COME now unto the forest, and enjoy
The loveliness of Nature. Look abroad
And note the tender beauty and repose
Of the magnificent in earth and sky.
See what a radiant smile of golden light
O'erspreads the face of heaven; while the west
Burns like a living ruby in the ring
Of the deep green horizon. Now the shades
Are deepening round the feet of the tall trees,
Bending the head of the pale blossoms down
Upon their mother's bosom, where the breeze
Comes with a low, sweet hymn and balmy kiss,
To lull them to repose. Look now, and see
How every mountain, with its leafy plume,
Or rocky helm, with crest of giant pine,
Is veiled with floating amber, and gives back
The loving smile of the departing sun,
And nods a calm adieu.
Where sombre hemlocks sigh unto the streams,
Which with its everlasting harmony
Returns each tender whisper, what a gush
Of liquid melody, like soft, rich tones
Of flute and viol, mingling in sweet strains
Of love and rapture, float away toward heaven!
"T is the Edoleo, from her sweet place
Singing to Nature's God the perfect hymn
Of Nature's innocence. Does it not seem
That Earth is listening to that evening song?—
There's such a hush on mountain, plain, and streams.
Seems not the Sun to linger in his bower
On yonder leafy summit, pouring forth
His glowing adoration unto God,
Blent with that evening hymn, while every flower
Bows gracefully, and mingles with the strain
Its balmy breathing? Have you looked on aught
In all the panoply and bustling pride
Of the dense city with its worldly throng,
So soothing, so delicious to the soul,
So like the ante-chamber of high heaven,
As this old forest, with the emerald crown
Which it has worn for ages, glittering
With the bright halo of departing day,
While from its bosom living seraphim
Are hymning gratitude and love to God?
THE LAST PALE FLOWERS.
THE last pale flowers are drooping on the stems, The last sere leaves fall fluttering from the tree, The latest groups of Summer's flying gems
Are hymning forth a parting melody. The wings are heavy-winged and linger by, Whispering to every pale and sighing leaf; The sunlight falls all dim and tremblingly, Like love's fond farewell through the mist of grief. There is a dreamy presence everywhere, As if of spirits passing to and fro; We almost hear their voices in the air, And feel their balmy pinions touch the brow. We feel as if a breath might put aside
The shadowy curtains of the spirit-land, Revealing all the loved and glorified
That Death has taken from Affection's band.
We call their names, and listen for the sound
Of their sweet voices' tender melodies;
We look almost expectantly around
For those dear faces with the loving eyes.
We feel them near us, and spread out the scroll
Of hearts whose feelings they were wont to share,
That they may read the constancy of soul
And all the high, pure motives written there.
And then we weep, as if our cheek were pressed
To Friendship's holy, unsuspecting heart,
Oh, vision blest!
Which understands our own.
Alas, that such illusions should depart!
I oft have prayed that Death may come to me
In such a spiritual, autumnal day;
For surely would be no agony
With all the beautiful to pass away.
COME to the woods in June
"Tis happiness to rove When Nature's lyres are all in tune,
And life all full of love...... While from the dewy dells,
And every wildwood bower,
A thousand little feathered bells
Ring out the matin hour.
Come when the sun is high,
And earth all full in bloom,
When every passing summer sigh
Is languid with perfume;
When by the mountain-brook
The watchful red-deer lies,
And spotted fawns in mossy nook
Have closed their wild, bright eyes;
While from the giant tree,
And fairy of the sod,
A dreamy wind-harp melody
Speaks to the soul of God-
Whose beauteous gifts of love
The passing hours unfold,
Till e'en the sombre hemlock-boughs
Are tipped with fringe of gold.
Come when the sun is set,
And see along the west
Heaven's glory streaming through the gate
By which he passed to rest;
While brooklets, as they flow
Beneath the cool, sweet bowers,
Sing fairy legends soft and low
To groups of listening flowers;
And creeping, formless shades
Make distance strange and dim,
And with the daylight softly fades
The wild-bird's evening hymn.
Come when the woods are dark,
And winds go fluttering by,
While here and there a phantom bark
Floats in the deep blue sky;
While gleaming far away
Beyond the aerial flood,
Lies in its starry majesty
The city of our God.
JANE TAYLOE LOMAX, a daughter of the late Colonel Lomax of the United States ariny, was a native of Virginia, and was connected with several of the most distinguished families of that state. She was educated in different parts of the country, as the exigencies of the military service led to changes of residence by her father, and her large opportunities were improved by a genial intercourse with various society, and a minute and loving observation of nature. Her affections, however, always centred in the "Old Dominion," and nearly all her productions appeared in the Southern Literary Messen
TO THE PEAKS OF OTTER.
FAIR are the sunset hues, thy dark brow blessing,
Oh mountain, with their gift of golden rays;
And the few floating clouds, thy crest caressing,
Seem guardian angels to my raptured gaze:
I have looked on thee through the saddest tears
That ever human sorrow taught to flow,
And thou wilt come, in life's recalling years,
Linked with the memory of my deepest wo.
Yet well I love thee, in thy silent mystery,
Thy purple shadows and thy glowing light-
Thou art to me a most poetic history
Of stillest beauty and of storiniest might:
I owe thee, oh, sublime and solemn mountain,
For many hours of vision and of thought,
For pleasant draughts from fancy's gushing fountain,
For bright illusions by thy presence brought.
And more I thank thee, for the deeper learning
That soothes my spirit as I look on thee,
For thou hast laid upon my soul's wild yearning
The holy spell of thy tranquillity:
I shall recall thee with a long regretting,
And often pine to see thy brow, in vain,
While Thought, returning, fond and unforgetting,
Will trace thy form in glory-tints again.
And thou, in thine experience, all material,
Wilt never know how worshipped thou hast been;
No glimpses of the life that is ethereal
Shadow thy face, eternally serene!
Thou hast not felt the impulse of resistance-
Thy lot has linked thee with the earth alone:
Thou art no traveller to a new existence,
Thou hast no future to be lost or won.
'he past for thee contains no bitter fountain-
Thou hast no onward mission to fulfil :
ger, which was edited by a personal friend, at Richmond. She excelled most in the essay, and there are few better illustrations of womanly feeling and intelligence than may be found in her numerous compositions of this kind, which were written in the four or five years of her literary life. Her poems, simple, graceful, and earnest, are reflections of a character eminently truthful, refined, and pleasing. She was married, in 1843, to F. A.Worthington, M. D., of Ohio, and she died, lamented by a wide circle of literary and personal friends, in 1847. No collection of her works has been published.
And I would learn from thee, oh silent mountain,
All things enduring, to be tranquil still!
And now,
with that fond reverence of feeling
We owe whatever wakes our loftiest thought,
I can but offer thee, in faint revealing,
These idle thanks for all that thou hast brought.
TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM
I HAVE been reading, tearfully and sadly,
The lines we read together long ago,
When our experience glided on so gladly,
We loved to linger o'er poetic wo.
We both have changed: our souls at last are finding
Their destiny-in silence to endure;
And the strong ties, our best affections binding,
Are not the dreamlike ones our hearts once wore.
We live no longer in a world elysian,
With life's deep sorrowing still a thing to test;
And we have laid aside a vanished vision-
The hope once wildly treasured as our best.
Yet though the tie that then our thoughts united
Lies severed now, a bright but broken chain-
Though other love hath lavishly requited
That early one, so passionate and vain—
Still, as I read the lines we read together,
Now hallowed by our parting's bitter tears,
As mournfully my spirit questions, Whither
Have gone the sweet illusions of those years!
I close the book, such vain remembrance bringing
Of all that now 't were wiser to forget:
Say, are your thoughts, like mine, still idly clinging
To those old times of rapture and regret?
Ir shineth on the quiet graves
Where weary ones have gone,
It watcheth with angelic gaze
Where the dead are left alone;
And not a sound of busy life
To the still graveyard comes,
But peacefully the sleepers lie
Down in their silent homes.
All silently and solemnly
It throweth shadows round,
And every gravestone hath a trace
In darkness on the ground:
It looketh on the tiny mound
Where a little child is laid,
And it lighteth up the marble pile
Which human pride hath made.
It falleth with unaltered ray
On the simple and the stern,
And it showeth with a solemn light
The sorrows we must learn;
It telleth of divided ties
On which its beam hath shone,
It whispereth of heavy hearts
Which "brokenly live on."
It gleameth where devoted ones
Are sleeping side by side,
It looketh where the maiden rests
Who in her beauty died.
There is no grave in all the earth
That moonlight hath not seen;
gazeth cold and passionless
Where agony hath been.
Yet it is well that changeless ray
A deeper thought should throw,
When mortal love pours forth the tide
Of unavailing wo;
It teacheth us no shade of grief
Can touch the starry sky,
That all our sorrow liveth here-
The glory is on high!
It is a place where tender thought
Its voiceless vigil keepeth;
It is a place where kneeling love,
Mid all its hope, still weepeth:
The vanished light of all a life
That tiny spot encloseth,
Where, followed by a thousand dreams,
The little one reposeth.
It is a place where thankfulness
A tearful tribute giveth:
That one so pure hath left a world
Where so much sorrow liveth-
Where trial, to the heavy heart,
Its constant cross presenteth,
And every hour some trace retains
For which the soul repenteth.
It is a place for Hope to rise,
While other brightness waneth,
And from the darkness of the grave
To learn the gift it gaineth-
From Him who wept, as on the earth
Undying love still weepeth-
From Him who spoke the blessed words, "She is not dead, but sleepeth."
HAVE pity on them! for their life
Is full of grief and care:
You do not know one half the woes
The very poor must bear;
You do not see the silent tears
By many a mother shed,
As childhood offers up the prayer,
Give us our daily bread."
And sick at heart, she turns away
From the small face, wan with pain, And feels that prayer has long been said By those young lips in vain. You do not see the pallid cheeks
Of those whose years are few, But who are old in all the griefs The poor must struggle through. Their lot is made of misery
More hopeless day by day,
And through the long cold winter nights
Nor light nor fire have they;
But little children, shivering, crouch
Around the cheerless hearth,
Their young hearts weary with the want
That drags the soul to earth.
Oh, when with faint and languid voice
The poor implore your aid,
It matters not how, step by step,
Their misery was made;
It matters not, if shame had left
Its shadow on their brow
It is enough for you to see
That they are suffering now.
Deal gently with these wretched ones,
Whatever wrought their wo,
For the poor have much to tempt and test
That you can never know:
Then judge them not, for hard indeed
Is their dark lot of care;
Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts
With human faults should bear.
And when within your happy homes
You hear the voice of mirth,
When smiling faces brighten round
The warm and cheerful hearth,
Let charitable thoughts go forth
For the sad and homeless one,
And your own lot more blest will be,
For every kind deed done.
Now is the time the very poor
Most often meet your gaze-
Have mercy on them, in these cold
And melancholy days.
"He giveth his beloved sleep."
Ir visiteth the desolate,
Who hath no friend beside,
And bringeth peace to saddened souls
Whose hope, deferred, had died:
It layeth its caressing hand
Upon the brow of care,
And calleth to the faded lips
The smile they used to wear.
And lovely is the angel light
Of a little child's repose, 'The holiest and the sweetest rest
Our human nature knows-
Such rest as can not close the eyes
Grown old with many tears,
That never soothes the pilgrim path
Of life's dejected years.
"He giveth his beloved sleep!"
All thanks for such a boon,
And thanks, too, for the deeper sleep
That will be with us soon-
From which our long o'erladen hearts
Shall wake to pain no more,
But find fulfilled the fairest thoughts
They only dreamed before!
PALE Memory's favored child thou art,
And many dreams are thine;
With thine existence, all the past
Returning seems to twine.
Thou bringest to the souls bereaved
The look and tone they miss;
Thou callest from another world
The best beloved of this.
Thou comest like a veiléd nun,
With footstep sad and slow;
Thou summonest the solemn prayer
From heart and lip to flow.
Thou givest to fantastic things
A real shape and hue,
And thou canst, like a poet's dream,
Idealize the true.
Oh, if thy coming thus recalls
The past upon our sight,
How must the guilty shrink from thee,
Thou sad and solemn light!
How must the hard and hopeless heart
Thy mystic power repel
What fearful fantasies must fill
The convict's haunted cell!
How must his young and better days
Upon his visions dawn-
How bitterly that ruined soul
Must mourn its brightness gone!
Oh, often at thy thoughtful hour,
Beside the happy hearth,
My busy fancy flies to these,
The lost ones of the earth.
A voice amid their solitude
Is sounding evermore-
God help them in that loneliness
So fearful to endure!
THEY are falling thick and rapidly,
Before the autumn breeze,
And a sudden sound of mournfulness
Is heard among the trees,
Like a wailing for the scattered leaves,
So beautiful and bright,
Thus dying in their sunny hues
Of loveliness and light.
The wind that wafts them to their doom
Is the same that swept along
In the freshness of their summer-time,
And blessed them with its song:
That voice is still the merry one
That mid the sunshine fell-
Ye are not missed, ye glowing leaves,
By the friend ye loved so well.
But yet, no fearful fate is yours,
No shuddering at decay,
No shrinking from the blighting gust
That bears your life away:
The spring-tide, with its singing birds,
Hath long ago gone by-
Ye had your time to bloom and live,
Ye have your time to die.
Oh, would that we, the sadder ones,
Who linger on the earth,
Like
ye might wither when our lives
Had parted with their mirth:
Ye glow with beauty to the last,
And brighten with decay,
Ye know not of the mental war
That wears the heart away.
Ye have no memories to recall,
No sorrows to lament,
No secret weariness of soul
With all your pleasures blent:
To us alone the lot is cast,
To think, to love, to feelAlas! how much of human wo Those few brief words reveal!
MISS ROBINSON, now Mrs. LEWIS, is a native of Baltimore. She inherits from her fainer, who was a Cuban, of English and Spanish parentage, and a man of liberal fortune and cultivated understanding, the melancholy temperament which is illustrated in the greater part of her writings. After being carefully educated—in part at the celebrated school of Mrs. Willard, in Troy - she was married to Mr. L. D. Lewis, an attorney and counsellor, who soon after removed to Brooklyn, where they have since resided.
The earliest writings of Mrs. Lewis appeared in the Family Magazine, edited by the well-known Solomon Southwick, of Albany. She came more prominently before the public in Records of the Heart, published in New York in 1844. The principal poems in this volume-Florence, Zenel, Melpomene, and Laone-are of considerable length, and of a more ambitious design than most of the compositions of our female poets. That they evince fancy and an ear sensitive to harmony, will be understood from the following lines of Florence:
The waves are smooth, the wind is calm;
Onward the golden stream is gliding,
Amid the myrtle and the palm,
And ilices its margin hiding;
Now sweeps it o'er the jutting shoals
In murmurs like despairing souls;
Now deeply, softly, flows along
Like ancient minstrels' warbled song;
Then slowly, darkly, thoughtfully,
Loses itself in the mighty sea.
The sky is clear, the stars are bright,
The moon reposes on her light;
On many a budding, fairy blossom,
Are glittering Evening's dewy tears, As gleam the gems on Beauty's bosom When she in festal garb appears. Among the minor poems in this collection is the following, which is quoted here for its merits and for the praises it has received from the acute critic Mr. Edgar A. Poe, who describes it as "inexpressibly beautiful:"
THE FORSAKEN.
It hath been said, for all who die
Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh O'er every bier:
But in that hour of pain and dread
Who will draw near
Around my humble couch, and shed
One farewell tear?
Who watch life's last, departing ray
In deep despair,
And soothe my spirit on its way
With holy prayer?
What mourner round my bier will come
"In weeds of wo,"
And follow me to my long home-
Solemn and slow?
When lying on my clayey bed,
In icy sleep,
Who there by pure affection led
Will come and weep-
By the pale moon implant the rose
Upon my breast,
And bid it cheer my dark repose,
My lowly rest?
Could I but know when I am sleeping
Low in the ground,
One faithful heart would there be keeping
Watch all night round,
As if some gem lay shrined beneath
That sod's cold gloom,
"Twould mitigate the pangs of death,
And light the tomb.
Yes, in that hour if I could feel
From halls of glee
And Beauty's presence one would steal
In secrecy,
And come and sit and weep by me
In night's deep noon-
Oh! I would ask of Memory
No other boon.
But ah! a lonelier fate is mine-
A deeper wo:
From all I love in youth's sweet time
I soon must go-
Draw round me my cold robes of white,
In a dark spot
To sleep through Death's long, dreamless night,
Lone and forgot.
There is a very fine poem by Motherwell, by which this may have been sugges ed, though if Mrs. Lewis had read it, it was of course forgotten by her when she com posed The Forsaken. The following verses are from the piece by Motherwell:
"When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping, That I'm no more?
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