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ART. IV. POETICAL CONTRIBUTIONS.
I. EARLY DAYS.
ALAS! those blissful days are gliding on
Unto the shadowy twilight of the past,
While days more bright, more glorious, take their place. Yet, when the evening's dusky curtains fall
Around the busy world, and veil its face,
Excluding all its noise and dazzling glare;
While 'mid the trees the trembling moonlight sleeps,
And sighing winds are hushed, and merry bird,
Then, when no thought of present care intrudes,
Like the dim scene around, and calm, and fair.
Still bends the elm above my father's door,
So baseless, that they needs must totter down.
A sea of fire, with purple isles o'erbuilt
Still waves that well known tree, and still beneath Its sheltering arms, all time-embrowned and old, With lichens patching its decaying roof,
The embosomed homestead rests. There, as of yore, My gray-haired father sits, his thoughtful brow
Engraved with tales of sage experience,
And by his side, gazing with earnest eye
Into his face, a lovely woman stands ;
Though years have ripened her fair form, the same,
II. THE WORM.
I SAW a worm, with many a fold,
The traces of a dry, dead leaf
The record of its history brief,
A spring and summer come and gone.
4TH S. VOL. III. NO. III.
Within a small, snug nook it lay,
Nor rain nor snow could reach it there; Nor wind was felt in gusty day,
Nor biting cold of frosty air.
But spring returned; its mild, warm breath
And starting where they lay beneath,
And shining in the morning sun.
Slow and with pain it first moved on,
And of the dust still seemed to be;
III. ON SOME IVY SEEN AT HEIDELBERG CASTLE.
THE green growing ivy -
Up, upward it mounts,
And never gives o'er,
While the stern, rugged stones
Above it still soar;
But creeping, and climbing,
And twining, I ween,
O'er the old, falling pile
Casts its mantle of green.
And when round the turrets
It sits like a victor
SWEET are the tints, which oft at sunset hour
Fit parting homage to the lord of day;
Sweet are deep draughts, from the cool fountain's brim,
V. THE LAMENT OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.
2 Samuel i. 19—27. Xunt
These lines were written on reading the version of the same passage in the Christian Examiner of September, 1844. In one respect, Î have departed both from the original and from the former version. There are so many ludicrous associations connected with the word "Jonathan," and still more with "Brother Jonathan,” that I have not ventured to introduce them into serious poetry. In the venerable simplicity of our Common Version, with which we are familiar from infancy, they strike us less unfavorably; but even there they are not unfelt. "Saul" is obnoxious to no such associations; and the parts of the lament which apply to his son may be made sufficiently obvious, without the use of the name.
How are the mighty fallen! thy boast,
Tell not in Gath our grief, our shame
O! ne'er, Gilboa ! on thy field
May dews descend, nor shower again Thy fruits revive; since there his shield Th' anointed lost, the brave was slain.
Their bow of strength, their sword of might
With fat of foes, in many a fight,
That sword, that bow, was gorged with gore.
More swift than eagles swept they by,
Daughters of Israel! weep for Saul,
For Saul who made your pride his care, With purple clothed, and scarlet pall,
And wreathed with gems and gold your hair.
Oh! pleasant hast thou been to me,
My friend my brother! fallen in vain, Untimely fallen; this breast for thee Bleeds now, as thine in battle slain.
Gentle as brave, to me thy heart
Was soft as woman's: woman ne'er Showed love like thine, devoid of art, From envy free, from doubt, from fear.
How fallen the mighty! sire and son
All swords to combat on their side.