How the armed warrior sate him down to hear Of Peace and Truth, And fair and bright-eyed youth. Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, Even when a boy, Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore, His simple record I have pondered o'er With deep and quiet joy. And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm Its woods around, To me is holy ground. And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps His vigils still ; Or Virgil's laurelled hill. To the grey walls of fallen Paraclete, To Juliet's urn, Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange grove, Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love Like brother pilgrims turn. But here a deeper and serener charm To all is given ; And blessed memories of the faithful dead - O’er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed The holy hues of Heaven ! TO JOHN PIERPONT. Not as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine Bore to my ear the airs of Palestine, – And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought ! THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. (IBN BATUTA, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a Cypress tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them, was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several venerable JOGEES, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.] THEY sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress tree about, Their failing eyes looked out. Grey Age and Sickness waiting there Through weary night and lingering day — And motionless as they. Unheeded in the boughs above The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ; Bloomed brightly at their feet. O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill; Yet there they waited still ! What was the world without to them? The Moslem's sunset-call — the dance Of battle-flag and lance ? They waited for that falling leaf, Of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring. Oh!— if these poor and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel O'er torpid pulse and failing limb A youthful freshness steal ; Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree, Whose healing leaves of life are shed In answer to the breath of prayer Upon the waiting head : Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken shrine, But, on the fainting soul to shed A light and life divine : Shall we grow weary in our watch, And murmur at the long delay ? Impatient of our Father's time And His appointed way? Or, shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die ? Alas! a deeper test of faith Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make. We gird us bravely to rebuke Our erring brother in the wrong: And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong. Easier to smite with Peter's sword, Than “watch one hour" in humbling prayer : Life's "great things," like the Syrian lord Our hearts can do and dare. But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, From waters which alone can save: And murmur for Abana's banks And Pharpar's brighter wave. Oh, Thou, who in the garden's shade Didst wake Thy weary ones again, Who slumbered at that fearful hour Forgetful of thy pain; Bend o'er us now, as over them, And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee! A DREAM OF SUMMER. BLAND as the morning breath of June The southwest breezes play ; Seems warm as summer's day. Has dropped his icy spear ; Again the streams gush clear. The fox his hill-side cell forsakes, The muskrat leaves his nook, Is singing with the brook. |