Part 19

The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops! And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops; A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view, And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue, Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skill His ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will.

The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there, He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air; From kettle to kettle he ladles it to granulate rich and slow, Then fashions the mass in a hundred shapes, congealing them in the snow, While the blue-bird strikes a sudden joy through the branches gaunt and dumb, As he seems to ask in his merry strain if the violet yet has come.

The rich, dark maple sugar! thus it brings to me the joy, The dear warm joy of my heart, when I was a careless, happy boy; When pleasures so scorned in after life, like flowers, then strewed my way, And no dark sad experience breathed “doomed sufferer be not gay!” When Life like a summer ocean spread before me with golden glow, And soft with the azure of Hope, but concealing the wrecks that lay below.

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TO MY LOVE.

BY HENRY H. PAUL.

Dewy buds of Paphian myrtle Strew, ye virgins, as I sing; Chaplets weave from Love’s bright fountain— O’er my lyre their fragrance fling. What—what is gay Pieria’s rose, What is Paphos’ blushing flower, Whilst Beauty doth my spirit thrall, Whilst all my pulses feel thy power?

With Cyprian fire thine eye is sparkling, Like the morning’s tender light; Through thy silken lashes straying, Shafts resistless wing their flight: O! the time I first beheld thee, Blushing in thy early teens, Rose nor lily ne’er excelled thee, Though the garden’s rival queens.

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SOFTLY O’ER MY MEMORY STEALING.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE,”

BY PROFESSOR JOHN A. JANKE, JR.

_WORDS BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON._

Softly o’er my mem’ry stealing, Comes the light of other days, Visions of past joys revealing, Lit by Hope’s enchanting rays. ’Twas

in that blest time I knew thee, And thy glance and gentle tone, Thrill’d with magic influence through me, Waking joys till then unknown.

SECOND VERSE.

Time has sped with ceaseless motion; Chance and change have wrought their will— But my heart, with fond devotion, Clings to thee, belov’d one, still. Nor can life yield richer pleasure, Or a brighter gift impart, Than the pure and priceless treasure, Of thy fond and faithful heart.

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CATHARA.

BY WALTER COLTON, U. S. N.

Cathara had that pure Ionian face, Which melts its way in music to the heart; Each look and line betrayed that breathing grace, Which Genius has embalmed in classic art, Or sculptured in the Aphrodite—where glows Immortal life, in marble’s still repose.

Her presence on your love and wonder stole With such an atmosphere of softened light, It seemed as some Aurora of the Pole, Were melting down the starry depths of night; Or Dian had her glowing form unrolled From out her floating orb of liquid gold.

Her features were most delicately moulded, And so transparent shone her dimpled cheek, That when her large black eyes their rays unfolded. Its bloom was lighted like some Alpine peak, When zephyrs roll the circling mists away, And on its summit breaks the blush of day.

Her raven hair in showering ringlets fell, That veiled her sylph-like form from human vision; Her step was light as that of the gazelle, And yet its airy motions had precision; The circling air displayed, where’er she went, A wave of light in rainbow beauty bent.

Her voice was sweet as warble of a bird; The accent flowed so softly through the tone, It seemed as ’twere the _thought_ itself you heard— Like music, which the summer’s breeze hath thrown O’er silent waters, from some woodland lyre, Or humming stream, or old cathedral quire.

Her beauty broke not on a sudden glance, But if you watched its soft progressive ray, Some hidden charm of form, or countenance, Like silver planets at the close of day— Would cast its slender veil of shadows by, And timidly advance upon the eye.

Her heart was that from which her features took The tender tone their aspect ever wore; The pensive thoughts which saddened in her look, Were what you feel upon a lonely shore, Where not a sound is heard except the surge, In which some billow hymns its dying dirge.

Her eyes would swim, her bosom heave with grief, When pale misfortune poured its tragic theme; As in the quick wind shakes the forest leaf, An orphan’s wo would tremble in her dream; The tears despair had hardened into stone, Would melt to dew, when mingled with her own.

You deemed that such an one, if death were nigh, Might cheer and soothe you, tho’ she might not save; You thought how sweetly on your closing eye Would fall each glance her tender spirit gave; While meekness showed where guilt might be forgiven, And mercy plumed the parting soul for Heaven.

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THE DEPARTED.

BY MRS. MARY S. WHITAKER.

Bid sorrow cease; she rests in peace— Her task, at last, is done; And decked with youth, and bright with truth, Cold lies thy martyred one. But thine the crime, and through all time, Remorse shall follow thee, With phantom form, through calm and storm, On land and on the sea.

Her shadowy hair, her bosom fair, So often heaving sighs; Her smile so bland, her lily hand, Her mildly mournful eyes— Which long did weep—in troubled sleep, How lovely will they come, All fresh with life, and free from strife, From out the marble tomb.

Her voice of love, all price above, Shall speak, as once it spoke, With gushing flow of tender wo, The while her heart was broke; When thy distrust had bowed to dust Her bosom’s modest pride, Ere like a flower, beneath the shower Too rude, she meekly died.

’Twill whisper soft, “Beloved, how oft Thy brow grows dark and stern; I know not why, yet in thy eye Strange coldness I discern; A heavy blight, the spirit’s night, Falls darkly on my soul; This inward grief, without relief, Thou only canst control!”

These accents clear, thy waking ear Shall lose in silence dread; But from thy heart shall ne’er depart, The wailing of the dead; Her wasted bloom, her early doom, Shall haunt thee evermore! While she, at rest, with spirits blest, Lives on the better shore.

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THE DEAD.

BY “AN AULD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOUTHERS.”

Dead! dead! they are dying—dying! Oh! for the hands that were clasping ours! Passed like a breeze in its own sad sighing, Falling like leaves from the wasted flowers, Dropping away, so still—so still! Call them again, so cold and chill!

Dead? dead? Oh! _how could_ they die? Laughed they not, sang they not joyfully? Were they not with us—and now are they gone? Why have they left us, and where have they flown? Spake they not oft of a deathless tie? Are they not sleeping? Oh! where do they lie?

_Here!_ not here! ’tis a fearful place— Were they not gentle, with steps of grace? Were they not glad as the birds in June? With hearts like a fountain of joyful tune? They were with us at morn, and with us at night, Their locks were of gold, and their eyes of light!

Yet—yet, ye say they are dead; Tell us the land where their footsteps tread! Oh! there is _one_ who hath sought its shore, Never to smile with us, weep with us more; Soon, _too_ soon; ’tis a mournful thing To pass with the bier o’er the flowers of spring!

List! list! she is coming now! Twine ye the wreath for her gladsome brow, Gather the buds, ay, the buds that keep Such trembling dreams in their breasts, asleep, Beauteous types of her heart are they; Cull them from streamlet and glen away!

Here, here, when the sun is low, We shall sit again, when the shadows throw Their dusky wings o’er mount and sea, And speak of the past, and the time to be! Counting the links that have broken away From each chain at the fount, where the heart-streams play!

Hist! hist! did you hear her pass, The ringing laugh on her lip? Alas! Say ye again that she slumbers low? Mourner, why art thou shaken so? Death is the veil that the spirit takes, When the light of God on its sorrowing breaks!

Then, then, thou’lt murmur _no more_! Peace to the weary who travel before! Blesséd are they He hath chosen and tried, Blesséd are they in His love that have died; Heart! let thy throbbings be constant to prayer, So thou wouldst dwell where thy cherished ones are!

Turn! turn, look down through the vale Stretching before thee, where, saddened and pale, Sorrow is beck’ning thee—sorrow and wrong— Weak though thine arm may be, feeble thy song, God smileth aye, on the small “precious seed,” Making the harvest-time golden indeed!

Thou hast been sleeping; wake from thy dreams! Wo for that waking till God o’er it gleams! Better the sleeper were locked in his rest, Better the sun had gone down in his west! Yet if thy path windeth up through thy fears, Hope’s resurrection shall dawn on thy tears!

Hope! Hope! transfigured and bright, Walking with Faith on the mountains of light! Bidding thee weep the departed no more, _Angels_ await at the sepulchre door! Bidding thee take up thy cross, for the day Soon from thy vision will vanish away!

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THE HOMESTEAD OF BEAUTY.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

There’s a homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream, And the sweet tones of children are ringing all day, While the voice of the mother is blithesome and glad, As the notes of the song-bird that warbles in May. The Angel of Peace to the hearth-stone has come, With a message of mercy to brighten each dream, And as glad to the heart, as ’tis pure to the eye, Is that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

The woodbine has curtained the threshold with flowers, And the half-shaded sunbeams fall soft on the floor; While the white-sanded streamlet is singing as sweet As the echoes of music, when music is o’er. The dew on each snow-drop is gem-like and bright, And the lily is bathed in morn’s earliest beam, While the zephyrs are whispering their matins of praise, Round that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

The wings of the evening come loaded with bliss, When the toil and the trouble of daylight is past, And the coolness and calm of the star-lighted hours, O’er the dwellers in hall and in cottage is cast, The sun-browned cheek of the father is kissed; With tears the full eye of the parent will gleam As he presses those loved ones more near to his heart, In that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

And then from that cottage the hymn and the prayer Uprose, when the hour of reposing had come; And each sent an offering of thanksgiving up To _Him_ who had blessed them with quiet at home. Oh! who has not wished, when the cold world has chilled Each flow’ret that blossomed in life’s morning dream. To find out some refuge from sorrow and care, Like that homestead of beauty by Delaware’s stream.

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GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.

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BY G. P. R. JAMES.

We always fail when we judge of the fate of others. Life is double—an internal and an external life; the latter often open to the eyes of all, the former only seen by the eye of God. Nor is it alone those material things which we conceal from the eyes of others, which often make the apparently splendid lot in reality a dark one, or that which seems sad or solitary, cheerful and light within. Our characters, our spirits operate upon all that fate or accident subjects to them. We transform the events of life for our own uses, be those uses bitter or sweet; and as a piece of gold loses its form and solidity when dropped into a certain acid, so the hard things of life are resolved by the operations of our own minds into things the least resembling themselves. True, a life of study and of thought may seem to most men a calm and tranquil state of existence. Such pursuits gently excite, and exercise softly and peacefully the highest faculties of the intellectual soul; but age brings with it indifference even to these enjoyments—nay, it does more, it teaches us the vanity and emptiness of all man’s knowledge. We reach the bounds and barriers which God has placed across our path in every branch of science, and we find, with bitter disappointment, at life’s extreme close, that when we know all, we know nothing. This I have learned, and it is all that I have learned in eighty years, that the only knowledge really worth pursuing is the knowledge of God in his word and his works—the only practical application of that high science, to do good to all God’s creatures.

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The operation of man’s mind and of his heart are as yet mysteries. We talk of eager love; we speak of the warm blood of the South; we name certain classes of our fellow beings excitable, and others phlegmatic; but we ourselves little understand what we mean when we apply such terms, and never try to dive into the sources of the qualities or the emotions we indicate. We ask not how much is due to education, how much to nature; and never think of the immense sum of co-operating causes which go to form that which is really education. Is man or woman merely educated by the lessons of a master, or the instructions and exhortations of a parent? Are not the acts we witness, the words we hear, the scenes with which we are familiar, parts of our education? Is not the Swiss, or the Highlander, of every land, educated in part by his mountains, his valleys, his lakes, his torrents? Is not the inhabitant of cities subjected to certain permanent impressions, by the constant presence of crowds, and the everlasting pressure of his fellow men? Does not the burning sun, the arid desert, the hot blast, teach lessons never forgotten, and which become part of nature to one class of men; and frozen plains, and lengthened winters, and long nights, other lessons to the natives of a different region? Give man what instruction you will, by spoken words or written signs, there is another education going on forever, not only for individuals but for nations, in the works of God around them, and in the circumstances with which his will has encompassed their destiny.

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BY J. G. WHITTIER.

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The ocean looketh up to heaven, As ’twere a living thing; The homage of its waves is given In ceaseless worshiping.

They kneel upon the sloping sand, As bends the human knee; A beautiful and tireless band— The priesthood of the sea.

They pour the glittering treasures out Which in the deep have birth; And chant their awful hymns about The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up From every mountain shrine— From every flower and dewy cup That greeteth the sun-shine.

The mists are lifted from the rills, Like the white wing of prayer They lean above the ancient hills, As doing homage there.

The forest tops are lowly cast O’er breezy hill and glen, As in a prayerful spirit passed On nature as on men.

The clouds weep o’er the fallen world, E’en as repentant love; Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurled, They fade in light above.

The sky it is a temple’s arch— The blue and wavy air Is glorious with the spirit-march Of messengers at prayer.

The gentle moon, the kindling sun, The many stars are given, As shrines to burn earth’s incense on— The altar-fires of Heaven!

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BY MISS PARDOE.

There is always something sad, if not revolting, in the visit of those unsympathizing servitors of dissolution who first break upon the stillness of the house of death. The very nature of their errand is fearful—they come to claim all that is left of what was once life, and will, and action—to tread heavily over the floor where others have previously moved with a noiseless step—to talk in hoarse, although suppressed voices, where the dull echoes have latterly been hushed—and coldly to pursue their avocation in the very presence of eternity. Perhaps it is well that there is no possibility of delaying this first trial, for where the ties of love have been rent asunder, who would have courage to sanction so unhallowed an intrusion? Who could summon to the bedside, so lately the scene of agony and prayer, the unsympathizing eyes and hands of mercenary strangers? Human nature is ever prone to resist where resistance is possible, and suffering certain; happy is it, therefore, that it is taught, in so solemn a moment, to feel its own impotence, and to submit.

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The tiger gives no warning before he springs—it is for the traveler to be wary. The serpent utters no threatening before he stings—the intended victim must defend himself against the venomed tongue. And thus, in like manner, the woman who sees only the gorgeous skin or the gleaming scales of vice, and wilfully closes her eyes against the poison to which they lend a mocking and a worthless charm, finds little pity, and excites no sympathy.

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EDITOR’S TABLE.

A HAPPY NEW-YEAR.—Holding continual intercourse through the press with so many thousands scattered over this country, and other countries, we feel an enlarged sympathy with our fellow beings, and use suitable occasions to give utterance to hopes and wishes in another form than that of the essays, stories and poetry of the stated columns of this Magazine. We set forth our humble “table,” and while we invite all to a seat, we bid all welcome to the viands; nay, we make the little festival with a particular and special view—to express to our readers our hearty wishes for “a happy New-Year.” May they all be happy, all enjoy the year upon which we now enter, all be freed from care and troublesome anxiety, and all have enough for their own enjoyment and the gratification of liberal feelings.

Now we are as sensible as any can be that the above wish is extended to the readers of Graham—“And so we are selfish, sordid, can only wish well to those who _do_ well to us.” That is the charge which will be made by some good-natured body that has not had her feelings refined by a constant perusal of this Magazine. She curls her thin lip in scorn at our narrow feeling, and quotes scripture and poetry against the contracted philanthropy which does good in such a limited circle. We shall not quote scripture back to her, but content ourselves with a simple remark that we adhere to our form of expression, and shall prove it to be sufficiently inclusive for all the New-Year wishes which we are bound to entertain and utter.

In the first place, we wish the readers of Graham a happy New-Year—health, peace, comforts—rational enjoyment and pleasures that will please on reflection.

Can peace, comfort and enjoyment be had by the readers of this Magazine, when those who are related with them are deprived of such gratifications? Should we not offend by gross injustice if we should imagine the readers of Graham capable of high enjoyments when others were in distress? How numerous and extensive are the ramifications of social life! Not a blow is struck on the remote verge of society but some sympathetic nerve carries it to the heart—friend—relative—associate—give interest to events; and such links in the chain of social existence bind man to man, and make of human society one common body. We wish you happy! then wealth, health, peace and quiet to all with whom you stand related. Can you be happy and your brother, your friend, your relative miserable? It is not possible. And when we wish a happy New Year to the thirty or forty thousand who take, and the four hundred thousand who read Graham, we wish a general happiness.

_We_ enter upon a new year with the fullness of hopes that are only enlarged by the fruition of former hopes. Our hopes are not hopeless. Our desires to be rewarded have kept pace with our desires and efforts to please. We believe the latter desires have contributed to the gratification of the former; and it is therefore in a spirit of hopeful gratitude that we wish _our_ friends and _their_ friends a happy New-Year.

To the old we wish the ease which belongs to the dignity of years, and that degree of health which makes the twilight of life delightful.

To the middle-aged we wish the maturity of intellect which secures wisdom to plans, and success to efforts.

To youth a consciousness that very many of the promises of life are so deceptive, that they must learn to rely more upon their own exertions than upon those promises. We wish to them well regulated minds, well controlled passions—we do not expect, we do not wish for the stately dignity of age in the lively and stimulated feelings of youth: enjoyment—and enjoyment of something of which age calls the vanity of life—is permitted to youth. So that in all their rejoicings, in all the cheerfulness of their hearts, in all the wanderings which they make by the light of their eyes, (alas! how much has the lustre of even one pair of woman’s eyes led us astray,) and in the understanding of their hearts, (and how much do we all suffer by overrating that understanding!) all these things may be endured—may be encouraged indeed—if indulged in with that kind of reflection which keeps in view accountability for it all.