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And oft beneath the sun or moon their swift and eager falchions

glow, While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune comes chafing through

some beard of snow. And when the far North Aashes up with fires of mingled red and

gold, They know that many a blazing cup is brimming to the absent



Up signal there, and let us hail yon looming phantom as we pass ! Note all her fashion, hull and sail, within the compass of your glass. See at her mast the steadfast glow of that one star of Odin's

throne ; Up with our flag, and let us show the Constellation on our own.

No answer, but the sullen flow of ocean heaving long and vast ;
An argosy of ice and snow, the voiceless North swings proudly past.

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Very sweet and refreshing are his liquid lines to the Wayside Spring :

Fair dweller by the dusty way—bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day, weary and worn, is thine.
The earliest blossoms of the year, the sweet-brier and the violet,
The pious hand of Spring has here upon thy altar set,
And not alone to thee is given the homage of the pilgrim's knee,
But oft the sweetest birds of heaven glide down and sing to thee.
Here daily from his beechen cell the hermit squirrel steals to drink,
And flocks, which cluster to their bell, recline along thy brink.

And oft the beggar, masked with tan, in rusty garments, gray with

dust, Here sits and dips his little can, and breaks his scanty crust; And, lulled beside thy whispering stream, oft drops to slumber

unawares, And sees the angel of his dream upon celestial stairs. Dear dweller by the dusty way, thou saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to-day, weary and worn, is thine !

The following exquisite lines are from the same source :

She came, as comes the summer wind, a gust of beauty to my heart; Then swept away, but left behind emotions which shall not depart. Unheralded she came and went, like music in the silent nightWhich, when the burthened air is spent, bequeathes to memory its

delight. Or like the sudden April bow that spans the violet-waking rain, She bade those blessed flowers to grow which may not fall or fade

again, For sweeter than all things most sweet, and fairer than all things

most fair, She came, and passed with footsteps Aeet, a shining wonder in the air !

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Gallagher's fine poem on the Miami Woods contains this glowing picture of Indian Summer. This poet of the West seems to have caught inspiration from the bold, primeval aspects of Nature :


What a change hath passed upon the face.
Of Nature, where the waving forest spreads,
Once robed in deepest green! All through the night
The subtle frost hath plied its mystic art;
And in the day, the golden sun hath wrought
True wonders ; and the winds of morn and even
Have touched with magic breath the changing leaves.
And now, as wanders the dilating eye
Across the varied landscape, circling far,
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp
Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight!
Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest,
A golden glory; yonder, where the oak
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash
Is girt with Alame-like parasite, and broad
The dogwood spreads beneath, a rolling food
Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms
The gnarlèd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red !

The two following extracts are from the same source :

When last the maple-bud was swelling,

When last the crocus bloomed below,
Thy heart to mine its love was telling,

Thy soul with mine kept ebb and flow :
Again the maple-bud is swelling-

Again the crocus blooms below-
In heaven thy heart its love is telling,

But still our hearts keep ebb and flow.

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When last the April bloom was Ainging

Sweet odours on the air of Spring,
In forest-aisles thy voice was ringing,

Where thou didst with the red-bird sing ;
Again the April bloom is Ainging

Sweet odours on the air of Spring -
But now in heaven thy voice is ringing,

Where thou dost with the angels sing.


Broad plains—blue waters—bills and valleys,

That ring with anthems of the free !
Brown-pillared groves, and green-arched alleys,

That Freedom's holiest temples be!
These forest-aisles are full of story:

Here many a one of old renown
First sought the meteor-light of glory,

And mid its transient fash-went down.

Historic names forever greet us,

Where'er our wandering way we thread;
Familiar forms and faces meet us,

As, living, walk with us the dead.
Man’s fame, so often evanescent,

Links here with thoughts and things that last ;
And all the bright and teeming Present

Thrills with the great and glorious Past !

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Perkins, another of the woodland minstrels of the West, thus gilds his verse with sunshine :

Oh! merry, merry be the day, and bright the star of even

For ’tis our duty to be gay, and tread in holy joy our way ; Grief never came from heaven, my love, it never came from heaven.

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Then let us not, though woes betide, complain of fortune's spite, As rock-encircled trees combine, and nearer grow and closer

twine, So let our hearts unite, my love, so let our hearts unite.

And though the circle here be small of heartily approved ones, There is a home beyond the skies, where vice shall sink and

virtue rise, Till all become the loved ones, love, till all become the loved ones.

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Then let your eye be laughing still, and cloudless be your brow;

For in that better world above, O! many myriads shall we love, As one another now, my love, as one another now.

many mvri


BYRON, notwithstanding all his errors of creed and conduct, seems to have been possessed of fine sensibilities, as the following incident will prove :-On a certain occasion, when in London, he was solicited to subscribe for a volume of poems, by a young lady of good education, whose connections were impoverished by reverses. He listened to her sad story, and, while conversing with her, wrote something on a piece of paper ; he then, handing it to her, said, “ This is my subscription, and I heartily wish you success.” On reaching the street, she found it to be a check for fifty pounds.

That Byron was endowed with brilliant powers, none will deny ; but all do not as readily admit that those gifts were sadly perverted. It is not true, as his false morality teaches, that great crimes imply great qualities, and that virtue is a slavery: it is in the converse of the proposition that truth rests. No wonder that Byron should have recorded, in this sad refrain, his own bitter experience :


“My days are in the yellow leaf;

The fruits and flowers of love are gone,-
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.”


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