English

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,
—When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
—Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light,
—Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
—Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God! from every care
—And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
—To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud,—no lure to stay
—My soul, as home she springs;—
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
—Thy freedom in her wings!

Rise from the shades below,
All you that prove
The helps of looser love;
Rise and bestow
Upon this cup whatever may compel.
By powerful charm and unresisted spell,
A heart unwarmed to melt in love's desires.
Distil into this liquor all your fires,
Heats, longings, tears,
But keep back frozen fears,
That she may know, that has all power defied,
Art is a power that will not be denied.

Stanley, by scientific thirst led forth
To visit distant regions of the North!
Who, noble curiosity to please,
Employ your fortune, sacrifice your ease:
Without the means, though some like ardour feel,
How many have the means, but want the zeal:
Ah doubly and deserv'dly happy you,
Who to the pow'r add inclination too!
Possess'd of fortune, thus to be inclin'd
Befits your station, more befits your mind.
What will not they forego, what not endure,
Who seek with ardour knowledge to procure?
Pursuing this, all pleasures mean appear,

While , flushing o'er thy thy olive cheek,
Like the morning's dubious break,
Virgin Shame delights to spread
Her roses of a deeper red;
And those ruddy lips of thine
Emulate the bleeding vine;
Think'st thou C ÆLIA'S languid white
Can allure my roving sight?
Or my bosom catch a glow
From that chilling form of snow?
In those orbs, oh nymph divine!
Stars may well be said to shine,
Stars, whose pointed rays, are made
More brilliant, by surrounding shade;
Shade, thy raven-locks supply,
To relieve my dazzled eye!

Dear Heart, between us can be no farewell.
We have so long to live, so much to endure,
What ills despair might work us who can tell,
Had we not help in that one trust secure!

Time cannot sever, nor space keep long apart,
Those whom Love's sleepless yearning would draw near.
Fate bends unto the indomitable heart
And firm-fixt will.—What room have we for fear!

If you had not been here
Or I had not chanced by—
Oh, let's not think of that, my dear,
And let's not even try;

For Spring fills all the year
And Love lights all the sky,
Since you—thank God!—are you, my dear,
And here, thank God! am I!

Gather the sacred dust
Of the warriors tried and true,
Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just,
And died for me and you.

Gather them one and all,
From the private to the chief;
Come they from hovel or princely hall,
They fell for us, and for them should fall
The tears of a Nation's grief.

Gather the corpses strewn
O'er many a battle plain;
From many a grave that lies so lone,
Without a name and without a stone,
Gather the Southern slain.

His work is done, his toil is o'er;
A martyr for our land he fell—
The land he loved, that loved him well;
Honor his name for evermore!

Let all the world its tribute pay,
For glorious shall be his renown;
Though duty's was his only crown,
Yet duty's path is glory's way.

For he was great without pretence;
A man of whom none whispered shame,
A man who knew nor guile nor blame;
Good in his every influence.

On battle-field, in council-hall,
Long years with sterling service rife

T HERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,
Beneath is a soldier lying:
The death wound came amid sword and plume,
When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
By wet wild flowers surrounded;
The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,
There was woman's gentler weeping,
And the wailing of age, and infant cries,
O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

I will not sing for gain, nor yet for fame,
Though praise I shall enjoy if come it may,
I will not sing to make my nature tame,
And thus it is if I seek Fortune's way.
But I will chant a rude heroic lay,
On rough New England's coast, whose sterile soil
Gives happiness and dignity to toil.

If I may be a Son of those stern men,
Who took this Indian land to make them free,
And grasping in my hand a Poet's pen,
Thus as a Poet their great thoughts decree,
I then shall think I strike for liberty;