TO THE BREEZE:

AFTER A PROTRACTED CALM AT SEA.

THOU hast been slow to bless us, gentle breeze;

Where hast thou been a lingerer, welcome friend? Where, when the midnight gather'd to her brow Her pale and crescent minister, wert thou?

On what far, sullen, solitary seas,

Piping the mariner's requiem, didst thou tend

The home-returning bark,

Curling the white foam o'er her lifted prow, [dark? White, when the rolling waves around her all were

Gently, and with a breath

Of spicy odour from Sabæan vales, Where subtle life defies and conquers death, Fill'dst thou her yellow sails!

On, like some pleasant bird,

With glittering plumage and light-loving eye,
While the long pennant lay aloft unstirr'd,
And sails hung droopingly,

Camest thou with tidings of the land to cheer
The weary mariner.

How, when the ocean slept,
Making no sign;

And his dumb waters, of all life bereft,
Lay 'neath the sun-girt line;

His drapery of storm-clouds lifted high
In some far, foreign sky,

While a faint moaning o'er his bosom crept,
As the deep breathings of eternity,
Above the grave of the unburied time,
Claiming its clime-

How did the weary tar,

His form reclined along the burning deck,
Stretch his dim eye afar,

To hail the finger, and delusive speck,
Thy bending shadow, from some rocky steep,
Down-darting o'er the deep!

Born in the solemn night,

When the deep skies were bright,

With all their thousand watchers on the sight-
Thine was the music through the firmament
By the fond nature sent,

To hail the blessed birth,

To guide to lowly earth

The glorious glance, the holy wing of light!

Music to us no less,

Thou comest in our distress,

To cheer our pathway. It is clear, through thee,
O'er the broad wastes of sea.
How soothing to the heart that glides alone,
Unwatch'd and unremember'd, on the wave,
Perchance his grave!—

Should he there perish, to thy deeper moan
What lip shall add one tone?

I bless thee, gentle breeze!

Sweet minister to many a fond desire,
Thou bear'st me to my sire,
Thou, and these rolling seas!
What-O, thou GoD of this strong element !-
Are we, that it is sent,

Obedient to our fond and fervent hope?
But that its pinion on our path is bent,
We had been doom'd beyond desire to grope,

Which may not, through the thick and crowding
Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.

He looks,--the shepherd on Chaldea's hills,
Tending his flocks,--

And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze,
Gladdening his gaze;

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,
Guiding him safely home through perilous ways!
How stands he in amaze,

Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills
The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils
Its leaden dews--how chafes he at the night,
Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!

And lone,

Where its first splendours shone,

Shall be that pleasant company of stars:
How should they know that death

Such perfect beauty mars;

And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,
Fallen from on high,

Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die--
All their concerted springs of harmony,
Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone.
A strain--a mellow strain--

Of wailing sweetness, fill'd the earth and sky;
The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain
That one of the selectest ones must die;
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!
Alas! 'tis ever more the destiny,

The hope, heart-cherish'd, is the soonest lost;
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost:
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest?
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest when they fly
The desolate home they bless'd?

THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP.

'Tis a wild spot, and hath a gloomy look;
The bird sings never merrily in the trees,
And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth
Spreads poisonously round, with power to taint
With blistering dews the thoughtless hand that dares
To penetrate the covert. Cypresses

[length,
Crowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretch'd at
The cayman-a fit dweller in such home-
Slumbers, half-buried in the sedgy grass.
Beside the green ooze where he shelters him,
A whooping crane erects his skeleton form,
And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused
To apprehension, as they hear his cry,
Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste,
Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these,
And startled at our rapid, near approach,
The steel-jaw'd monster, from his grassy bed,
Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode,
Which straight receives him. You behold him now,
His ridgy back uprising as he speeds,
In silence, to the centre of the stream,
Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly,
That, travelling all the day, has counted climes
Only by flowers, to rest himself a while,
Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute
Straightway goes down, so suddenly, that he,
The dandy of the summer flowers and woods,
Dips his light wings, and spoils his golden coat,
With the rank water of that turbid pond.
Wondering and vex'd, the plumed citizen
Flies, with a hurried effort, to the shore,
Seeking his kindred flowers:-but seeks in vain-
Nothing of genial growth may there be seen,
Nothing of beautiful! Wild, ragged trees,
That look like felon spectres-fetid shrubs,
That taint the gloomy atmosphere-dusk shades,
That gather, half a cloud, and half a fiend
In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge,-
Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns
The general prospect. The sad butterfly,
Waving his lacker'd wings, darts quickly on,
And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed
For better lodgings, and a scene more sweet,
Than these drear borders offer us to-night.

CHANGES OF HOME.
WELL may we sing her beauties,
This pleasant land of ours,
Her sunny smiles, her golden fruits,
And all her world of flowers;
The young birds of her forest-groves,
The blue folds of her sky,
And all those airs of gentleness,

That never seem to fly;

They wind about our forms at noon,
They woo us in the shade,

When panting, from the summer's heats,
The woodman seeks the glade;
They win us with a song of love,
They cheer us with a dream,

That gilds our passing thoughts of life,
As sunlight does the stream;

And well would they persuade us now,

In moments all too dear,

That, sinful though our hearts may be,
We have our Eden here.

Ah, well has lavish nature,
From out her boundless store,
Spread wealth and loveliness around,
On river, rock, and shore:

No sweeter stream than Ashley glides-
And, what of southern France?
She boasts no brighter fields than ours,
Within her matron glance;
Our skies look down in tenderness
From out their realms of blue,
The fairest of Italian climes

May claim no softer hue;
And let them sing of fruits of Spain,
And let them boast the flowers,
The Moors' own culture they may claim,
No dearer sweet than ours-
Perchance the dark-hair'd maiden
Is a glory in your eye,
But the blue-eyed Carolinian rules,
When all the rest are nigh.

And none may say, it is not true,

The burden of my lay,
'Tis written, in the sight of all,

In flower and fruit and ray;
Look on the scene around us now,
And say if
sung amiss,

The song that pictures to your eye
A spot so fair as this:
Gay springs the merry mocking-bird
Around the cottage pale,-
And, scarcely taught by hunter's aim,
The rabbit down the vale;
Each boon of kindly nature,

Her buds, her blooms, her flowers,
And, more than all, the maidens fair
That fill this land of ours,

Are still in rich perfection,

As our fathers found them first,
But our sons are gentle now no more,
And all the land is cursed.

Wild thoughts are in our bosoms
And a savage discontent;
We love no more the life we led,
The music, nor the scent;

The merry dance delights us not,
As in that better time,

When, glad, in happy bands we met,
With spirits like our clime.
And all the social loveliness,

And all the smile is gone,
That link'd the spirits of our youth,
And made our people one.
They smile no more together,
As in that earlier day,
Our maidens sigh in loneliness,
Who once were always gay;
And though our skies are bright,
And our sun looks down as then-
Ah, me! the thought is sad I feel,
We shall never smile again.

MR. LUNT is a native of the pleasant village of Newburyport, near Boston, from which, for a long period, his ancestors and relatives "followed the sea." He was educated at Cambridge, and soon after leaving the university entered as a student the law-office of the present Chief Justice of Massachusetts. From the time of his admission to the bar he has pursued the practice of his profession in Newburyport. He has for several years represented the people of that town in the State Senate and House of Assembly, and has held various other honourable offices.

When he was about nineteen years of age,

he

wrote "The Grave of Byron," a poem in the Spenserian measure, which has considerable merit; and, in 1839, appeared a collection of his later productions, of which the largest is a metrical essay entitled "Life," in which he has attempted to show, by reference to the condition of society in different ages, that Christianity is necessary to the developement of man's moral nature. His minor pieces please by their general vigour and sprightliness, and by that purity of thought which distinguishes the writings of all Christian bards. His versification is smooth, and his rhymes, with few exceptions, exact.

AUTUMN MUSINGS.

COME thou with me! If thou hast worn away
All this most glorious summer in the crowd,
Amid the dust of cities, and the din,
While birds were carolling on every spray;
If, from gray dawn to solemn night's approach,
Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts,
Toiling and panting for a little gold;
Drudging amid the very lees of life

For this accursed slave that makes men slaves;
Come thou with me into the pleasant fields:
Let Nature breathe on us and make us free!
For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high,
With the great Spirit of the Universe;
It shall pervade thy soul; it shall renew
The fancies of thy boyhood; thou shalt know
Tears, most unwonted tears dimming thine eyes;
Thou shalt forget, under the old brown oak,
That the good south wind and the liberal west
Have other tidings than the songs of birds,
Or the soft news wafted from fragrant flowers.
Look out on Nature's face, and what hath she
In common with thy feelings? That brown hill,
Upon whose sides, from the gray mountain-ash,
We gather'd crimson berries, look'd as brown
When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns ago;
This pleasant stream, with the well-shaded verge,
On whose fair surface have our buoyant limbs
So often play'd, caressing and caress'd;
Its verdant banks are green as then they were;
So went its bubbling murmur down the tide.
Yes, and the very trees, those ancient oaks,
The crimson-crested maple, feathery elm,
And fair, smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold,
Look like familiar faces of old friends.
From their broad branches drop the wither'd leaves,
Drop, one by one, without a single breath,
Save when some eddying curl round the old roots
Twirls them about in merry sport a while.
They are not changed; their office is not done;

The first soft breeze of spring shall see them fresh
With sprouting twigs bursting from every branch,
As should fresh feelings from our wither'd hearts.
Scorn not the moral; for, while these have warın'd
To annual beauty, gladdening the fields
With new and ever-glorious garniture,
Thou hast grown worn and wasted, almost gray
Even in thy very summer. 'Tis for this
We have neglected nature! Wearing out
Our hearts and all our life's dearest charities
In the perpetual turmoil, when we need
To strengthen and to purify our minds
Amid the venerable woods; to hold
Chaste converse with the fountains and the winds!
So should we elevate our souls; so be
Ready to stand and act a nobler part
In the hard, heartless struggles of the world.

Day wanes; 't is autumn eventide again;
And, sinking on the blue hills' breast, the sun
Spreads the large bounty of his level blaze,
Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees,
And throwing blacker shadows o'er the sheet
Of this dark stream, in whose unruffled tide
Waver the bank-shrub and the graceful elm,
As the gay branches and their trembling leaves
Catch the soft whisper of the coming air:
So doth it mirror every passing cloud,
And those which fill the chambers of the west
With such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones,
Blazon'd with orient gems and barbarous gold.
I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes;
I see those eyes swelling with precious tears;
But, if thou couldst have look'd upon this scene
With a cold brow, and then turn'd back to thoughts
Of traffic in thy fellow's wretchedness,
Thou wert not fit to gaze upon the face
Of Nature's naked beauty; most unfit
To look on fairer things, the loveliness
Of earth's most lovely daughters, whose glad forms
And glancing eyes do kindle the great souls
Of better men to emulate pure thoughts,
And, in high action, all ennobling deeds.

HAMPTON BEACH.

AGAIN upon the sounding shore,
And, O how bless'd, again alone!
I could not bear to hear thy roar,
Thy deep, thy long, majestic tone;
I could not bear to think that one

Could view with me thy swelling might,
And, like a very stock or stone,

Turn coldly from the glorious sight,

And seek the idle world, to hate and fear and fight.

Thou art the same, eternal sea!

The earth hath many shapes and forms,
Of hill and valley, flower and tree;
Fields that the fervid noontide warms,
Or winter's rugged grasp deforms,

Or bright with autumn's golden store;
Thou coverest up thy face with storms,
Or smilest serene,-but still thy roar

And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore.

I see thy heaving waters roll,
I hear thy stern, uplifted voice,
And trumpet-like upon my soul
Falls the deep music of that noise
Wherewith thou dost thyself rejoice;
The ships, that on thy bosom play,
Thou dashest them about like toys,
And stranded navies are thy prey,
Strown on thy rock-bound coast, torn by the
whirling spray.

As summer twilight, soft and calm,
Or when in stormy grandeur drest,
Peals up to heaven the eternal psalm,
That swells within thy boundless breast;
Thy curling waters have no rest;
But day and night the ceaseless throng
Of waves that wait thy high behest,
Speak out in utterance deep and strong,

And loud the craggy beach howls back their

savage song.

Terrible art thou in thy wrath,-
Terrible in thine hour of glee,

When the strong winds, upon their path,
Bound o'er thy breast tumultuously,
And shout their chorus loud and free
To the sad sea-bird's mournful wail,
As, heaving with the heaving sea,
The broken mast and shatter'd sail
Tell of thy cruel strength the lamentable tale.

Ay, 'tis indeed a glorious sight
To gaze upon thine ample face;
An awful joy,-a deep delight!
I see thy laughing waves embrace
Each other in their frolic race;
I sit above the flashing spray,
That foams around this rocky base,

And, as the bright blue waters play, [as they. Feel that my thoughts, my life, perchance, are vain

This is thy lesson, mighty sea!
Man calls the dimpled earth his own,
The flowery vale, the golden lea;
And on the wild, gray mountain-stone
Claims nature's temple for his throne!

Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom; Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume: Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, Native land, native land-home far away!

"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" Dim grew the forest-path: onward they trod; Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in GoD! Gray men and blooming maids, high rose their song; Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along:

THE LYRE AND SWORD.

THE freeman's glittering sword be blest,-
Forever blest the freeman's lyre,—
That rings upon the tyrant's crest;

This stirs the heart like living fire:
Well can he wield the shining brand,
Who battles for his native land;

But when his fingers sweep the chords,
That summon heroes to the fray,
They gather at the feast of swords,

Like mountain-eagles to their prey!
And mid the vales and swelling hills,
That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land,
A living spirit breathes and fills

The freeman's heart and nerves his hand; For the bright soil that gave him birth, The home of all he loves on earth,

For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls,
He waves on high his sword of fire,-
For this, amidst his country's halls
Forever strikes the freeman's lyre!
His burning heart he may not lend
To serve a doting despot's sway,-

A suppliant knee he will not bend,
Before these things of "brass and clay :"
When wrong and ruin call to war,
He knows the summons from afar;
On high his glittering sword he waves,
And myriads feel the freeman's fire,
While he, around their fathers' graves,
Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre!