IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.-TO THE RIVER CHARLES. GOD'S-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls It consecrates each grave within its walls, Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 39 And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe, With which its brim may overflow, He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; To see his foeman's face. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer One half the human race. O suffering, sad humanity! Patient, though sorely tried! I pledge you in this cup of grief, MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet! Gazing, with a timid glance, Deep and still, that gliding stream Then why pause with indecision, Seest thou shadows sailing by, Hearest thou voices on the shore, O. thou child of many prayers! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Gather, then, each flower that grows, [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] THE GOOD PART.-THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Clast of the Desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, And then at furious speed he rode. THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kanawha's side, Her soul, like the transparent air Though not of earth, encircles there And thus she walks among her girls She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; And oft the blessed time foretells And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Long since beyond the Southern Sea It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine Where waving mosses shroud the pine, Where hardly a human foot could pass, A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, |