And melody by fits was breaking

Upon the whisper of the breeze-
And this when I was forth, perchance
As a worn reveller from the dance-

And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river

Were catching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver—

I say a voice has thrilled me then,
Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or, creeping from the silent glen,
Like words from the departing night,
Hath stricken me, and I have pressed
On the wet grass my fevered brow,
And pouring forth the earliest

First prayer, with which I learned to bow,
Have felt my mother's spirit rush
Upon me as in by-past years,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,

Have risen up the gay, the wild-
Subdued and humble as a child.

DEATH OF GENERAL HARRISON.

N. P. WILLIS,

DEATH! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,
Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!
He is looked for in hovel, and dreaded in hall-
The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—
The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home,
Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb ;-
But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here-
In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier!
He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high-
As the arrow is stopped by its prize in the sky-
The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore-
Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er-
But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—
He went with his old stride-from glory to glory!

What more? Shall we on, with his ashes? Yet, stay!
He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!

At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land-
The bright gold of thousands has passed through his hand-
Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?

No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword

No trappings-uo horses?-what had he, but now?
On!-on with his ashes!-HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!
Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!
Let him sleep as he lived with his purse at his feet!

Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-day
Is the nation-whose father is taken away!
Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan at his knell-
He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!
For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,
Let us weep, in our darkness-but weep not for him!
Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!
Not for him-who has died full of honor and years!
Not for him-who ascended Fame's ladder so high
From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky!

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

HORACE SMITH.

DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with man, to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle

As a libation.

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye!
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high.

Ye bright Mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of nature's temple tesselate
With numerous emblems of instructive beauty,
Your forms create.

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned;

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves-its organ thunderIts dome the sky.

There, as in solitude and shade I wander

Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod,
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God.

Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor,

66

Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore sublime!

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory,
Are human flowers!"

In the sweet scented pictures, heavenly Artist!
With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,

Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

A second birth.

Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!

HORACE SMITH.

THE MUMMY.

AND thou hast walked about-how strange a story!

In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago! When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous!

Speak!-for thou long enough hast acted dummy,
Thou hast a tongue,-come-let us hear its tune!
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,—

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs and features!

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect,—

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?—

Was Cheops, or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?—

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?—

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason,—and forbidden,

By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade: Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest;-if so, my struggles Are vain,-for priestcraft never owns its juggles!

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass,-
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,-

Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass,—
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch, at the great temple's dedication!

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled?

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:-
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green!—
Or was it then so old that history's pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent!-Incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy vows! But, prithee, tell us something of thyself,

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house:

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,—

New worlds have risen,- -we have lost old nations,

And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,-

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold!

A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled :Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh !-Immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence!
Posthumous man,-who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence!
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning!