NEVER DESPAIR. W. C. RICHARDS. HIS motto I give to the young and the old, No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot, Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be, When the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea, But see him amid the fierce strife of the waves, How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare! Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea, Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright, Shrink not from the storm, tho' it come in its might; Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare, Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair. TO THE EVENING WIND. W. C. BRYANT. ["The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this,-we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression,-ornament enough, but not in profusion or display,-imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly soothing,-select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza,-gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy." - Geo. B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 265.] PIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; Go, rock the littlewood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'er-shadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, HYMN OF NATURE. W. O. B. PEABODY. G OD of the earth's extended plains! Where man might commune with the sky: That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, God of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Have summoned up their thundering bands; God of the forest's solemn shade! |