« ZurückWeiter »
My course is run, my errand done :
I go to Him from whence I came ;
Of glory that adorns my name;
My course is run, my errand done
But darker ministers of fate,
And in the caves of vengeance, wait;
BROTHER of the preceding, was born at Dorchester in 1801, and was graduated at Cambridge in 1818. He was a tutor in Transylvania university, and afterwards went to Europe in the suite of our minister to the Netherlands. Upon his return he studied law, and was admitted to the bar. He died in Boston, February 12th, 1826, at the age of 25.
SAINT PAUL'S CHURCH, BOSTON.
BEAUTIFUL, pure and simple, there thou stand'st,
One stream of purest lustre from above, Lighting the idol-habited Rotund. Not unacceptable was their ignorant worship To him they served in darkness, but to thee A nobler precept than Colonna heard, A purer light than the Pantheon saw Is given. Thy cherub songs, and wreathed flowers, Incense and sacrifice and gifts devote, Are prayer and penitence, the tearful eye, The innocent life, the broken, contrite heart. Simple in elegance, no mounting spire, Tower, minaret, nor gaily burnish'd dome Mars thy severe proportions. No device Of polish'd moulding, sculptured tracery, Not e’en the soft acanthine folds are there, Like the divine magnificence of virtue, Whose ornament would not obscure its worth. Now, while yon moonbeam gently steals along The columns of that simple peristyle, Silvering the massive shaft and plain volute Of yon extremest pillar, let me gaze With calm delight insatiate. There is given A moral feeling to a beautiful scene Of glorious art with nature join'd, like this, And memory crown'd with moonlight roses, lives To hover o'er the storied names of old; Heroes and sages deathless--the pure heart Of him* whose lip with sweetest nectar dew'd, Breathed the great lesson of his godlike teachert Martyr of freedom-himt of SyracuseThe glorious fratricides, the immortal Theban, And their bright heritors of guiltless suffering, Intrepid Algernon, and youthful Russell,-Till the remembrance softens. Not in vain, Oh! not in vain did the Athenians Ally the arts to freedom, and invite Blushing Pictura and her marble sister Up the stern heights of the Acropolis. So be it with our country. May she stand Like thee, modellid on wisdom of the past, Yet with the lovely gracefulness of youth.
*Plato. Socrates. Dion. ♡Timoleon. Epaminondas.
Come not to me, my dearest love,
When hope is gay and wo is fled; Sad is my bower and high above,
Deep trees their shroudlike branches spread. But when that wo tenfold returns,
When in the dust those hopes shall be, When with deep pain thy bosom burns,
Then thou, my love, must come to me.
For thee, my desert bower I 'll dress,
For thee will light my tearful eyes; For thee will braid each raven tress
That now in wild disorder flies.
A constant visitor to me,
How sadly sweet I'll sing to thee.
Sixg to me as in old “lang syne,"
Thy sweet neglected songs:
Thy newer, lighter strain belongs,
The strains thou lightly hurried'st o'er
To charm the gallant and the gay, The brighter smile thy features wore, When ceased thy sportive roundelay,,
How changed from that more lovely day! Then to the known, the loved, the few,
Awoke each dear, familiar tone,
And thrilling answer'd with its own,
Gone are the few—the known estranged ;
Perchance 't is right thy melody
Like them and these and all be changed,
And none preserve those songs but me
Tom MOORE, again we're met
By the sparkles of thine eye,
Thou art glad as well as I.
Ere our meeting shall be o'er
With our healths to thee, Tom Moore.
For thy boyish songs of woman
Thrown about like unstrung pearls, Ere thy armed spirit's summon
Bade thee leave thy bright-hair'd girls ; For thy satire's quenchless arrows
On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows,
Here's health to thee, Tom Moore.
Drink to Moore, drink to Moore
What though England renounce him, Her dark days shall soon be o'er,
And her brightest band surrounds him. In the land, then, of the vine,
To thee, its glittering drops we pour, And in warmest, reddest wine,
Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore.
TO FANNI IN A BALL DRESS.
Thou hast braided thy dark flowing hair,
And wreathed it with rosebuds and pearls ;
Soft falling in natural curls.
When crown'd with the flower and the gem,
THOMAS 0. FOLSOM.
But thy lover's smile should be dearer praise
Than the incense thou prizest from them.
The bloom on thy young cheek is bright
With triumph enjoy'd too well,
Or the tinge in a hyacinth bell.
And gay is the playful tone,
As to flattery's voice thou respondest :
To the tender blame of the fondest?
THOMAS O, FOLSOM
Was born at Hallowell, Maine, in 1802. He received his education at the Academy in Exeter, New Hampshire, studied medicine in Boston, and entered into practice there, but his career was soon closed by a consumption. He died at Exeter, September 11th, 1827, at the age of 25.
He was for a year or two before his death, the editor of The Boston Spectator. In this, and other periodicals, he wrote a few
BEAUTIFUL clouds in the quiet sky,