THE AMERICAN RIVER.

A REMEMBRANCE.

Ir rusheth on with fearful might,

That river of the west,

Through forests dense, where seldom light
Of sunbeam gilds its breast:
Anon it dashes wildly past

The widespread prairie lone and vast,
Without a shadow on its tide,

Save the long grass that skirts its side;
Again its angry currents sweep
Beneath some tall and rocky steep,
Which frowns above the darkened stream,
Till doubly deep its waters seem.
No rugged cliff may check its way,
No gentle mead invite its stay--
Still with resistless, maddened force,
Following its wild and devious course,
The river rusheth on.

It rusheth on-the rocks are stirred,

And echoing far and wide,
Through the dim forest aisles, is heard

The thunder of its tide;

No other sound strikes on the ear,
Save when, beside its waters clear,
Crashing o'er branches dry and sear,
Comes bounding forth the antlered deer;
Or when, perchance, the woods give back
The arrow whizzing on its track,
Or deadlier rifle's vengeful crack:
No hum of busy life is near,
And still uncurbed in its career

The river rusheth on.
It rusheth on-no firebark leaves

Its dark and smoking trail
O'er the pure wave, which only heaves

The bateau light and frail;

Long, long ago the rude canoe
Across its sparkling waters flew ;
Long, long ago the Indian brave

In the clear stream his brow might lave:
But seldom has the white man stood
Within that trackless solitude,
Where onward, onward dashing still,
With all the force of untamed will,
The river rusheth on.
It rusheth on--no changes mark
How many years have sped
Since to its banks, through forests dark,
Some chance the hunter led;
Though many a season has passed o'er
The giant trees that gird its shore-
Though the soft limestone mass, imprest
By naked footstep on its breast,
Now hardened into rock appears,
By work of indurating years,
Yet 'tis by grander strength alone
That Nature's age is ever known.
While crumbling turrets tell the tale
Of man's vain pomp and projects frail,
Time, in the wilderness displays
Th' ennobling power of length of days,
And in the forest's pathless bound,
Type of Eternity, is found-

The river rushing on.

THE ENGLISH RIVER.
A FANTASY.

Ir floweth on with pleasant sound-
A vague and dreamlike measure,
And singeth to the flowers around
A song of quiet pleasure;
No rugged cliff obstructs the way
Where the glad waters leap and play,
Or, if a tiny rock look down

In the calm stream with mimic frown,
The waves a sweeter music make,
As at its base they flash and break:
It speedeth on, like joy's bright hours,
Traced but by verdure and by flowers;
And whether sunbeams on it rest,
Or storm-clouds hover o'er its breast,
Still in that green and shady glen,
Beside the busy haunts of men,

The river singeth on.
It floweth on, past tree and flower,
Until the stream is laving
The ruins of some ancient tower,
With ivy banners waving :
Methinks the river's pleasant chime
Now tells a tale of olden time,
When mail-clad knights were often seen
Upon its banks of living green,
And gentle dames of lineage high
Lingered to hear Love's thrilling sigh;
Haply some squire, whose humble name
Was yet unheralded by fame,
Here wove ambition's earliest dreams:
While then, as now, 'neath sunset gleams,
The river singeth on.

It floweth on-that gentle stream—
And seems to tell the story
Of old-world heroes, and their dream
Of fame and martial glory;
The war-cry on its banks has pealed,
Blent with the clang of lance and shield;
Waked to new life by war's alarms,
Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms,
Have sallied forth in proud array,
With hearts impatient for the fray:
Though nature's voice is little heard,
When pulses are thus madly stirred,
Yet, while in brightness it gives back
The glittering sheen that marks their track,
The river singeth on.
Yet, as above the sunniest fate
Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow,
So sadder scenes the fancy wait,

Since dreams from truth we borrow:
A well-worn path, now grass-o'ergrown
And hid by many a fallen stone,
To yonder roofless chapel led
Where sleep the castle's honored dead;
Full often that pure stream has glassed
The funeral train, as slow it passed;
Hark! as the barefoot monks repeat
The "Requiescat," wild and sweet,
The river singeth on
The vision fades, the phantoms flee,
And naught of all remaineth;
The river runneth fast and free,

The wind through ruins plaineth:
The feudal lord and belted knight,
And spurless squire and lady bright,

Long since have shared the common lot-
All, save their haughty name, forgot.
The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine,
Flaunting beneath the glad sunshine;
The fallen fortress, ruined wall,
And crumbling battlement, are all
That still are left to tell the tale
Of those who ruled that fairy vale:
But Nature still upholds her sway,
And flowers and music mark the way
The river singeth on.

BALLAD.

THE maiden sat at her busy wheel,

Her heart was light and free,

And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee:

Her song was in mockery of Love,
And oft I heard her say,

"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,

And I sighed to think that the traitor Love
Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of wo,
While she carolled in tones so gay-
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more;
The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye,
And made her cheek so pale:

The maid had forgotten her early song,
While she listened to Love's soft tale;

She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,
It had wasted her life away-

And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

CHEERFULNESS.

A GENTLE heritage is mine,

A life of quiet pleasure:

My heaviest cares are but to twine Fresh votive garlands for the shrine Where 'bides my bosom's treasure; I am not merry, nor yet sad,

My thoughts are more serene than glad.

I have outlived youth's feverish mirth,
And all its causeless sorrow:
My joys are now of nobler birth,

My sorrows too have holier birth

And heavenly solace borrow;
So, from my green and shady nook,
Back on my by-past life I look.
The past has memories sad and sweet,
Memories still fondly cherished,
Of love that blossomed at my feet,
Whose odors still my senses greet,

E'en though the flowers have perished:
Visions of pleasures passed away
That charmed me in life's earlier day.
The future, Isis-like, sits veiled,

And none her mystery learneth; Yet why should the bright cheek be paled, For sorrows that may be bewailed

When time our hopes inureth?
Come when it will grief comes too soon-
Why dread the mght at highest noon?

I would not pierce the mist that hides
Life's coming joy or sorrow;

If sweet content with me abides
While onward still the present glides,

I think not of the morrow;
It may bring griefs-enough for me
The quiet joy I feel and see.

THE WIDOW'S WOOER.

HE woos me with those honeyed words
That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall

So sweet on every ear:
He tells me that my face is fair,
Too fair for grief to shade;
My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorrow's gloom to fade.

He stands beside me when I sing

The songs of other days,

And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,
The words of heartfelt praise;
And often in my eyes he looks,

Some answering love to see;
In vain he there can only read
The faith of memory.

He little knows what thoughts awake

With every gentle word;

How, by his looks and tones, the foun's
Of tenderness are stirred:

The visions of my youth return.
Joys far too bright to last,

And while he speaks of future bliss,
I think but of the past.

Like lamps in eastern sepulchres,
Amid my heart's deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband's tomb:

And as those lamps, if brought once more

To upper air grow dim,

So my soul's love is cold and dead,

Unless it glow for him.

ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER was born near Wilmington, in Delaware, on the twenty-fourth of December, 1807. Her father, an exemplary member of the society of Friends, after leaving college had become a physician, but at this period he was a farmer, in easy circumstances, and he continued his agricultural pursuits until the death of his wife, when he removed to Philadelphia and resumed the practice of his profession. He died in 1816, leaving two sons and a daughter to the care of their maternal grandmother, in Burlington, New Jersey. Elizabeth, the youngest of his children, was placed at one of the schools of the society, in Philadelphia, where she remained until about thirteen years of age. She was remarkable, when very young, for a love of books, and for a habit of writing verses, and in her seventeenth year she began to send pieces to the journals. For a poem entitled The SlaveShip, written at eighteen, she received a prize offered by the publishers of The Casket, a monthly magazine, and this led to her acquaintance with Mr. Benjamin Lundy, then

THE DEVOTED.

STERN faces were around her bent,
And eyes of vengeful ire,

And fearful were the words they spake,
Of torture, stake, and fire:

Yet calmly in the midst she stood,

With eye undimmed and clear, And though her lip and cheek were white, She wore no signs of fear.

"Where is thy traitor spouse?" they said;—
A half-formed smile of scorn,
That curled upon her haughty lip,

Was back for answer borne ;-
"Where is thy traitor spouse?" again,
In fiercer tones, they said,
And sternly pointed to the rack,

All rusted o'er with red!

Her heart and pulse beat firm and free-
But in a crimson flood,

up

O'er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow,
Rushed the burning blood;
She spake, but proudly rose her tones,
As when in hall or bower,

The haughtiest chief that round her stood
Had meekly owned their power.

editor of The Genius of Universal Emancipation, to which paper she became from that time a frequent contributor. She continued in Philadelphia until the summer of 1830, when, her health having failed, she accompanied her brother to a rural town in Lenawee county, Michigan, where, at a place which she named Hazlebank, she remained, in intimate correspondence with a few friends, and in the occasional indulgence of her taste for literary composition, until her death, on the second of November, 1834.

The Poetical Works of Miss Chandler, with a Memoir of her Life and Character, and a collection of her Essays, Philanthropic and Moral, principally relating to the Abolition of Slavery, were published in Philadelphia in 1836. These volumes are altogether creditable to her principles and her abilities. Her style and feelings were influenced by her religious and social relations, and her writings exhibit but little scope or variety; but the pieces that are here quoted, show how well she might have succeeded, with a wider experience and inspiration.

THE BATTLE FIELD.

THE last fading sunbeam has sunk in the ocean,
And darkness has shrouded the forest and hill;
The scenes that late rang with the battle's commotion
Now sleep'neath the moonbeams serenely and still;
Yet light misty vapors above them still hover,
And dimly the pale beaming crescent discover,
Though all the stern clangor of conflict is over,
And hushed the wild trump-note that echoed so
shrill.

Around me the steed and the rider are lying,

To wake at the bugle's loud summons no moreAnd here is the banner that o'er them was flying, Torn, trampled, and sullied, with earth and with gore.

With morn-where the conflict the wildest was roaring,

Where sabres were clashing, and death-shot were pouring,

That banner was proudest and loftiest soaring-
Now-standard and bearer alike are no more!

All hushed! not a breathing of life from the numbers
That, scattered around me, so heavily sleep-
Hath the cup of red wine lent its fumes to their
slumbers,

And stained their bright garments with crimson so deep?

Ah no! these are not like gay revellers sleeping, The nightwinds, unfelt, o'er their bosoms are sweeping,

Ignobly their plumes o'er the damp ground are creep

ing,

And dews, all uncared for, their bright falchions

steep.

ing high;

The smiles of stern valor their lips were adorning, And triumph flashed out from the glance of their eye!

But now: sadly altered the evening hath found them, They care not for conquest, disgrace can not wound them,

Distinct but in name, from the earth spread around them,

Beside their red broadswords unconscious they lie. How still is the scene! save when dismally whooping, The nightbird afar hails the gathering gloom, [ing Or a heavy sound tells that their comrades are scoopA couch, where the sleepers may rest in the tomb. Alas! ere yon planet again shall be lighted, What hearts shall be broken, what hopes will be blighted,

How many, midst sorrow's dark storm-clouds be

nighted,

Shall envy, e'en while they lament, for thy doom. Oh war! when thou'rt clothed in the garments of glory,

When Freedom has lighted thy torch at her shrine, And proudly thy deeds are emblazoned in story,

We think not, we feel not, what horrors are thine.

But oh, when the victors and vanquish'd have parted, When lonely we stand on the war ground deserted, And think of the dead, and of those broken hearted, Thy blood-sprinkled laurel wreath ceases to shine.

A REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER'S PRAYER.
I CARE not for the hurried march

Through August's burning noon,
Nor for the long cold ward at night,
Beneath the dewy moon;

I've calmly felt the winter's storms

O'er my unsheltered head,
And trod the snow with naked foot,

Till every track was red!

My soldier's fare is poor and scant-
'Tis what my comrades share,
Yon heaven my only canopy-

But that I well can bear;
A dull and feverish weight of pain
Is pressing on my brow,
And I am faint with recent wounds-

For that I care not now.

But oh, I long once more to view

My childhood's dwelling-place,
To clasp my mother to my heart-

To see my father's face!

To list each well-remembered tone,

To gaze on every eye
That met my ear, or thrilled my heart,

In moments long gone by.

In vain with long and frequent draught
Of every wave I sip-

A quenchless and consuming thirst

Is ever on my lip!

The very air that fans my cheek

No blessed coolness brings-
A burning heat or chilling damp
Is ever on its wings.

Oh! let me seek my home once more-
For but a little while--

But once above my couch to see

My mother's gentle smile;
It haunts me in my waking hours—
"Tis ever in my dreams,
With all the pleasant paths of home,
Rocks, woods, and shaded streams.
There is a fount-I know it well-
It springs beneath a rock,
Oh, how its coolness and its light,
My feverish fancies mock!
I pine to lay me by its side,

And bathe my lips and brow,
"T would give new fervor to the heart
That beats so languid now.

I may not I must linger here

Perchance it may be just!
But well I know this yearning soon
Will scorch my heart to dust;
One breathing of my native air

Had called me back to life-
But I must die-must waste away
Beneath this inward strife!