HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad
To the dejected HAGAR. The moist earth
Was pouring odours from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were singing, as if life
Were a new thing to them; but, O! it came
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.

She stood at ABRAHAM's tent Her lips were press'd
Till the blood started; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out,
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long lashes, as it had been flame.
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor,
Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up
Into his mother's face, until he caught

The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form
Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swell'd,
Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man.
Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and on his high brow,
So written with the converse of his GoD,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigour is not there; and, though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.
O, man may bear with suffering: his heart
Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp
Of pain, that wrings mortality; but tear
One chord affection clings to, part one tie
That binds him to a woman's delicate love,
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand
In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should HAGAR weep? May slighted woman turn,
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her leaning trust again?
O, no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness,—yet give

One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.
But, O! estrange her once-it boots not how-
By wrong or silence, any thing that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness-
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.

She went her way with a strong step and slow
Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm`d,
As it had been a diamond, and her form
Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd
His hand till it was pain'd: for he had caught,
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest; but HAGAR found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy
Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips

For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,-
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why GoD denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grew
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd:
"GoD stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle-joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this when thou wert straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers;

Or wearing rosy hours,

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"O, no! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream

In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,
How pray'd I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And, O! my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there

Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laugh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

THOUGHTS

WHILE MAKING A GRAVE FOR A FIRST CHILD, BORN DEAD.

ROOM, gentle flowers! my child would pass to heaven!
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes,
O, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But, lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep, O, mother!
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away.

One look upon her face ere she depart!
My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!

My daughter! with thy birth has gush'd a spring
I knew not of: filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee!
A love-O, Gon, it seems so-which must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain,
Drawing me after thee! And so farewell!
"T is a harsh world in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost

But the lone grave! Thou, who so late was sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving,
But it was sent thee with some tender thought-
How can I leave thee here! Alas, for man!
The herb in its humility may fall,
And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we, by hands that minister'd in life
Nothing but love to us, are thrust away,
The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever!

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead us to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone;
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters;
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers;
And, far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort, and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies
Robb'd of her child, and lonely. "Tis the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone!
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
Its images from all the silent rooms,

And every sight and sound familiar to her
Undo its sweetest link; and so, at last,
The fountain that, once loosed, must flow forever,
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens its buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say,

A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away!

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air;
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.
"T is a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,"
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,-
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,

He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smoothe his breast,
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen!
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar,
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smoothe thy feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;

I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)
And, while the world throngs on beneath,
Smoothe down my cares and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirr'd, to knell or chime,
And, lapp'd in quiet, bide my time.

APRIL.

"A violet by a mossy stone, Half-hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky."

WORDSWORTH.

I HAVE found violets. April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time.
You may hear birds at morning, and at eve
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea,
Tells the release of waters, and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves
Are lifted by the grass; and so I know
That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.
Take of my violets! I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank
That lean'd to running water. There's to me
A daintiness about these early flowers,
That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among
The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
I love to go in the capricious days
Of April and hunt violets, when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.
It may be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!
Ye spirits of habitual unrest,

And read it, when the "fever of the world”
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life
Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be
Like a beguiling music to its flow,
And you will no more wonder that I love
To hunt for violets in the April-time.

THE ANNOYER.

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song, in the time of birds.
He peeps into the warrior's heart

From the tip of a stooping plume,

And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,

And be busy in his dream,

And he'll float to his eye in morning light, Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,

And rides on the echo back,

And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,

And flits in his woodland track.

The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud, and the open sky,

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,

For Love is under the surface hid,

And a spell of thought has he;
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.

In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought
Will Love be lurking nigh.

Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear and

I look upon a face as fair

As ever made a lip of heaven

Falter amid its music-prayer!

The first-lit star of summer even

Springs not so softly on the eye,

Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, Nor, mid its sisters of the sky,

So seems of heaven the dearest light; Men murmur where that face is seen

My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien.

Yet, though we deem the stars are blest,
And envy, in our grief, the flower
That bears but sweetness in its breast,

And fear'd the enchanter for his power,
And love the minstrel for his spell
He winds out of his lyre so well;
The stars are almoners of light,
The lyrist of melodious air,

The fountain of its waters bright,

And every thing most sweet and fair
Of that by which it charms the ear,
The eye of him that passes near;
A lamp is lit in woman's eye

That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.

EDWARD SANFORD, a son of the late Chancellor SANFORD, is a native of the city of New York. He was graduated at the Union College in 1824, and in the following year became a law student in the office of BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, afterward Attorney-General of the United States. He subsequently practised several years in the courts of

New York, but finally abandoned his profession to conduct the "Standard," an able democratic journal, with which he was connected during the political contest which resulted in the election of Mr. VAN BUREN to the Presidency, after which he was for a time one of the editors of "The Globe," at Washington. He now resides in New York.

ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. THERE's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full, dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time; Ambition, that survives the battle-rout. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds, that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride. Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yetVanquish'd and captive-dost thou deem that here The glowing day-star of thy glory set

Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest-lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast

Of thy crush'd victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, [thers? And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced broFor it was cruel, BLACK HAWK, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate,

Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late

[will

To crush the hordes who have the power and To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, [wonder; There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense

The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky; Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion? Thou'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?

Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage

Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,

Seen their eyes glisten,and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,

Pass in a moment from a king-to clown.

Thou seest these things unmoved! sayst so, old fellow?

Then tell us, have the white man's glowing

daughters

Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow
By a sly cup or so of our fire-waters?
They are thy people's deadliest poison. They

First make them cowards, and then white men's

slaves;

And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,
And lives of misery, and early graves.
For, by their power, believe me, not a day goes
But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away,

To the deep bosom of thy forest-home? The hill-side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws

For their lost warrior loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,

That, yell'd at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-deck'd wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her-and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison-bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the West,
The victor of a hundred forest-wars,
Shouldst in thy age become a raree-show,
Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new-caught monster, who is all the go,

And stared at, gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,

Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,

And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral-pile Of a bound warrior in his agony,

Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's; Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree

Is blanch'd, and bare, and sear'd, and leafless I'll not insult its fallen majesty,

[now. Nor drive,with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,

Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold,

New, barren earth; no life sustains it there, But, even though prostrate, 't is a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,
Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;
The best of blood glows in thy every feature,
And thy curl'd lip speaks scorn for our democracy.
Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;
Let him who doubts them meet thine eagle-eye,
He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow

All question of thy noble family;

For thou mayst here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

TO A MUSQUITO.

His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.-King Lear.

THOU Sweet musician, that around my bed

Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led,

Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn?
The wind-harp's tones are not more soft than thine,
The hum of falling waters not more sweet:
I own, indeed, I own thy song divine, [meet,
And when next year's warm summer nights we
(Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be
A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.

Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse
Such eloquent music? was 't thy tuneful sire?
Some old musician? or didst take a course

Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump? Did Nontox form thy notes so clear and full ? Art a phrenologist, and is the bump

Of song developed in thy little skull?
At NIBLO's hast thou been when crowds stood mute,
Drinking the birdlike tones of CUDDY's flute?

Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song.
Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer,
Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long,
Still night? With song dost drive away dull care?
Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,

A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,

Who thy advance with halfway shyness meets? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, "In maiden meditation, fancy free?"

Thou little siren, when the nymphs of yore

Charm'd with their songs till men forgot to dine, And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine. They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, That thou mayst use, unharm'd, thy little sting, The very moment we begin to doze; Thou worse than siren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, Thou living vampire, and thou gallinipper!

Nature is full of music, sweetly sings

The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things,

Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore,

'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador,

The world's free citizen, thou roamest wild. Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll."

Thy voice is heard, from «Indus to the Pole."

The incarnation of Queen MAB art thou,

"The fairies' midwife;"-thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low,

The honey-dew from many a lady's lip(Though that they "straight on kisses dream,” I doubt-)

On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout" "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep; And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the forefinger of an alderman."

Yet thou canst glory in a noble birth.

As rose the sea-born VENUS from the wave,
So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth,
The living water and the fresh air gave
A portion of their elements to create

Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate

Meant thee to feed on music or on air.
Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee,
Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.

The hues of dying sunset are most fair,

And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are

By far the sweetest when thou takest thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind-harp's tones at distance heard; "Tis sweet at distance, at the day's decline,

To hear the opening song of evening's bird.
But notes of harp or bird at distance float
Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note.

The autumn-winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge;
Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom.
Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge
Whelms the toss'd mariner in its watery tomb:
Then soar, and sing thy little life away!

Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day,

Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with autumn's dying flowers.