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With lips pressed hard the helmsman stands,

Grasping the spokes with freezing hands,

While white the reef lies in his path,
Swept by an ocean full of wrath.

The surf-roar in the blast is lost,
The foam-flakes by the wild wind tost
High up in air, no warning show,
Hid by the driving mass of snow.

With sudden bound and sullen grate,
The brave ship rushes to her fate,
And splintered deck and broken
mast

Make homage to the roaring blast.

Amid the waves, float riven plank, And rope and sail with moisture dank; And faces gleaming stern and white

Shine dimly in the storm-filled night.

By some bright river far away,
Fond hearts are wondering where

they stay Who sleep along the wave-washed

shore

And stormy reefs of Labrador.

AN OCTOBER PICTURE.

The purple grapes hang ready for the kiss

Of red lips sweeter than their wine; And 'mid the turning leaves they soon will miss, The crimson apples shine. lazily through the soft and sunlit air The great hawks fly, and give no heed

To the sweet songsters, that toward the fair, Far lands of air speed.

Along the hills wild asters bend to greet

The roadside's wealth of golden-rod; And by the fences the bright sumachs meet The morning light of God.

Slowly the shadows of the clouds drift o'er The dis closed in opal haze, Where gorgeous butterflies seek the rich store Of flower-sprent summer days.

All clad in dusted gold, the tall elms stand

Just in the edges of the wood; And near, the chesftiut sentinels the land,

And shows its russet hood.

The maple flaunts its scarlet banners where

The marsh lies clad in shining mist; The mountain oak shows, in the clear, bright air, its crown of amethyst.

Where, like a silver line, the sparkling stream Flows murmuring through the meadows brown, Amid the radiance, seeming a sad dream, A sailless boat floats down.

COMPLETE.

Like morning blooms that meet the sun

With all the fragrant freshness won From night's repose, and kiss of dew Which the bright radiance glistens

through,
Such is the sweetness of thy lips,
Where love its sacred tribute sips:
Such is the glory of thine eyes,
Rich with the soul's unsaid replies.

The snow that crowns the mountain
height, [white;
Through countless years of gleaming
The creamy blooms of orchard trees,
Full of the melody of bees;
The cool, fresh sweetness of the sea;
All have a charm possessed by thee:
But each of these has one alone,
Whilst thou canst call them all thine
own.

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Though taste, though genius, bless, To some divine excess. Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply, May court, may charm, our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!

Of these let others ask,

To aid some mighty task, I only seek to find the temperate vale;

Where oft my reed might sound

To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.

ODE TO THE BRAVE.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

By all their country's wishes blessed!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould.
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their
clay;

And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

ON TRUE AND FALSE TASTE IN MUSIC.

Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue,

The strain insipid, and the thought unknown;

From truth and nature form the unerring test;

Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best!

'Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves,

Through all the quivers of their wanton loves;

'Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake,

The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake!

But where the force of energy is found,

When the sense rises on the wings of sound;

When reason, with the charms of

music twined, Through the enraptured ear informs

the mind; Bids generous love or soft compassion

glow,

And forms a tuneful Paradise below!

THE PASSIONS.
AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were
fired.

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of
sound:

And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive
power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid.

And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings;

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hands the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;

A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild!

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She called on Echo still, through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close. And Hope enchanted smiled, and

waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung; — but with a frown. Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down; And with a withering look. The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied. Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state:

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hale.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired;
And, from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more
sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her
pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks
around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of Peace.and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone,

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of

healthiest hue. Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning

dew.

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crowned st and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing.
First to the lively pipe his hand
addrest;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best; They would have thought who heard the strain They saw, in Tempe's vale, her

native maids. Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

0 Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! Why, goddess! why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? A.s. in that loved Athenian bower, V"U learned an all-commanding

power,

Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page —
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more pre-
vail,

Had more of strength, diviner rage,

1 1i.in all which charms this laggard

age;

E'en all at once together found, Cecilia's mingled world of sound — O bid our vain endeavors cease; Revive the just designs of Greece: Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate!

ODE TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy
modest ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs and dying gales;

O nymph reserved, while now the

bright-haired sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy

skirts.

With brede ethereal wove
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the

weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy

darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness

suit;

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star, arising shows

His paly circlet,—at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes

her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and

heathy scene; Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary

dells.

Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That, from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discov-
ered spires;
And hears their simple bell, and
marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

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