Ralph Hoyt.

BORN in New York, N. Y., 1806. DIED there, 1878.

OLD.

[Sketches of Life and Landscape. Revised Edition. 1852.]

Yet no word he uttered, but his eye

Seemed in mournful converse with the river Murmuring by,

When we cautiously adventured nigh.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,
Ah, to me her name was always heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell,

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
ISABEL!

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

Softly asked she with a voice divine,

Why so lonely hast thou wandered hither; Hast no home ?-then come with me to mine; There's our cottage, let me lead thee thither; Why repine?

Softly asked she with a voice divine.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old:

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Yet why I sit here thou shalt be told; Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,Down it rolled;

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

I have tottered here to look once more

On the pleasant scene where I delighted

In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core;

I have tottered here to look once more!

All the picture now to me how dear!

E'en this gray old rock where I am seated
Seems a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah, that such a scene should be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

Old stone School-house!-it is still the same!
There's the very step so oft I mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game:

Old stone School-house!-it is still the same!

In the cottage yonder I was born;

Long my happy home-that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn,

There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn!—

In the cottage yonder I was born.

Those two gate-way sycamores you see
Then were planted, just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!

Those two gate-way sycamores you see.

There's the orchard where we used to climb

When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb!

There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails,
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where so sly I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising,
Traps and trails,

There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails.

How in summer have I traced that stream,

There through mead and woodland sweetly gliding,

Luring simple trout with many a scheme

From the nooks where I have found them hiding; All a dream!

How in summer have I traced that stream.

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;

Pond, and river still serenely flowing;

Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane,

Where the lily of my heart was blowing,--
MARY JANE!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain!

There's the gate on which I used to swing,

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable:

But, alas! the morn shall no more bring

That dear group around my father's table;

Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing!

I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled;

Yon green meadow was our place for playing;
That old tree can tell of sweet things said,
When around it Jane and I were straying;
She is dead!

I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled!

Yon white spire--a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,

So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother,

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod,
Sire and sisters, and my little brother;
Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson!-but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever!
Peaceful days!

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

There my Mary blest me with her hand,
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
Ere she hastened to the spirit land:

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing:
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand.
I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core;

I have come to see that grave once more.

Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade,
I, all withering with years, shall perish;
With my Mary may I there be laid,
Join forever-all the wish I cherish-
Her dear Shade!--

Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;
Now why I sit here thou hast been told.
In his eye another pearl of sorrow,—
Down it rolled;
Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

By the way-side, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape like a page perusing;
Poor, unknown,

By the way-side, on a mossy stone.

Henry William Herbert.

BORN in London, England, 1807. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1858.

COME BACK.

[By permission of Mrs. Margaret Herbert Mather.-Poems of Frank Forester. Collected and Edited by Morgan Herbert. A Memorial Volume. 1887.]

COME back and bring my life again

That went with thee beyond my will!
Restore me that which makes me man
Or leaves me wretched, dead and chill!
Thy presence was of life a part;

Thine absence leaves the blank of death.
They wait thy presence-eye and heart,
With straining gaze and bated breath.

The light is darkness, if thine eyes
Make not the medium of its ray;

I see no star in evening skies,

Save thou look up and point the way.
Nor bursting buds in May's young bloom,
Nor sunshine rippling o'er the sea,
Bears up to heaven my heart's perfume
Save thou my monitor can be.

There are two paths for human feet--
One bordered by a duty plain,
And one by phantoms cursed, yet sweet,
Bewildering heart and maddening brain;

The one will right and reason urge,

But thou must walk beside me there,

Or else I tread the dizzy verge,

And thou some guilt of loss must bear.

Come back, there is no cause on earth-
No word of shame-no deed of wrong-

Can bury all of truth and worth,

And sunder bonds once firm and strong.
There is no duty, heaven-imposed,

That, velvet-gloved-an iron band

Upon my heart-strings crushed and closed-
Thy hate should all my love withstand.

Days seem like ages-and, ere long,

On senseless ears the cry may fall;
Or, stilled by bitter shame and wrong,
The pleading voice may cease to call.
VOL. VI.-22