TO A STOLEN RING. BY N. P. WILLIS. O FOR thy history now! Hadst thou a tongue To whisper of thy secrets, I would lay Upon thy jewel'd tracery my ear, And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn The bounding of the haughtiest pulse that e'er Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast, And in her holy sleep, when she has lain As the rich blood rush'd through them warm and fast. I am impatient as I gaze on thee, Thou inarticulate jewel! Thou hast heard And the warm tear, which from her eye stole out Amid thy shining jewels like a star. AN APPEAL. BY PROSPER M. WETMORE. "Oh! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, "Ye conquerors!" YE worshippers of glory! Who bathe the earth in blood, And launch proud names for an after age Pause, in your march of terror! The conflict's gathering wrath! Think ye a throne will prosper, A nation's glory rise, When your bark is borne by a people's tears, And wafted by their sighs? Look to the peaceful dwelling Of the peasant and his race; There's joy around that lowly hearth, There's rapture on each face. That brow with snow is whiten'd, But his face is bright at the twilight hour For his children there are smiling. To sit in the shades of a pleasant eve, Two manly youths are standing A mother's placid features Are in that circle found, And her bosom warms with a thrill of joy As she fondly looks around. On! through the paths to glory, Ye mighty conquerors! The trumpet's voice has summon'd forth Your legions to the wars! Rush on, through fields of carnage, And tread to earth the foe! Where'er your banners float above, Let your sabres flash below! Yet stay your march to greatness, Upon that door no longer The twilight shadows fall; In a shroudless grave the old man sleeps Beneath the ruin'd wall. Ye tore away his strong ones- That form of seraph sweetness, Where the eye enraptured gazed, Is a piteous wreck in its loveliness, For the lost one's brain is crazed. "Twere better she were sleeping Within the silent tomb; For never more to her frenzied eye, The flowers of life shall bloom! |