LINES--

There is light of heavenly seeming,
      Thou of the gloomy brow,
Within thy dark orbs, gleaming
      With burning lustre now;
Has thy genius angel sent thee
      New colors from the sun,
And a golden pencil lent thee,
      Thou lone and gifted one?

For o'er the bark thou'rt leaning,
      As if in gentle trance,--
A world of unread meaning
      Within thy earnest glance;
What panorama passes
      On the theatre above,

That thy thoughts, like magic glasses,
      Shape to beauty, light and love?

And do the zephyrs bring thee
      Some sportive lays they weave,
Thou CHILD OF SONG, to sing thee,
      This starlight, summer eve?
For the motion of thy fingers,
      Upon thy light guitar,
With a listless quiver lingers,
      Like the rays of yonder star.

O! filled with spirit lightness
      Must be thy raptured soul,
From the clouds of sunny brightness
      That o'er thy features roll;
Harmoniously blending,
      Like songs of Eden's birds,
Must be the thoughts, contending,
      In thy bosom's depths, for words.

While o'er the waters rowing,
      My thoughts are busy too,--
With pearly lustre glowing,
      Like leaflets tipt with dew,

And while we glide so soft alone,
      A faint, poetic fire
Inspires with humble, grateful song,
      My unpretending lyre.

'Tis sweet, this starry night in June,
      To wander out, we three,
Our hearts in perfect throbbing tune
      With all lovely things that be;
While with moonlight falling round us,
      On the silver-glancing tide,
A gentle spell hath bound us
      In silence, side by side.

      THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

*      *       *       *       *

Yet though England and France have their faults, we have ours,
Like the rankling thorns that encircle fair flowers;
And each should remember, that in casting a stone
At the other's glass house they endanger their own.
A glass house! ah, now I bethink me, that same
Expression was once nothing more than a name,
Till the Spirit of Invention once losing his way,
O'er to England was lit by a straggling sun ray;
Thus in hunting for Jonathan, found but his brother--
And thinking he'd probably do for the other,
He managed to accomplish a work that well might
Fill with wonder and awe, either human or sprite;

For he squeezed a bright idea into his head,
Among brains that are dull, and as heavy as lead--
When John went to work, and he built out of glass,
O'er a forest of trees, a great, glittering mass,
When he gave it a name, and a fitting one too,
(The more is the wonder, old John Bull, for you,)
Crystal Palace, he called it, and straightway he sent,
Like the brave knights of old, in the tournament,
For the civilized nations all over the world,
Where his voice was heard, or his flags were unfurled,
To come to his Palace of bright-tinted dyes,
And nobly contend for each honor and prize.
When, lo! flocking in, from the east, and the west,
From the north, and the south, they jostled and pressed,
Bearing caskets of jewels,--each glittering gem
Too precious for aught but a king's diadem;
The Persian looms sent their treasures rare,
And Orient pearls were gleaming there;
Italia sent her works of Art,
To enchain the eye, and entrance the heart;
The Emerald Isle sent her misty lace,
To dreamily shadow young beauty's face;
The small footed Chinese came tottering along,
'Neath the ponderous weight of his horrible gong;

The Spaniard was there, with his spear and his lance,
And the ominous light of his soul-piercing glance;
The old turbaned Turk, dark, sullen, and proud,
With his beautiful carpets, made way through the crowd;
The flaxen-haired student from Germany went,
With his mind and his eye on the firmament bent:
He had glasses to draw, like the magnet of love,
Orbits of light from the regions above;
Greece, her sweet features enveloped in gloom,
Brought a block of white marble, for altar or tomb;
And France, in the large spacious hall where she shone,
'Mong her bright treasures, looked like a queen on her throne;
The brave hearted Scots left their flocks on the plain,
And came in their "pladdies" to swell the glad train:
They brought a soft fleece from their lambs on the hills,
Washed white, snowy white, in their own mountain rills;
Then last, but not least, Brother Jonathan strode
Right into their midst, with his queer looking load:
He was somewhat belated, but as he had come
With a bona fide ticket, he "guessed he's to hum;"

So unpacking the odd looking things he had brought,
Brother John, filled with mirth, some remote corner sought,
Where, apart from the throng, his o'er rude kinsman might
Be out of the way, out of hearing and sight.
Brother Jonathan yielded, with rather bad grace,
To be stationed alone in this desolate place,
And he could not refrain from just saying, "Well neow,
This beats human natur' to pieces, I sweow."
But in all of his lifetime he never broods long,
Musing over an insult, a slight, or a wrong.
So when he had placed all his wares on the shelves,
He left them awhile to take care of themselves,
And pushing about, as is ever his wont
From the last in the crowd to the first in the front,
He heard England praising her beautiful yacht,
And he laid them a wager that he could beat that;
They run--when John Bull, to his shame and surprise,
Saw his tall Yankee brother walk off with the prize.
The French were quite sure, that b[y] hook or by crook,
Brother Jonathan never had learned how to cook.

So there 'mong the sneering and insolent group,
He prepared a great dish of the famed Texan soup,
When the cooks and the judges were forced to give way,
That Jonathan surely had carried the day,
To the virtues of Jonathan's reaper and plow
The British were forced to yield prizes ere now,
When they sent their fair children, like fields of ripe grain,
For Jonathan's sickle to reap on the plain--
While his plow threw the subsoil of freedom above,
Sending forth the green shoots of peace, plenty, and love;
To him then the just prize was awarding, as now,
While the wreath of the victor encircled his brow,
The wonderful pistol the Englishman thought
The most curious thing their strange brother brought;
They found he could just as well scatter one's brains,
As unrivet the links of a tyrant king's chains.
One more Yankee trick he told them he'd show,
And then he'd shake hands and get ready to go--
They looked, and beheld, with a start and a shock,
That he'd picked, without trouble, their great Bramah lock;

Then with good natured smile he placed one in its stead,
That never a mortal can pick, it is said.
Thus, with honors and prizes has Jonathan come,
From the "Crystal Palace" to his backwoods "hum."

                       WINTER WINDS.

There's sadness in the winter winds, though in their lowest key
Their choristers are training them, out on the star-lit lea;
Their base notes have the mournful tones that tell of human woe,
When the heart has suffered all the wrongs the human heart can know;
Their alto strains are like the wail of some forsaken one,
Who mingles weeping with their prayer, when each sad day is done;
How through each midnight dreary do they sob, and moan, and sigh
As if troops of troubled spirits were just banished from the sky.

Through the broken roof and casement, where stern poverty holds court,
They come, like gladiators, with deep, maddening wounds to sport,
In the vaulted amphitheatre of Heaven's wide domain
Their pointed arrows cannot pierce with such exquisite pain,
As when within the wretched hut, where children cry for bread,
And mothers only have the power to bow the stricken head;
Oh, then the winter winds do rave with wildest, fiercest glee,
While feasting at the banquet board of squalid misery.

And yet the marble palaces of pride, and pomp, and power,
Are not forgotten by the winds, while lasts their given hour;
The proud man hears their beating wings against the crystal pane,
And knows their cries for entrance there are only sobbed in vain;

Still, they wake within his spirit fearful wrongs he'd fain forget,
And would erase with all--but gold--from the place where they are set.
He treads the soft and covered floor, and trims the mellow light,
But morning brings those visions still before his tortured sight.

There's sorrow in the winter winds--a world of grief untold
Is wakened, when the northern clouds are from their paths unrolled;
The good man mourns the bitter ills his hand can ne'er assuage,
And sighs for those who tremble 'neath the madness of their rage.
All feel the strange and wizzard power the winds of winter sway,
Heard through the phantom hours of night, or twilight, lone and gray,
And if one heart can hear unmoved the sadness of their tone,--
If good or ill I know not, but it beats not with mine own.

           THE SPIRIT'S GUESTS.

Bright, laughing young Hope!  O, a glorious thing
      Thou art, with thy love-beaming eyes,
And thy clear, ringing songs, like the wild birds' of spring,
      When they first warble out on the skies;
Thy home is a fairy place, gleaming with light,
      And the sound of sweet music is there,
When thy fluttering wings try their first airy flight,
      In a bosom unclouded by care.

Far away in one corner, with meek, quiet look,
      And a world of long, loose-flowing hair,
Sits a delicate creature, with pencil, and book,
      'Tis the lovely "Grand Scribe" sister there;
Her name is young Memory; the beautiful things
      That Hope is a telling to-day,

She notes them all down, while, as borne upon wings,
      Life's pleasures glide quickly away.

Anon, there's a sound at the spirit's hall door,--
      A clamor, a tumult and din,--
Gloomy care with its train, a full hundred or more,
      Struggle hard for admittance within.
The entrance is barred, but they patiently wait,
      For they know they can enter ere long,
And they stealthily pass through each portal and gate,
      One by one, that dark, harrowing throng.

O! then there is sorrow, and wailing, and grief,
      As they hurl gentle Peace from her throne;
And as Memory writes, on a dark, chequered leaf,
      Long she sighs o'er the bliss that is flown.
Then as years glide along, they hold empire still
      O'er the heart,--that fierce, mobocrat crew;
They revel as it pleaseth their humor and will,
      And they riot, as mobs ever do.

The sunlight of youth, as age wanders along,
      Goes reluctantly down to the grave,
While Memory chaunts a low, funeral song,
      As it sinks 'neath Time's turbulous wave.

Yet Hope, though her garlands are withered and crushed,
      Still retains the soft light in her eye,
And Faith points yet, though her sweet tones are hushed,
      Her pale, spirit-like fingers on high.

            A WISH.

      O! would I were a poet!
            I'd teach my harp to breathe
Like a bright, enchanted thing,
And from its chords and bosom fling
            The sunny lays I'd weave.

      O! would I were a poet,--
            Not for the wreath of Fame
That twines around the poet's brow,
Nor the homage of the souls that bow
            Unto a deathless name;

      But, oh! in sorrow's trying hour
            'Tis surely sweet, to rove
Afar on Fancy's iris wing,
To a world of our imagining,
            All pure, and bright with love.

      I'd be a poet,--ah, and yet
            One other boon I crave,--
A priceless gem, that is not bought
With yellow gold, nor is it brought
            From 'neath the crystal wave:

      It is a gentle heart, to thrill
            In concord with mine own,
To hold for me affection pure,--
Abiding love, which shall endure
            When change-fraught years have flown.

                SONG.

"Oh, for a life on the ocean wave,
      A home on the rolling deep!"
Let others sing, but for me, I crave
      A home where the wild vines creep,--
Afar in some sequestered dell,
Where violets grow, and the blue hare-bell,
Where the clustering rose, and jessamine,
Around the maple and chestnut twine
                  Their graceful folds.

The haughty, and the proud may seek
      For honor, wealth, and fame;
Still, be it their sto strive, and toil
      For a gilded, empty name;

And reckless ones may seek the halls,
Where bright the glittering lamp-light falls
O'er the festive scene, where mirth and glee
Rule the hour, and merrily
                  The song goes round.

An hour's stroll, on a summer eve,
      Beside the silent sea,
Is dearer far than festal halls,
      Or gay saloons, to me;
The love-toned winds, the starry sky,--
The brooks that go soft singing by,
Round a poet's wild imaginings,
A dreamy, soft enchantment flings,
                  And visions bright.

Thus, for a "life on the ocean wave,
      A home on the rolling deep,"
Let others sing, while still I crave
      A home where the wild vines creep;
Nor would I covet splendid domes,
Or libraries of gilded tomes,
But in Nature's works, around, above,
Find richest gems of song, and love,
                  And poesy.

      ALL HAIL TO THEE, SPRING!

Hail! all hail to thee, glorious Spring!
Joy, and health, and hope ye bring
In thy perfumed breath, and on thy wing,--
      Then hail, all hail to thee!
Beautiful garlands ye softly fling
Wherever thou treadest, and ye bring
Robes of the brightest, and richest green,
      To clothe each shrub and tree.

Cheerily rings the merry lay
Of the rustic maid, as she trips away,
With the first faint streaks of roseate day,
      To cull thy bursting flowers;
And the city nymphs thy presence please,--
They bare their brows to court thy breeze,
As it dallies with transplanted trees,
      And artificial bowers.

And the poor! the poor!  O, how they fly
From their dreary homes, when thou art nigh,
To bask beneath thy radiant sky,
      And bid thee hail, all hail!
Then let us all our voices raise,
With the forest birds, to chaunt thy praise,
Who weave for thee melodious lays,
      In mountain, and in vale.

And O, ye kindly, gently speak,
As ye breathe o'er the pallid brow, and cheek
Of the lowly sufferer, calm, and meek,
      Of a better, brighter home,
Where, beside a flowing river,
Fadeless flowers bloom forever;
Where winter winds, and autumn never
      Within that land can come.

      LAY OF THE LONE ONE.

Oh! I'm weary of this solitude,--
      I would not be alone;
I would not dwell forever
      Unheeded, and unknown;
I know the world is beautiful,--
      All nature's blithe and gay,
But form its gorgeous scenes I turn
      My weary eyes away.

I fancy I can hear the winds,
      In low, and saddened tone,
Murmur, "Of all created things,
      Man's all that's left alone;"
There's groups of planets in the sky,
      And groups of flowrets fair,
And in the ocean's depths are found
      Bright groups of gems, so rare;

But man, alone, will toil and work,
      Will plow, and sow, and reap,
To gain a little, empty name,
      And filthy lucre heap;
Oh, I'm weary of this loneliness,--
      I'm weary of this life,
Where the intercourse 'tween man and man
      Is naught but endless strife!

      THE "LIGHT OF LOVE."

Addressed to a Friend on his marriage.

Thou hast launched thy bark upon the tide,
      While a summer sun is smiling,
And bright winged hopes around thee glide,
      Each transient hour beguiling;
No clouds are hovering o'er thee now,
To cast their shadows on thy brow;
And in thy heart nor grief, nor care,
For the "light of love" shines brightly there!

Nor fear thou, though in coming years,--
      For years must changes bring,--
Time has for all enough of tears,
      And sadness on his wing;
Still, if upon the cliff is set
The "light house" of the spirit yet,
Though storms should rage, thou'lt not despair
While the "light of love" shines brightly there.

            "THE WANDERING ORGAN PLAYER."

A tear is in the old man's eye,
      And it courses down his cheek,
While his heart is filled with an agony
      To deep for his lips to speak.

From Italy's sweet, classic land,
      The poet's ideal home,
With wife and child,--a minstrel band,
      To our shores the old man's come.

But our winter winds were cold and drear,
      And strangers only met
With careless look, the wand'rers here,
      To pass--and to forget.

The warm spring days came on apace,
      But the child was thin and wan,--
The light was gone from her pale, young face,
      So sad to look upon.

Her little viol, with ribbon green,
      On the organ's bosom lies,
And precious is that simple thing
      Unto the old man's eyes.

The tiny hand, that trembling o'er
      Its strings was wont to sweep,
Will never awaken its voice more,
      From its last, lonely sleep.

As the hunter loves his rustic home,
      When mountain storms shriek wild,
So when grief upon the old man came,
      He clung unto his child.

Now she is gone, and none but he
      Will miss her mournful tone;
The oasis of his soul was she,
      His heart's best loved, his own.

The organ is piping loud and high
      Its fitful, creaking strain,
And the old man turns unceasingly,
      Though his heart is racked with pain.

They've passed--and thus another scene
      In life's dramatic play
Is o'er, and sadder ones, I ween,
      Will chase this one away.

                 CLARENCE GRAY.

One evening in October, young Clarence Gray and I
Together roamed, beneath the stars that gemmed the autumn sky;
A holy quiet reigned around, for we rambled out alone,
When the moon hung o'er the hill-tops, and the day had gently flown;
His voice was softly sweet, and low, as mortal's voice could be,--
And musical, and thrilling were the words he breathed to me;
I knew they were not seeming, I knew that they were true,
And they fell upon my spirit like diamond drops of dew.

That evening in October, young Clarence Gray and I
Parted, beneath the silent stars, that strewed the autumn sky,
While Fancy's golden pinions were round our young hearts spread,
And Hope a golden halo about our pathway shed.
He left his native valley, in foreign climes to roam,
Afar from all he cherished there--his kindred, and his home;
Yet we still kept back the tear-drops, that would all unbidden start,
And smiled a fond, sad farewell, though 'twas bitterness to part.

           *       *       *       *       *       *

Now many years have vanished, since I met young Clarence Gray,
Where the moon, with silver beams, above our happy pathway lay;
The spring-time of our lives is gone, and the summer's almost o'er,
And the autumn mists are hovering about us ever more;

Life's weary storms have faded the flowerets of the soul,
And the glowing arch of Hope is now less beautiful and whole;
While the siren's voice has taken a wilder, sadder strain,
Since the night when last we parted, on the dew-bespangled plain.

And now, in next October, should I meet with Clarence Gray,
In our old, dear trysting spot, beneath the moonbeam's mellow ray,
Should we feel the link is broken? or rather, should we not
Find our sorrows and our trials alike in joy forgot?
I wonder if his voice is still as strangely sweet, and low
As when, on that October night, I heard it long ago;
And much I marvel whether I to Clarence Gray would seem
Still like his first, and only love,--or, like a passing dream!

      THE RETURN.

            Softly fell the glittering dew,
            Where the moonlight wandered through
            A linden's foliage, green and bright,
            Wavering in the mellow light,
            Laving the dark, and flowing hair,
            O'er the marble brow of a lone one there,--
                  Mem'ry was busy at his heart,
                  Stirring the fount of feeling,
                  And anon the pearly tears would start,
                  Through the silken lashes stealing,
      As his thoughts, like the wail of imprisoned birds,
      Burst from his lips in these thrilling words:

"Gone, all gone! thou'st left not one, stern Fate,
To greet me in my early home, so lone, so desolate!
O! how I longed to see thee yet once more,
While a weary wanderer on a distant shore;

And thus do I find thee, all sunk in decay,
Each dear trace of beauty fast fading away;
The chimney has fallen, the hearth-stone is cold,
The walls dark with dust, and all covered with mould;
The lawn is o'ergrown with tall thistles, and rank
The iron-weed grows on the brook's mossy bank;
And where are the light steps, the bright eyes, and all
The glad tones that once cheered the old cottage hall?
They are gone! all gone! and the wind's hollow moan
Breathes the sigh of my spirit--alone! all alone!
My own gentle mother has sunk to the tomb,
And Julia was nipt like a rose in full bloom;
While George, in his bright, wedded home, dreameth not
Of the wand'rer,--to him like a song half forgot,
Or a strain of lost music 's the memory, I ween,
Of the brother who sported with him on the green;
And she, my adored one, my destiny, here--
This weakness unmans me,--what! shedding a tear?
Back! back to thy fountain!  I deemed 'twas too cold
To thus quickly o'er flow, at the mem'ries of old.
'Twas here, when a child, 'neath this old linden tree,
Where my father oft sat with a book on his knee,
I wove beautiful garlands, all glowing and bright,
To twine 'mong his silken locks, dark as the night;

And no greather reward did I wish than the smile
That mantled his brow, and his lip, all the while,
As he twined 'mong my soft curls his fingers with joy,
And murmured, 'God bless thee, my own blue-eyed boy!'
Full many a year has flown o'er me since then,
And I've written my name 'mong the noblest of men;
Ambition was true to her promise, but still
There's a place in my heart which Fame never can fill."

      THE SILENT GUEST.

Inscribed to a Friend, on the sudden death of his two little boys, his only children.

Most lovingly the pale moon shone,
Where high and sheltering hills hemmed in,
As if to guard it from the storms
That swept around their rugged brows,
A calm and peaceful village;
But here and there, a glimmering light
Shone faintly through the casement:
No step re-echoed from the stones
That flagged the long, and empty streets:
The noisy spaniel, and the yelping cur
Had sought an hour's repose within
The kennel of the noble hound,
Or faithful watch-dog, that had left
Its snug and warm retreat to guard
Its master's premises from harm:

The hour of ten was calmly told,
By the clock that graced the mantel
Of a pleasant cottage hall:
The coals burned bright within the grate
Where still the worthy couple sat,
Dreaming of future bliss, to come
When Time should shake the pearly dews
Of Life's sweet summer o'er the brow
Of their loved boy, a fair haired child
Of scarce six sunny years.
His slender, fragile form lay wrapt
In dreamless slumber, where the hand
Of love had gently laid him.
When the dusky twilight softly came,
To fold her sombre robes around
The busy brain of childhood.
Against the wall were rudely thrown
The well worn toys, with which he oft
Beguiled the tedious, long day hours
Of winter's dreary reign:
A hobby horse, caparisoned
Right gaily, foremost stood
Among the oddly sorted heap;
His hoofless foot was prest upon
A picture book, and from his neck

Hung down a tiny horn, and bells,
And on the floor his cap, and whip,
And divers colored shells.

Beside the lamp, his sire pored
Over some quaint old volume,--
Now reading,--and now turning down
Some page, or passage that he liked,
For future note, or reference.
                        Beside him,
In the low, and cushioned chair,
The fond young mother hushed to rest
Her playful baby boy, and still
Upon some beauteous fabric wrought,
To grace the lithe and lovely forms
Of her sweet ones.

                        But there,
Unseen, unheard, came softly in
A pale, and silent visitor.
His form was chill, for he was asked
Never, to warm his frozen limbs
Beside the household's ruddy fire;
Yet 'mong men walked he daily.
As a messenger from Heaven,

Though much they feared him, and would fain
Keep from their sight his dreaded form.
                        Yet, when
Upon the brow of pain and grief
His well known seal is firmly set,
His cold embrace is oft times met
With quick, impatient zeal.
                        But if,
Obedient to the stern command
Of Heaven, e wanders sadly forth,
To cull the flowers that sweetly bloom
Upon the parent tree, to set
Them in the coronet of immortality,--
                        Oh, then
The troubled heart breaks forth
In lamentations, deep and wild,
That cannot oft be comforted:
It is so hard to yield to Death
The cherished treasures of the heart.
                        But when
Each idol of the soul,
The last, sole one is torn away,--
O! then, weak mortal, are thy words
Of consolation worse than vain;

For, from a higher source than thine
Must the fresh bleeding wounds be healed.

            But, let us turn where we
Have left the silent, unseen guest
Gazing upon the sinless brows
Of those fair, sleeping babes.
With boundless vision did he look
Beyond the realm of childhood's years
Afar, to the sandy beach that bounds
The open sea of life.
                        He viewed
The wild, unlighted, devious ways,
The rocks, and storms that oft obstruct
The paths that they must wander through,--
Marks the uncertain lights that glow
But to allure, and to destroy,--
Sees, rising far, the hills of wealth,
Of wisdom, and of sounding fame,
Where throngs of eager worshippers
Essay to climb their rugged steeps,
While multitudes but grovel at
The ignoble base forever!
Some reach an easy eminence,
And bask in smiles of peace and love--

If haply on the whirlwind's heath
They're not torn down, and crushed for aye.

'Twas on such scenes the angel looked,--
And as he gazed, sighed low, and said,
"'Tis better I should take them hence."
Then on their downy cheeks he prest
His fingers till the hot blood came
In torrents, crimsoning the brow,
And burning the softly pouting lips,
                        Through which
The laboring breath came hurriedly.
This was enough--the seal was set--
Death knew them for his own,--
So bright, so beautiful--the gems were his,--
Then softly he departed.
                        His hand
Had made a fearful rent within
Two human hearts, that Time
Could never heal, or cure; but Faith
                        And Hope,
Twin sisters from the realms above,
Were sent forevermore to breathe,
In the language weary spirits learn
Of our ever faithful guides so well,

Of a brighter, holier land than this--
An Eden isle, far, far away,
Within the midst of the boundless sea
Of shoreless, vast Eternity!
                        Where He,
The "Great Supreme," shall gently rule
Forever over all! where sin,
Disease, and sorrow cannot come;
And death, and parting, never!

      KOSSUTH'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICANS.


"I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts,--
I am no orator, as Brutus is,
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man.
*       *       *       *       *       *
For I have neither wit, nor worth, nor words,
Actiion, nor utterance, nor the powers of speech
To stir men's blood; I only speak right on,
Show you sweet Cesar's wounds,--poor, poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me."


I have come, I have come, o'er the ocean's broad wave,
I have come to this land of the "free and the brave,"
I have come at the call of this nation, so blest,
Though a poor, homeless exile, I come as its guest;
Yet I come not my weary, worn limbs to repose,
Where the flourishing Olive of Peace queenly grows;
Nor come I to wake the red fires of wrath,
Or scatter, of discord, the seeds in my path;
And yet, as o'er Cesar Mark Antony bowed,
And wept, as he showed his pale corpse to the crowd,

Thus I come, with the scene of my country's deep woe,
And like Cesar's dumb wounds, the dark picture I show.
Behold! from afar the Hungarian plains,
Despoiled, and oppressed, their loved children in chains!
Behold the broad sea of oppression that sweeps
O'er the land where the Goddess of Liberty weeps;
See the wide carnage field where right battled with might,
Till the tyrants came down, like the shadows of night,
Enshrouding the Magyar, his country, and hall,
In a mantle of bondage, a dark, fearful pall!
You would weep scalding tears, could you only behold
But one tithe of the wrongs of my country enrolled,--
Could you see the cold hearth stones, the groups in despair--
All that 's left of the once happy household bands there,--
Could you see each dark prison, a towering tomb,
That enwraps noble hearts in their wild, hopeless gloom,
Where mothers and maids in each horrid cell lie,
Bound in fetters and chains, to starve, suffer, and die;

And oh! God of Heaven, 'tis bitter to bear,--
My own darling sisters are perishing there!
"Yet I come not, my friends, to wake mutiny here."
By the sorrows that cling round my country's sad bier,
I come, a poor exile, my story to tell,--
Its purpose, not doubtful, you all know full well:
I come to this bright, favored spot of the earth,
Where the children of Freedom first owned their glad birth,--
I come but to ask you if I never more
May see, proudly see, o'er my own native shore
The sunlight of Hope, and of Liberty rise,
To illumine with gladness poor Hungary's skies;
Shall my people in bondage and slavery there
Inhale never more their own free mountain air?
Shall mothers and children still wander and stray
Afar from their own beloved homesteads away?
All wearied, and friendless, far hence must I go,
To hug to my heart its incubus of woe?
Shall my kindred in joy be never more prest,
In a glad, warm embrace, to my own happy breast?
Nor again shall I marshal the way to the field,
In the armor of right, and to victory steeled?
Shall our banner no more be unfurled to the breeze,--
O say! shall I harbor no hope for all these?

Shall my nation sink down in the gulf of despair,
Ignobly to rest in oblivion there?
No, no! God forbid I should do the great wrong
To believe that such thoughts to this nation belong;
For each hour since thy shores firs re-echoed my tread
Has spread a new halo of hope round my head;
O! had I the gift of the Roman, or Greek,
In eloquent periods my wishes to speak,--
I would arouse from their caverns of sleep
The cries of revenge, in each brave bosom, deep--
Till the streams of red blood, from my own native sod,
Should, like incense, arise to the foot-stool of God,--
Borne up on the breath of a nation's deep prayer,
For justice to plead of Omnipotence there.

Once more--yet once more,--I am passing away--
In this blest, happy region not long may I stay;
They are calling the Magyar, in mountain and glen,
Though the echo is kept in the souls of brave men.
And now I have done,--the sad, parting adieu
Is all that remaineth for me and for you;
Words never may say how I bless, and adore
The hearts that have welcomed my steps to this shore;

While I feel, next to Heaven, that Columbia's might
Will dispel from my country its mildew and blight,
I await the glad hour when America's hand,
Like a Sibyline spell, o'er my down-trodden land,
With finger upraised, holds intruders at bay,
Till victory, or death, seals the last deadly fray.
Once more--I am done.  I go hence filled with love
Toward my country, and yours, and our Father above!

      THE GREEN WOOD BY THE TIDE.

Oh! I love it, I adore it,
And all the bright stars o'er it--
      The green wood by the tide;
And as they come down, drinking
In the glassy wave, I'm thinking
      Of one, who, by my side,
Long years ago, was breathing
(While the big, round moon was wreathing
      Her glory round our brows,)
Of the hopes that then were beaming,
The visions we were dreaming,
      And our deep, and fervent vows.

Oh! I love it,--I adore it,
And the gleaming stars high o'er it--
      The green wood by the tide;

And as the bees are coming,
A humming, humming, humming,
      From the far, green mountain side,
With their heavy laden wing,
And the quaint, old song they sing,
      With its never-changing notes;
And the sweet wild birds are winging
To their forest homes, and flinging,
      From their little minstrel throats,
Along the vaulted skies,
Melodious harmonies,--
      Enchanting, soft, and clear,
While the stars are o'er me gleaming,--
I'm dreaming, oh! I'm dreaming
      Of one once o'er dear,
Who culled with me bright flowers,
In the glorious summer hours,
      As we rambled, side by side,--
And this is why I love so well--
Above each glen, or bosky dell--
      The green wood by the tide!

      GREETING.

The green buds have burst, Fannie, over the hills,
      The red-bud's sweet blossoms unfold,
And the butter-cups, down by the soft flowing rills,
      Have oped their broad petals of gold;
Then come, let us rove while the gentle winds woo,
      'Mong the brown leaves, the low, timid flowers,
Where the violet beds--the white, yellow, and blue,
      Brightly bloom, in the far, forest bowers.

And while the birds sing on the low, bending boughs,
      We'll blend, with each musical tone
Of free, gladsome carol, or bird-spoken vows,
      Some wild mountain lay of our own;

We'll stray through the nooks, away out in the wild,
      Where the grape vines, so tangled, and gray,
Are the same that o'ershadowed my brow, when a child,
      Oft I dreamed the long hours away.

We'll go to the haunts where alone I have strayed,
      To re-tune the rude chords of my lyre,
When grieved that the unmeasured music they made
      Breathed not of the soul's divine fire;
Oh, I've many strange stories and legends to tell,
      Of the hills, and the valleys all round,--
I can show you the spot where the red warriors fell,
      Like brown leaves, on the old battle ground.

Then come, let us rove where the light squirrel leaps,
      And the bee lowly hums on the spray,
As they seek 'mong the buds where the honey dew sleeps,
      Then bear the sweet treasure away;
And O! for a while 'mong the glorious things,
      Of Nature we'll wander, and dwell,
Where ever some bright thought unconsciously flings,
      O'er the heart-chords, its soul cheering spell.