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WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

FROM "AN EVENING REVERIE."

Oh thou great Movement of the Universe,

Or Change, or Flight of Time-for ye are one!-
That bearest silently this visible scene
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays

Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me?
I feel the mighty current sweep me on,
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar
The courses of the stars; the very hour

He knows, when they shall darken or grow bright:
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death
Come unforewarned. Who next of those I love
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame and general scorn of men—
Which who can bear?-or the fierce rack of pain-
Lie they within my path? Or shall the years
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace,
Into the stilly twilight of my age?

Or do the portals of another life

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne,
In the vast cycle of being which begins
At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe
Its workings? Gently-so have good men taught—
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide
Into the new; the eternal flow of things,
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. Thou blossom bright with autumu dew, And covered with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest:

Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The agéd year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see

The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to Heaven as I depart.

SONG.

Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near

Press the tenderest reasons? Ah, they give their faith too oft To the careless wooer; Maidens' hearts are always soft

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early herbs are springing:
When the brook-side, bank, and grove,
All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her when, with rosy blush,
Summer eve is sinking;
When, on rills that softly gush,
Stars are softly winking;

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WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER.—JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN.

THE VOICE OF OTHER YEARS.

O Stella! golden star of youth and love!
In thy soft name the voice of other years
Seems sounding; each green court and archéd grove
Where, hand-in-hand, we walked, again appears,
Called by the spell: the very clouds and tears,
O'er which thy dawning lamp its splendor darted,
Gleam bright; and they are there, my youthful
peers,

The lofty-minded and the gentle-hearted;

The beauty of the earth-the light of days departed

All, all return; and with them comes a throng Of withered hopes, and loves made desolate, And high resolves cherished in silence long,

Yea, struggling still beneath the incumbent weight

Of spirit-quelling Time and adverse fate. These only live; all else have passed away

To Memory's spectre-land; and she, who sate 'Mid that bright choir so bright, is now as theyA morning dream of life, dissolving with the day.

TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR.
Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays,
So beautiful approve thee,
So winning light are all thy ways,
I cannot choose but love thee.

Thy balmy breath upon my brow

Is like the summer air,

As o'er my cheek thou leanest now,
To plant a soft kiss there.

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound
Between the child and woman;

And thoughts and feelings more profound,
And other years, are coming:
And thou shalt be more deeply fair,
More precious to the heart;
But never caust thou be again
That lovely thing thou art!

And youth shall pass, with all the brood
Of fancy-fed affection;
And grief shall come with womanhood,
And waken cold reflection;
Thou'lt learn to toil and watch, and weep
O'er pleasures unreturning,

Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep
Unto the cares of morning.

Nay, say not so! nor cloud the sun

Of joyous expectation, Ordained to bless the little one,

The freshling of creation!

Nor doubt that He who thus doth feed
Her early lamp with gladness,
Will be her present help in need,
Her comforter in sadness.

Smile on, then, little winsome thing,
All rich in Nature's treasure!
Thou hast within thy heart a spring
Of self-renewing pleasure.
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill
Of mirth, till time shall end it:
"Tis Nature's wise and gentle will,
And who shall reprehend it?

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan.

469

Callanan (1795-1829) was born in Cork, Ireland, and educated for the priesthood at Maynooth. But he gave up his clerical prospects, and in 1825 was an assistant in the school of Dr. Maginn, by whose introduction he became a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine. In 1829 he was tutor in the family of an Irish gentleman in Lisbon, and died there in the thirty-fourth year of his age, as he was about leaving for Ireland. A small 12mo volume of his Poems was published at Cork soon after his death. A new edition appeared in 1847; and in 1848 was issued a third edition, edited by D. F. McCarthy, with an interesting Memoir.

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.

FOUNDED ON AN EXISTING POPULAR TRADITION IN THE COUNTY OF CORK.

The evening-star rose beauteous above the fading day,

As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray;

And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall,

But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all.

Slow moving o'er the waters a gallant bark appeared,

And her joyous crew looked from the deck as to the land she neared;

To the calm and sheltered haven she floated like

a swan,

And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone.

The master saw "Our Lady" as he stood upon the

prow,

And marked the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her brow;

Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast,

And her eyes looked up among the stars to Him her soul loved best.

He showed her to his sailors, and he hailed her with a cheer;

And on the kneeling Virgin then they gazed with laugh and jeer,

And madly swore a form so fair they never saw before,

And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore.

The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight
sheen,

And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their
Queen;

And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness
o'er the land,

Thomas Noon Talfourd.

Talfourd (1795-1854) was a native of Doxey, a suburb of Stafford, England. His father was a brewer in Reading. Having studied the law, Thomas was called to the Bar in 1821, and in 1833 got his silk gown. As Sergeant Talfourd, he was conspicuous for his popular eloquence and liberal principles. He was returned to Parliament for the borough of Reading. In 1835 he published his tragedy of "Ion," which was the next year produced at Covent Garden Theatre with success. It is the highest literary effort of its author; and Miss Ellen Tree, who played the part of the hero in the United States, helped to make it famous. Talfourd also produced "The Athenian Captive," a tragedy; "The Massacre of Glencoe;" and "The Castilian," a tragedy. He also wrote a "Life of Charles Lamb," and an "Essay on the Greek Drama." In 1849 he was elevated to the Bench; and in 1854 he died of apoplexy, while delivering his charge to the grandjury at Stafford.

TO THE SOUTH AMERICAN PATRIOTS.
ON THE DISPERSION OF THE EXPEDITION FROM SPAIN,
APRIL, 1819.

Rejoice, ye heroes! Freedom's old ally,

And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady Unchanging Nature, who hath seen the powers on the strand.

Of thousand tyrannies decline like flowers,
Your triumph aids with eldest sympathy:-

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning The breeze hath swept again the stormy sky

leaped about;

And, rushing with its watery war, the tempest gave

a shout;

And that vessel from a mountain-wave came down with thundering shock,

And her timbers flew like scattered spray on Inchidony's rock.

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high;

But the angry surge swept over them, and hushed their gurgling cry;

And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest

passed away,

And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay.

When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore,

Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's shore;

And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank,

That wooed Athenian waves with tenderest kiss,
And breathed, in glorious rage, o'er Salamis !
Leaguing with deathless chiefs, whose spirits high
Shared in its freedom-now from long repose
It wakes to dash unmastered Ocean's foam
O'er the proud navies of your tyrant foes;
Nor shall it cease in ancient might to roam
Till it hath borne your contest's glorious close
To every breast where freedom finds a home.

LOVE IMMORTAL.
FROM "ION."

Clemanthe. And shall we never see each other?
Ion (after a pause). Yes!

I have asked that dreadful question of the hills,
That look eternal; of the flowing streams,
That lucid flow forever; of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory: all were dumb; but now,
While I thus gaze upon thy living face,

I feel the love that kindles through its beauty

And still he calls that hillock green the Virgin | Can never wholly perish: we shall meet

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