BY JOHN PIERPONT.
Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,— Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell
That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light,
And he, his notes as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore?-
Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,
Are set to words :-as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"
But no! it was not a fairy's shell,
Blown on the beach so mellow and clear;
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,
Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear,
As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of time.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl for a pendulum swung;
(As you've sometimes seen in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"
Oh, how bright were the wheels that told
Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow, And the hands as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seem'd to point to the girl below.
And lo! she had changed;—in a few short hours
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretch'd hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung;
In the fulness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
"Passing away! passing away!"
While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover,
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That march'd so calmly round above her,
Was a little dimm'd,—as when evening steals
Upon noon's hot face:—yet one couldn't but love her,
For she look'd like a mother, whose first babe lay
Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day ;-
And she seem'd, in the same silver tone to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"
While yet I look'd, what a change there came !
Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame, she on;
Yet just as busily swung
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,
Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone
From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,—
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay,)—
"Passing away! passing away!"
BY MRS. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.
"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving?"
YE say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave.
That, mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.
'Tis where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curl'd,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their conelike cabins,
That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves
Before the autumn's gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it
Amid his young renown.
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust,
Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.
BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
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,
you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in the April time.
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