THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. THE full orbed moon has reached no higher She bends, and worships like a queen! Pale traveller, on thy lonely way, The song of praise, the heart of prayer! And does he sink to rise no more? Has he no part to triumph o'er grave ? Thou holy place, the answer, wrought In thy firm structure, bars the thought! The Spirit that established thee Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see! THE ROBE. "Twas not the robe of state Which the high and the haughty wear, That my busy hand, as the lamp burned late, Was hastening to prepare. It had no clasp of gold, For the festive board; nor the graceful fold 'Twas not to wrap the breast With gladness light and warm; For the bride's attire-for the joyous guest, Nor to clothe the sufferer's form. "I was not the garb of wo We wear o'er an aching heart, When our eyes with bitter tears o'erflow, And our dearest ones depart. 'Twas what we all must bear To the cold, the lonely bed! 'Twas the spotless uniform they wear In the chambers of the dead! I saw the fair young maid A smile had left its trace THE CONSIGNMENT. And the cabinet must ope! To thy care I hence intrust: Here, devouring element! This was Friendship's cherished pledge; Friendship took a colder form: Creeping on its gilded edge, May the blaze be bright and warm! These the letter and the token, Never more shall meet my view! When the faith has once been broken, Let the memory perish too! This 't was penned while purest joy Warmed the heart, and lit the eye. Fate that peace did soon destroy, And its transcript now will I! This must go! for, on the seal When I broke the solemn yew, Keener was the pang than steel; "T was a heart string breaking, too! Here comes up the blotted leaf, Blistered o'er by many a tear. Hence! thou waking shade of grief! Go, for ever disappear! This is his, who seemed to be High as heaven, and fair as light: But the visor rose, and he Spare, O Memory, spare the sight Of the face that frowned beneath While I take it, hand and name, Once the treasures of my heart! THE WINTER BURIAL. THE deep toned bell peals long and low A sorrowing train moves sad and slow And nature wrapped in gloom; Cold, cold the path which the mourners' feet They follow one who calmly goes From her own loved mansion door, Nor shrinks from the way through gathered snows, To return to her home no more. A sable line, to the drift crowned hill, The narrow pass they wind; Their friend they leave behind. The silent grave they're bending o'er, A long farewell to take; THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. "I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!" The pelting hail and the drizzling rain The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. And, as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, "A modest Acorn-never to tell What was enclosed in its simple shell! That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, Which proves that nothing could hide her worth' And, oh! how many will tread on me, To come and admire the beautiful tree, Whose head is towering toward the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I! Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year. But never from this, shall a vaunting word From the humbled Pebble again be heard, Till something without me or within Shall show the purpose for which I've been!" The Pebble its vow could not forget, And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. THE SHIP IS READY. FARE thee well! the ship is ready, And the breeze is fresh and steady. Hands are fast the anchor weighing; High in air the streamer's playing. Spread the sails-the waves are swelling Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling. Fare thee well! and when at sea, Think of those who sigh for thee. When from land and home receding, And from hearts that ache to bleeding, Think of those behind, who love thee, While the sun is bright above thee! Then, as, down to ocean glancing, In the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To the eyes that weep for thee! When the lonely night watch keeping All below thee still and sleepingAs the needle points the quarter O'er the wide and trackless water, Let thy vigils ever find thee Mindful of the friends behind thee! Let thy bosom's magnet be Turned to those who wake for thee! When, with slow and gentle motion, Heaves the bosom of the oceanWhile in peace thy bark is riding, And the silver moon is gliding O'er the sky with tranquil splendor, Where the shining hosts attend her: Let the brightest visions be Country, home, and friends, to thee! When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, wreck, and death, before thee, While the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, Reach the mercy seat, to be Met by prayers that rise for thee! HANNAH F. GOULD. THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. MARY, a beautiful, artless child, Came down on the beach to me, Where I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled' I never had seen her face before, And mine was to her unknown; But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore Her cheek was the rose's opening bud, Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud To reach my side as she gayly sped, With the step of a bounding fawn, And longing for power to look the plan She climbed and stood on the rocky steep, Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep She placed her lips to the spiral shell, And breathed through every fold; She looked for the depth of its pearly cell, Her small, white fingers were spread to toss The green sea egg, by its tenant left, And formed to an ocean cup, She held by its sides, of their spears bereft, But the hour went round, and she knew the space While she seemed to look with a saddening face She searched mid the pebbles, and, finding one She held it up to the morning sun, And over her own mild eye. Then, "Here," said she, "I will give you this, And she sealed her gift with a parting kiss, Mary, thy token is by me yet: To me 'tis a dearer gem Than ever was brought from the mine, or set In the loftiest diadem. It carries me back to the far off deep, And places me on the shore, Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep Her pebble, I meet once more. And all that is lovely, pure, and bright, In a soul that is young, and free From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight Of sorrow, I find in thee. I wonder if ever thy tender heart In memory meets me there, Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, Blest one! over Time's rude shore, on thee And "a white stone bearing a new name," be THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 'Tis midnight-all is peace profound! Who shared thine infant glee? If aught like these, then thou must feel On every trembling thread That strings thy heart, till morn appears, Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep, Thy parent's hoary head no more His children grouped-nor death restore May be, the home where all thy sweet Till morn shall bring relief- CAROLINE GILMAN. www CAROLINE HOWARD was born in Boston, in 1794, and in 1819 was married to the Rev. Samuel Gilman, one of the most accomplished scholars of the Unitarian church, who is known as an author by his very clever work entitled Memoirs of a New England Village Choir, and by numerous elegant papers in the reviews. Soon after their marriage they removed to Charleston, South Carolina, where Dr. Gilman has ever since been actively engaged in the duties of his profession. Mrs. Gilman is best known as a writer of prose, and her works will long be valued for the spirit and fidelity with which she has painted rural and domestic life in the northern and in the southern states. Her Recol lections of a New England Housekeeper, and Recollections of a Southern Matron, are equally happy, and both show habits of minute observation, skill in character-writing, ROSALIE. 'Tis fearful to watch by a dying friend, Though the costly cup for the fevered lip While the watching eye and the warning hand Yes, even with these appliances, From wealth's unmeasured store, But oh, when the form that we love is laid When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs and an artist-like power of grouping; they are also pervaded by a genial tone, and a love of nature, and good sense. Her other works are, Love's Progress, a Tale; The Poetry of Travelling in the United States; Tales and Ballads; Stories and Poems for Children; and Verses of a Lifetime. She edited for several years, in Charleston, a literary gazette called The Southern Rose; published a collection of the Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, a heroine of the Revolution; and illustrated the extent of her reading in poetical liter ature, by two ingenious volumes, entitled Oracles from the Poets, and The Sybil. The poems of Mrs. Gilman are nearly all contained in Verses of a Lifetime, just James Munroe & Company, of Boston. They issued (at the close of the year 1848) by ing, and are frequently marked by a graceful abound in expressions of wise, womanly feelelegance of manner. And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught When night rolls on, and we gaze in wo And long for the breaking day— When we know that sickness of soul and heart Which sensitive bosoms feel, When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze On woes we can not heal: This, this is the crown of bitterness! And we pray, as the loved one dies, That our breath may pass with their waning pulse, And with theirs close our aching eyes. My story tells of sweet Rosalie, Once a maiden of joy and delight, A ray of love, from her girlish days, To her parents' devoted sight. The girl was free as the river wave That dances to ocean's rest, And life looked down like a summer's sun They parted: he roved to western wilds And Rosalie dwelt in her father's halls, But her father died, and a fearful blight They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss He hastened the beat of her constant pulse, He preyed on the bloom of her still soft cheek, He checked her step in its easy glide, And her eye beamed a restless glow. He choked her voice in its morning song, And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light, But the pittance was fearfully small that came 'Twas then in her lodging the night-wind came She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor, To purchase their scanty fare; Where she parted her glossy hair. Then hunger glared in her full blue eye, 53 "Twas a blessed exchange from this dark,cold earth And was heard in her tremulous tone; The neighbors gave of their scanty store, Poor Rosalie lay on her mother's breast, And ere the dawn of the morrow broke "I was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see, Her hair flowed about by her mother's side, There was surely a vision of heaven's delight For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile Life is not always a darkling dream: God loves our sad waking to bless-- A stranger stands by that humble door, And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance Manly beauty and soul-formed grace Stand forth in each movement fair, With travel and watchfulness worn was he, Where conscience had stamped her vow. A pure white tomb in the near graveyard But Arthur has gone to his forest-home, |