home she has left, in the glen,
Afar from the haunts, and the turmoil of men,--
Still bearing the breath of the wild roses sweet,
And the dew from the violets fresh on her feet.

She was straying along, as one lost in a dream--
A proud lily thrown on a turbulent stream,
Bewildered and lost, 'mong the hurrying throng
In the Queen City's thoroughfares rushing along,

Where it seemed to the brain of the weary, lost child,
Like the visions that come with delirium wild.
Long streets were traversed, and long hours had flown,
When on her sad ear fell a soft, kindly tone,
And her heart drank the sounds like a draught of sweet wine,--
And that tone, and that voice, and those accents were thine.

While like the warm sunshine thy smiles were to me,
Or rainbow that arches the storm-girdled sea;
As ye soothed with caress, and with promising word,
The fluttering wing of the wandering bird,
Nor left the poor fledgeling [sic] till safe in its nest,
It was hushed to repose on its mother's warm breast.
Through the long years of sorrow encountered since then,
To my earliest grief, mem'ry leads me again,
When the thoughts of my first benefactor are twined
With fadeless spring-flowers that grew in my mind.

Thou mayst have forgotten, for the good deeds men do
Sink down in the heart, to revive, and imbue

With new vigor and strength, as the soft April shower
Spreads out a new gloss on each shrub, and each flower;
And this one gentle act may have been as the rill,
To thy ocean of good and benevolence; still
It had the same springs, the same fountain of love,
Reflecting the stars that looked down from above;
And while a pulse wakes in this bosom of mine,
'Twill thrill with a blessing for thee and for thine!

      'PLAININGS.

Oh, where hath the spirit of Minstrelsy fled,
      That it wakes not the chords of my lyre?
On the altar of song are the embers all dead,
      Where should burn the unquenchable fire?

When the numbers do flow, they go dashing ahead,
      Like steed on its own native plains,
And will not, by the master's hand, bow to be led,
      Or be fettered by rythm's [sic] light chains.

Like the melody made by a tinkling bell,
      Or a nest of low warbling birds,
Are the thoughts in my bosom that constantly swell,
      To go forth in the vesture of words.

But alas! when my fingers sweep over the strings,
      And would woo them to come at my call,
They vanish like fayes, on invisible wings,
      Till my heart is like Tara's lone hall.

As I sit at my window, and turn from below,
      To gaze up on the bright, beaming stars,
My spirit so longs from its prison to go,
      Overleaping mortality's bars;

For the golden-toned harps are forever in tune,
      In the upper realms, happy and blest,
And they sigh through the blossoms, like zephyrs in June,
      In this land where the weary find rest.

                   THE LAND I LOVE BEST.

The Eastern hills and valleys, oh, right beautiful are they,
Ere the roseate hues of morning lose their blushes in the day!
So lordly rise their hill-tops, the trees half veiled in gloom,
Like the time-worn hieroglyphics on some old Egyptian tomb;
So proudly roll the waters of the Hudson, in its pride,
Out to meet the Old Atlantic, as his chosen, queenly bride;
Like emeralds, gleam the islands in their quiet, peaceful rest,
Ere the day-god breaks their slumbers by the brightness of his crest.

The sunlight at its dawning, looks on scenes of wondrous pride,
Where Art goes forth with Nature, like twin sisters, side by side;
Where gentle, meek-eyed Beauty, with sportive, winning grace,
Laughs, like a merry maiden, in Sublimity's stern face.
There monuments are rising, 'mong the dusky clouds on high,
Till the dreamy distance blends them with the glory of the sky;
They tell of deeds of greatness--they're the Mutes that sounding Fame
Sets to guard the dear remembrance of some cherished deed, or name.

O! I love the Eastern valleys--I love the rock-bound shore,
The Cataract's loud moaning--the Ocean's sullen roar,
The mountain torrents rushing, like wild maniacs along,
Or the low toned, loving murmurs of the summer streamlet's song.

One tell us of the thunders 'mid which daring deeds were done,
When our fathers fought for freedom, and the priceless treasure won;
The other tells us softly of the bliss that Peace has brought.
And bids us guard the chain of Love our dauntless Fathers wrought.

Yet, though I love those valleys--those Eastern mounts and glades,
I love these best, where nightly the softened sunlight fades!
Land of the West! oh, glowing are thy stilly, sunset hours,
Lighting up the dim old forests, filled with bright-hued birds and flowers,--
Where each shady nook and ravine has some wondrous old romance,
That Nature's darling student can unravel at a glance;
Where each mound that dots our valleys has a story of its own
To tell us of a nation from their hunting grounds long flown.

They tell of stalwart warriors, the dauntless, and the true,
All vanished from their places, like the drops of morning dew,--
Their wigwams all deserted--unlit their council fires,
Their hymn of sorrow chaunted never more above their sires,
As they sleep the dreamless slumbers beside some tranquil stream,
While the moon smiles sadly o'er them, with her pale and pitying beam.
No more their dark-eyed maidens scatter roses o'er the tomb,
Where they've laid some gentle sleeper, in her beauty and her bloom.

I love the Western valleys, when they wear the misty haze
That comes in sweet September, with the soft, autumnal days,--
When the wood-nymphs tune their lyres to the gentle, farewell notes
That from troops of tiny minstrels, on each wooing zephyr float;

And 'tis meet that earnest painter o'er the hills should wander then,
His colors all the gleaming leaves--his studio some wild glen,
Where the "sky light" falling softly the twining branches through,
Sheds a spirit o'er his pictures of the beautiful and true.

The North is all too cold and chill, to kindle genius fire,--
The East's too lurid, burning light engulfs each faint desire,--
The South--there brilliant things awake, within the human mind,
But often soar, then die away, like perfumes on the wind;--
Then give to me the golden West, where clouds at even lie,
Like robes of glory, loosly thrown from Angel-forms on high,
Where Fame bends down, like sportive king, to bind upon his breast
The buds and flowers that Genius brings from the green hills of the West.

      THE HALLS OF MEMORY.

Amid the halls of memory,
      There is one I love best,
'Tis there, when weary-worn, I pause,
      And sit me down to rest;
A holy quiet reigns around,--
      'Tis the autumn of the year;
The trees have spread their golden robe
      O'er summer's funeral bier.

Ohio's noble waters roll
      Between the gentle hills,
While from their hazy depths gush forth
      A thousand singing rills.
'Neath the silvery light of heaven,
      'Mid earth's beautiful repose,
Where a noble tree its shadows
      O'er the glancing water throws,--

With one arm round a maiden,
      While the other points afar,
With his dark bright orbs uplifted
      To Hope's bright, beaming star,
A youth, in his noontide beauty,
      Stands 'neath the lowest boughs,
He and the maid exchanging
      Their deep, and fervent vows.

A siren voice is singing
      Within their hearts a strain,
Which they, alas! found dreamers,
      may never hear again.
This picture of life's history
      Is fresh within my soul,
As the glow of summer morning,
      On heaven's azure scroll.

When my heart is sad, and weary
      Of the chequered scenes of life,
And clouded, dark and dreary
      With its perpetual strife,--
Then I turn, with longing spirit,
      Unto my favorite hall,
And take new strength, from gazing
      On memory's gilded wall.

      MOURN NOT FOR THE DEPARTED.

Oh, why shouldst thou mourn for loved ones departed?
Why weep thus for them, thus desolate hearted?
Dost weep for a father, who taught thy young eye
To follow the eagle as it soared to the sky,
And bade thee to follow the example, and be
As onward, when right, as dauntless, as free?
Did he die when old age had deep furrowed his cheek,
When his lips could scarce utter the words he would speak?
Mourn not for him--his long pilgrimage ended,
To his bright home above his proud spirit ascended.

Dost mourn for a mother, who sank to the tomb
Ere sorrow had robbed her young cheek of its bloom?

Weep not for her--she still hovers around thee,
Like a bird on its wing, when sorrows surround thee,
And softly as music steals over the wave,
She'll tell thee of mansions beyond the damp grave,
Where the grief of this world, its sighing and sadness,
Are changed for sweet songs of harmonious gladness,
That thrill from the harps of the angels above,
Filling all the soft breezes with joy, and with love.

Dost thou weep for a babe, thy joy and thy pride,
Whom the Angel of Death snatched up from thy side?
Hadst thou kept it, perchance its cup had been filled
With the aliments of woe, deep, double distilled;
Now, 'tis a cherub, bending over the skies,
To fly to thy bosom, as thou shalt arise.
Dost weep for an erring one, loved but too well,
Who grieved thy sad heart more than mere words can tell?
Rejoice! for now free from earth's mildew and stain,
They mingle their tones with the Seraphim's strain.

Oh say! were we tossed, tempest-tossed on the ocean,
The winds shrieking wild, 'mid the billows' commotion,
The rent sky above us, the rocks "just ahead,"
The boiling surges quick making our bed,--

Would we sigh that our friends were not with us to die--
To share the cold grave where we shortly must lie?
Nay! how oft from such scenes has the wild cry gone up:
"Oh, God! but avert from my loved ones the cup,
And I will drink freely of all that ye give--
But spare them, oh, spare them, my loved, ones to live!"

And oh! are we not on life's sea tempest-tossed,
Are there not fearful shoals, and dread straits to be crossed?
Then mourn not for those who have gone on before,
And moored their frail barks on Eternity's shore;
Then dry up thy tears--they will dim thy fair sight,
And thou'lt lose, in the darkness, the sweet beacon light.
Look onward! and upward! the bright star of Hope
Is gloriously beaming, and no horoscope
Wilt thou need to read Heaven's love in the sky,
Written glowingly out 'mid the gemm'd page on high.

            THE DYING MINSTREL.

'Twas morning, and the sweet perfume,
Like incense, floated through the room,
Borne on the wings of a summer breeze,
That stirred the flower-laden trees;
The early sun, like streams of gold
Sent its rays through each green fold
Of vines, that climbed the lattice o'er,
And lay like gems upon the floor;
A hyacinth, and mignonette,
Within a deep recess were set;
Beneath, and glittering still with dew,
A tall, white lily proudly grew.
Oh, had you seen that cottage then,
Embowered within a shady glen,

Made bright with flowers, and musical
By bright-hued birds, and water-fall,--
You would not wonder than that he,
The lord of that bright nook, should be
A soul of genius, proud and high,
Too pure, it almost seemed, to die!

But ah! my thoughts have gone astray,
From the cottage hall, where the Minstrel lay,
Calmly asleep, the last, one one,
Ere he should waken, and look upon
The glad, bright earth he had loved so well,--
Wake, but to bid it a last farewell.
The azure curtains were looped, and thrown
Back from the couch of the dying one,--
Dying, and yet on that forehead rare
You could trace not a sign of death's lingering there:
The finely curved nostril, and delicate lip,
E'en in sleep, at the well-springs of thought seemed to sip;
The long silken lash has drooped down oe'r the eye,
Where the fires of genius and poesy lie;
But ah! there's a rose-colored flush on the cheek,
And of suffering, and DEATH, doth its brilliant hue speak.

The daylight has gone, and the soft twilight hour
Is abroad o'er the earth, with its mystical power;
The Poet and Minstrel has wakened once more,
Ere he passes alone through the Death-Angel's door;
He has bid farewell, in soft, low tone,
To each object his spirit had doated upon,--
Yet almost unmanned, by the thrilling note,
That melodiously gushed from his red-breast's throat;
But his heart's cherished treasure, his dearest and best,--
His lute, lay beside him, its bright strings unprest
By the hand that had brought, far over the sea,
The Minstrel's companion and best legacy.

A low, sweet strain is awakening there,
And 'tis borne away on the evening air;
The chords of the lorn lute are thrilling again,
And touchingly sad is that farewell refrain.

THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL TO HIS LUTE.
Companion of my earliest years,
      My lute, wast thou,
Ere a single thought of cares, or fears,
      Had crossed my brow.

Swept by light hand, thy silver chords
      Echoed but gladness,
And sweetly thrilled, with love-toned words,
      Untouched by sadness;

But passing years have brought to thee
      A dreary change,--
Upon the ear, thy melody
      Falls sad and strange.

The one that taught this saddest strain,
      My lute, to thee,
Has felt, upon his brow, and brain,
      Grief's reality.

Perchance, no more my hand shall sweep
      Across thy strings,--
Then soft be thy notes, as dews that sleep
      Where the bul-bul sings.

The noiseless tread of watchers came,
To illumine the hall with the night-lamp's flame;
The chords of the lute were low murmuring still,--
It seemed but the echo of sweet whip-poor-will;

The fingers were warm, that entwined 'mong its chords,
And lips softly parted, with late-spoken words:
The light gleam of the taper streamed over the bed,--
The soul of the Minstrel and Poet had fled!

      FOREBODINGS.

What are they--these forebodings,
      The oppressive sense of dread--
The sepulchral tones that seemeth
      Like strange voices from the dead?
We hear them, in the distance,
      Peal a solemn, measured knell,
Breaking in upon the melody
      Of Joy's golden bell.

They drape the earth with shadows,
      When the stars are beaming bright,
And darkly veil the brightness
      Of the morning's rosy light;
They flit, like evil spirits,
      Through the chamber of the brain,
To wake the yielding heart-chords
      With a thrill of fear and pain;

Why chase they from our dreaming
      The beautiful, and bright,
To leave but sorrow's seaming,
      Through the long and dismal night?
Where dwell they, and what are they,
      And wherefore do they keep,
Self-appointed guardians, round us,
      While we wake, and while we sleep?

Away! ye graceless visions,--
      I feel your presence now;
Away! nor leave the impress
      Of your fingers on my brow.
What though the night is coming,
      And the eve is growing gray,
Your warnings are but thankless
      Of the storm ye cannot STAY!

            STANZAS--
To my young Poet Friend, S. R. SMITH, of Cincinnati, O.

Fair boy, upon that brow of thine,
      Beneath its wealth of soft, brown hair,
A something, almost half divine,
      Tells me genius dewlleth there;
While down in those dark orbs I see,
With prophet eyes, thy destiny.

Come thou, in fancy let us wander
      Where thy steps must surely go,
Though I would not have thee ponder,
      On life's scenes of sin and woe,--
Here's my hand, now let us leap
In the future, dark, and deep!

Bright, and gifted, art thou, boy,
      As earth-born ones might be,
With heart untouched by Time's alloy,--
      Each pulse beating light and free,
Still dreaming dreams so richly prized--
Too bright to e'er be realized!

The path of life lies broad before thee,
      And glittering now with flowers,
While Faith and Hope are smiling o'er thee,
      As speed thy golden hours;
For thou hast but begun the race,
Where the strongest reach the wished-for place.

Cull thou the flowers, and twine them all
      In wreaths of fadeless hue,
And lay them by in memory's hall,
      Still wet with morning dew;
And lay their perfume o the shrine
Of that young, spotless heart of thine.

Thy path is growing darker still,
      Although thou seest it not,--
See! ye must climb yon rugged hill,
      And roam through yon dark grot!

Ha! blanch not, boy, I've journeyed here,
And well know how thy steps should veer.

Now rest thee,--here's a lovely nook,
      Where the mountain birds rejoice,
Where they plume their wings in purling brook,
      And tune each silver voice;
Catch thou the trill of each soft tone,
And make its sweetness all thine own.

Now up, and on!  What ho! a storm
      Hangs o'er yon mountain brow,--
I see the Wind-king's dusky form
      Hurling fury round him now,--
Fear not, but look on yon ebon sky,
Lit up by the lightning's fiery eye!

List to the thunder's mournful roll,
      Away 'mong the forest trees,
Like the sad moans of a weary soul,
      Borne out on the evening breeze;
Mark thou each change the Storm-god takes,
As each high hill to his voice awakes.

Here are gleaming buds on Nature's floor,
      'Mong the thorns that grow around;
Gather them up, as we journey o'er
      This dark and dismal ground,
And set each flower, a priceless gem,
In thy spirit's deathless diadem.

Now cheer thee, boy! we've reached the shrine
      Where the victor crowns are laid,
Where the treasures of that heart of thine
      Must be curiously displayed;
Where the laurel crown from the bright array
Thou'lt choose, from the rose, or stately bay.

Tho'st brought the harp of thy gifted soul,
      With its silver chords all broken,
And fragments of a golden bowl--
      Love's ill-starred, fated token;
What thinkest thou has love to do,
Here at this shrine, with fame and you?

Ha! now the laurel crown is set
      Above thy pale, wan brow;
It sits uneasy,--something yet
      Thou'dst fondly sigh for now,

And thine eyes are heavy--not with years,
But toil, and care, and bitter tears.

But guard thou well the coronal,--
      'Tis all thou'lt ever win,
A place in Fame's loud-sounding hall,
      Where all is blank within,--
Where ever, o'er a brow of care,
The dark, green emblem thou must wear.

      MY BIRDS AND FLOWERS.

My birds and flowers, O! I love them well,
      And cherish them tenderly;
They cast o'er my heart their own soothing spell,
      Like moonbeams over the sea;
When gathering ills oppress my brain,
And my temples throb with a feverish pain,
When my soul is oppressed and sad, as all
Of hopes were robed in one dark pall;
O! then amid those darkling hours,
Gleams one bright spot, MY BIRDS AND FLOWERS.

No secret venom lurks beneath
      The bright-hued flowret's smile,
We breathe their sweetness, and a wreath
      Of sun-bright thoughts the while

Fills the soul with gushing gladness,
And banishes each trace of sadness;
Nor ever is falsehood's canting note
'Mid the songs that fill the warbler's throat;
O then, amid lie's suns and showers,
I'll cherish still MY BIRDS AND FLOWERS.

      WHERE DOST THOU WANDER?

Where dost thou wander?  'Tis a thought
That racks the spirit overwrought
By undue absence.  Bitter tears,
And undefined, though startling fears
Fill the hours from day to day,
While the loved one is away.

Is there a heart that hath not one
Whom it dwells, and doats upon,--
Wandering, it may be, alone,
Far from friends, and far from home?
Oh, how the spirit then will ponder
O'er the thought,--where dost thou wander?

When the solemn hymn is stealing,
Freighted with intensest feeling,

Through the stilly evening air,
Rising, floating, dying there,--
Chaunted sweet, and cheerfully,
By children round their parent's knee,--

O! then the scalding tears will start
From their fountains in the heart,
While its chords are bursting, swelling,
With the thoughts that come up welling,
As like contending clouds, they roll,
In fitful gusts, across the soul!

When the warm spring winds are blowing,
When 'tis cloudy, cold, and snowing,
'Mid the fragrant summer bowers,
In the dark, and midnight hours,
The heart will sink, to brook, and ponder
O'er the thought,--where dost thou wander?

Lamps, like southern stars may be,
'Mid the halls of revelry;
We tread the dance, we sing the song,
While still our voice is borne alone;
Still on the absent one we ponder,
And sigh, and dream,--where dost thou wander?

      THE MINSTREL'S HOME.

Oh, I love the hills, so free and wild!
      And my cottage home is there,
In a fitting nook for mountain child,
      'Mong wild flowers, rich and rare,
Where the low winds, in the merry spring,
      Breathe soft through the myrtle vines,--
And the bright birds build their tiny nests
      In my bower of eglantines.

CHORUS.
While my heart laughs with glee, ha, ha, ha, ha!
      And rings through the sounding hills,
As I sing a glad chorus, tra la, la, la!
      To the songs of the birds and the rills.

When the golden stars look softly through
      The trees, with a mellow light,
While like gleaming pearls, each drop of dew
      Still shines through the stilly night;
I list to the notes the zephyrs bear
      Away on their scented wings,
And dream I never, of woe, or care,
      But only of happy thing.
                  While my heart laughs, etc.

Oh, then, would you know where the Minstrel dwells,
      Come out to the high blue hills,
Where kindly hands, from the spirit's wells,
      Love's glistening goblet fills;
Where eyes are bright as the starry skies,
      And hearts are warm and free,
And tones of love ever harmonize
      To my own wild minstrelsy.
                  While my heart laughs, etc.

      THE MAIDEN'S RESOLVE.

"I have built the last air castle--
      Have dreamed the last bright dream,
And have looked on the departure
      Of Hope's LAST, LURING BEAM!"
Then a smile of haughty triumph
      Gleamed in that maiden's eye,
And sat in stern, bright beauty,
      On that forehead, pale, and high.

Lelia cast each fond emotion
      Of love, and hope, aside,
Then filled the aching void
      With a maiden's armor--pride;
Her priceless love, oh! could it be
      That she had loved IN VAIN?
At this wild thought her bursting heart
      Throbbed with intensest pain.

Henceforth her sole companion
      Her own sweet lyre would be,
And when long the sun was sleeping
      Beneath the western sea,
Lelia sat in her humble hall,
      And gleamed from the mines of thought
Richest gems, and in bright wreaths
      The deathless treasures wrought.

Years had passed, and the maiden dwelt
      Within a stately all;
Rare exotics, and pearly shells
      Were strewed around, with all
That gold might buy; but there was not
      What Lelia would have given--
The precious gem to win, and wear--
      Her very hope of heaven.

Once more sweet smiles were wreathing
      Her chiselled brow, but there
Full many a shadow lingered
      Of sadness, and despair.
What matter, though her tuneful lyre
      Had waked Fame's trumpet tongue,
And her name upon each gifted,
      And enraptured spirit, hung?

The world knew not how fearfully
      That bright, poetic fire
Had lit its glorious brilliance
      Upon Love's funeral pyre.
Alas! for each gifted spirit;--
      Oh! that unyielding Fate
Should make the home of genius
      So LONE, SO DESOLATE!