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TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
FROM WILLIAM TELL.”

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free! Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again! O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty and how free!
How do you look, for all your baréd brows,
More gorgeously majestical than kings
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine!

Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible; whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine; whose subject never kneels
In mockery, because it is your boast
To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again!-I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you,
To show they still are free! I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

THE ACTOR'S CRAFT.

LINES ON A MINISTER (NOT AN AMERICAN) WHO PREACH-
ED IN PHILADELPHIA, ON FEBRUARY 8, 1835, A SERMON
UNCHARITABLY CONDEMNATORY OF THE STAGE.
Unmerciful! whose office teacheth mercy!
Why damuest thou the Actor's craft? Is he
To starve because thon think'st thyself elected
To preach the meek and lowly Saviour's peace?
“No, let him seek a fairer calling!" Heaven
Appointed him to his, as thee to thine!
He hath his usefulness. The tongue wherewith
Thou didst revile him, had been barbarous
Except for him! He fixed the standard of it

That gave it uniformity and power,

And euphony and grace; and-more than thatTo thoughts that glow and shine with Heaven's own fire,

He gave revealment unto millions

That else had lived in darkness to Heaven's gift!
Would by his art thou more hadst profited,
Thou ample, comfortable piece of flesh!

Thy heart is no ascetic. Seat so soft
As thy plump cheek, I warrant, never yet
Sat self-denial on. "Thou dost not ply

The banquet!" Never mind! Thou dost not lack
The feast for that: the bloating fare to which
The Churchman's vanity and lust of power
Sit seeming-meekly down.-Why didst thou preach?
Hadst thou forgot the coxcomb clerical?
If not, why didst thou play him to the life?
I'll do thee justice, ay, in commendation,
Well as disparagement, for I am naught
Not, "if not critical"-but honest! Thou
Didst read, methought, the service, like the tongue
That gave God's revelation unto man;—
Simply, adoringly, confiding in

Strength greater than thine own. I knelt in soul.
Anon, I said to one who sat beside me,

"We'll hear a preacher now." What didst thou preach?

Thyself!! The little worm that God did make,
And not the Maker! How pitied thee!
From first to last, DISPLAY! as though the place,
The cause, the calling, the assembly, all
Were secondary to a lump of clay.
Thy elocution, too-THEATRICAL!!!

But foreign to the Actor's proper art.

Thy gesture measured to the word, not fitted; —

Thy modulation, running mountains high,
"Then ducking low again as hell's from heaven!"
Sufficient of the rant! Improve before
Thou mount'st the steps of charity again;
And know her handmaids are humility,
Forbearance, and philanthropy to all!

And further, know the Stage a preacher too-
Albeit a less authenticated one-
Whose moral, if occasionally wrong,

Is honest in the main!--Another word,-
Act not the damner of another's creed,
Nor call the Arian, Universalist,
Socinian, Unitarian, Catholic,

An Infidel!-"Judge not, lest ye be judged,”
A text in point for thee! My creed is yours,
But by that creed I never will condemn—
Myself a creature weak and fallible—

A man for faith some shade diverse from mine.

Caroline Gilman.

AMERICAN.

Mrs. Gilman, daughter of Samuel Howard, a shipwright, was born in Boston, Mass., in 1794. She married Dr. Samuel Gilman, a graduate of Harvard College, and a Unitarian clergyman, who was born in Gloucester in 1791. He settled in Charleston, S. C., in 1819, and remained there till his death in 1858. Mrs. Gilman began to write and publish before her eighteenth year, and was the author of several volumes in prose and verse, showing much literary diligence and versatility. Her "Verses of a Lifetime" (Boston, 1848) is her principal collection. She was residing with a widowed daughter at Tiverton, R. I., as late as 1880. Dr. Gilman was the poet of his class at college, and the author of pieces much admired in their day.

FROM "THE PLANTATION."

Farewell awhile the city's hum Where busy footsteps fall; And welcome to my weary eye The planter's friendly hall!

Here let me rise at early dawn,

And list the mock-bird's lay,

That, warbling near our lowland home, Sits on the waving spray ;

Then tread the shading avenue
Beneath the cedar's gloom,

Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade,
Or chinquapen's perfume.

The myrtle-tree, the orange wild,
The cypress' flexile bough,
The holly, with its polished leaves,
Are all before me now.

There, towering with imperial pride,
The rich magnolia stands;
And here, in softer loveliness,
The white-bloomed bay expauds.

The long gray moss hangs gracefully,
Idly I twine its wreaths,

Or stop to catch the fragrant air
The frequent blossom breathes.

Life wakes around-the red-bird darts
Like flame from tree to tree;
The whippoorwill complains alone,
The robin whistles free.

The frightened hare scuds by my path,
And seeks the thicket nigh;
The squirrel climbs the hickory bough,
Thence peeps with careful eye.

The humming-bird, with busy wing,
In rainbow beauty moves,
Above the trumpet-blossom floats,
And sips the tube he loves.

Triumphant to yon withered pine
The soaring eagle flies,

There builds her eyrie 'mid the clouds,
And man and Heaven defies.

ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. She bounded o'er the graves

With a buoyant step of mirth: She bounded o'er the graves, Where the weeping-willow waves,— Like a creature not of earth.

Her hair was blown aside,

And her eyes were glittering bright; Her hair was blown aside,

And her little hands spread wide
With an innocent delight.

She spelled the lettered word

That registers the dead; She spelled the lettered word, And her busy thoughts were stirred With pleasure as she read.

She stopped and culled a leaf

Left fluttering on a rose; She stopped and culled a leaf, Sweet monument of grief,

That in our church-yard grows.

She culled it with a smile-
'Twas near her sister's mound;
She culled it with a smile,
And played with it a while,
Then scattered it around.

I did not chill her heart,

Nor turn its gush to tears: I did not chill her heartOh, bitter drops will start Full soon in coming years!

Then praise for the past and the present we sing,
And, trustful, await what the future may bring ;
Let doubt and repining be banished away,
And the whole of our lives be a Thanksgiving-day.

Henry Ware.

AMERICAN.

Ware (1794-1843), the fifth child and eldest son of a elergyman of the same name, was a native of Hingham, Mass. He became pastor of the Second Church in Boston in 1816, and remained there thirteen years, when the state of his health compelled him to resign, and accept a situation as Professor of Pulpit Eloquence in Harvard College. A memoir of his life, in two volumes, by his brother, John Ware, M.D., appeared in 1846. A selection from his writings (1846) by the Rev. Chandler Robbins, in four volumes 12mo, was also published.

A THANKSGIVING SONG.

Come, uncles and cousins; come, nieces and aunts; Come, nephews and brothers—no won'ts and no can'ts;

Put business, and shopping, and school-books away; The year has rolled round—it is Thanksgiving-day.

Come home from the college, ye ringlet-haired youth, Come home from your factories, Ann, Kate, and Ruth; From the anvil, the counter, the farm, come away; Home, home with you all-it is Thanksgiving-day.

The table is spread, and the dinner is dressed;
The cooks and the mothers have all done their best;
No Caliph of Bagdad e'er saw such display,
Or dreamed of a treat like our Thanksgiving-day.

Pies, puddings, and custards; pigs, oysters, and

nuts

Come forward and seize them, without ifs and buts; Bring none of your slim little appetites hereThanksgiving-day comes only once in a year.

Thrice welcome the day in its annual round! What treasures of love in its bosom are found! New England's high holiday, ancient and dear,-"Twould be twice as welcome, if twice in a year.

Now children revisit the darling old place,
And brother and sister, long parted, embrace;
The family circle's united once more,

And the same voices shout at the old cottage door.

The grandfather smiles on the innocent mirth,
And blesses the Power that has guarded his hearth;
He remembers no trouble, he feels no decay,
But thinks his whole life has been Thanksgiving-

day.

RESURRECTION OF CHRIST.

Lift your glad voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man cannot die; Vain were the terrors that gathered around him, And short the dominion of death and the grave; He burst from the fetters of darkness that bound him,

Resplendent in glory to live and to save: Loud was the chorus of angels on high,"The Saviour hath risen, and man cannot die."

Glory to God, in full anthems of joy!

The being he gave us death cannot destroy! Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow, If tears were our birthright, and death were our end; But Jesus bath cheered the dark valley of sorrow, And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend;

Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high,
For Jesus hath risen, and man shall not die.

Edward Everett.

AMERICAN.

Everett (1794-1865) was a native of Dorchester, Mass. Entering Harvard College at the age of thirteen, he was graduated with highest honors. He was appointed tutor in Greek, and spent four years in Europe qualifying himself. In all the various offices of Governor of Massachusetts, Member of Congress, United States Senator, President of Harvard University, Minister to England, and in several other well-known positions, he served with eminent fidelity. Little known as a poet, he was the author of one picce, at least, that entitles him to a place in the list.

ALARIC THE VISIGOTH.

When I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I cannot give.

Ye shall not raise a marble bust

Upon the spot where I repose;

Ye shall not fawn before my dust,

In hollow circumstance of woes; Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath.

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest; Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was "the scourge of God."

But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place forever there :
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the King of kings;
And never be the secret said,
Until the deep give up its dead.

My gold and silver ye shall fling

Back to the clods, that gave them birthThe captured crowns of many a king,

The ransom of a conquered earth; For e'en though dead will I control The trophies of the Capitol.

But when beneath the mountain tide Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side

Pillar or mound to mark the spot: For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look; And now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space.

My course was like a river deep,

And from the Northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep, And where I went the spot was cursed, Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been.

See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terror of the Goth!
Their iron-breasted legions quail

Before my ruthless sabaoth,

And low the queen of empires kneels, And grovels at my chariot-wheels.

Not for myself did I ascend

In judgment my triumphal car;

'Twas God alone on high did send

The avenging Scythian to the war, To shake abroad, with iron hand, The appointed scourge of his commaud.

With iron hand that scourge I reared
O'er guilty king and guilty realm;
Destruction was the ship I steered,

And Vengeance sat upon the helm,
When, launched in fury on the flood,
I ploughed my way through seas of blood,
And in the stream their hearts had spilt
Washed out the long arrears of guilt.

Across the everlasting Alp

I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help

In vain within their seven-hilled towers.
I quenched in blood the brightest gem
That glittered in their diadem;
And struck a darker, deeper dye
In the purple of their majesty;

And bade my Northern banners shine
Upon the conquered Palatine.

My course is run, my errand doneI go to Him from whom I came; But never yet shall set the sun

Of glory that adorns my name; And Roman hearts shall long be sick, When men shall think of Alaric.

My course is run, my errand done;
But darker ministers of fate,
Impatient, round the eternal throne,

And in the caves of Vengeance, wait; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila.

Carlos Wilcox.

AMERICAN.

Wilcox (1794-1827), the son of a farmer, was a native of Newport, N. H. He entered Middlebury College, and afterward studied theology at Andover. He commenced preaching in 1818; his discourses were eloquent and thoughtful; but he had to abandon the ministry on ac count of ill-health. His principal poem is "The Age of Benevolence," which he did not live to complete, and portions of which only have been published. Another incomplete poem, included in his "Remains," is "The Religion of Taste," republished in London in 1850. his minute and accurate descriptions of natural scenery he shows some of the highest qualities of the poet. He

may lack the passionate fervor by which the most impressive effects are reached in concentrated expression and startling metaphor, but he deserved a higher fame than he ever reached among the literary men of his day. A volume of his "Remains" was published in Hartford, Conn., in 1828, by Edward Hopkins.

And on its dark side, haply on the step
Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen,
Breaks into strains articulate and clear,
The closing sometimes quickened as in sport.

A LATE SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND.

FROM "THE AGE OF BENEVOLENCE."

Long swollen in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds

Start at the touch of vivifying beams.
Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph
Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field
A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week,
Is naked nature in her full attire.

On the first morn, light as an open plain
Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured
Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below,
With strong reflection: on the last, 'tis dark
With full-grown foliage, shading all within.
In one short week the orchard buds and blooms;
And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers,
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze,
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes.
E'en from the juicy leaves, of sudden growth,
And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air,
Filled with a watery glimmering, receives
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays.
Each day are heard, and almost every hour,
New notes to swell the music of the groves.
And soon the latest of the feathered train
At evening twilight come;-the lonely snipe,
O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air,
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones,
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head;
And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen
Flying awhile at random, uttering oft
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake
Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned
Against the brightness of the western sky,
One white plume showing in the midst of each,
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound;-
And, deep at first within the distant wood,
The whippoorwill, her name her only song!
She, soon as children from the noisy sport
Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones,
To hear the echoes of the empty barn,
Are by her voice diverted, and held mute,
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove;
And when the twilight, deepened into night,
Calls them within, close to the house she comes,

A VISION OF HEAVEN.

FROM "THE RELIGION OF TASTE."

Myself I found borne to a heavenly clime,-
I knew not how, but felt a stranger there,-
Still the same being that I was in time,

Even to my raiment! On the borders fair
Of that blessed land I stood in lone despair;
Not its pure beauty and immortal bloom,
Its firmament serene, and balmy air,
Nor all its glorious beings, broke the gloom
Of my foreboding thoughts, fixed on some dreadful
doom.

There walked the ransomed ones of earth, in white
As beautifully pure as new-fallen snow
On the smooth summit of some eastern height
In the first rays of morn that o'er it flow,—
Nor less resplendent than the richest glow
Of snow-white clouds, with all their stores of rain
And thunder spent, rolled up in volumes slow
O'er the blue sky just cleared from every stain,
Till all the blaze of noon they drink and long retain.

Safe landed on these shores, together hence

That bright throng took their way to where insphered

In a transparent cloud of light intense,
With starry pinnacles above it reared,
A city vast the inland all appeared!
With walls of azure, green, and purple stone,

All to one glassy surface smoothed and cleared,
Reflecting forms of angel guards that shone
Above the approaching host, as each were on a
throne.

And while that host moved onward o'er a plain Of living verdure, oft they turned to greet Friends that on earth had taught them heaven to gain;

Then hand-in-hand they went with quickened

feet:

And bright with immortality, and sweet With love ethereal, were the smiles they cast; I only wandered on with none to meet And call me dear, while pointing to the past, And forward to the joys that never reach their last.

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