LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH. [From the German of Friedrich Kind.] BY D. SEYMOUR. COULDST thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming-deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had. I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee And try if to my spells thy silence yields; Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept ? 16 LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH, What, silent still!-wilt thou make no disclosure ? Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine, Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone thine? Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions, The murderer or the murdered to be? Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free? Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story, Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land? Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, And as approaching death dries up life's fountains, Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh; Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying, Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany? Defiled the pure, and captive led the free? SONG. The sun already toward the west is tending, His rays upon thy hollow temples strike; Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike. The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast! SONG. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. I KNOW thou dost love me-ay! frown as thou wilt, Which I never can gaze on without the guilt Of burning its dew to sip. I know that my heart is reflected in thine, And, like flowers that over a brook incline, They toward each other dip. 17 Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light, 'Mid the careless, proud, and gay, I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night, I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour, THE MINISINK. BY A. B. STREET. ENCIRCLED by the screening shade, The wind that shows its forest search Far to the North, the Delaware Flows mountain-curv'd along, THE MINISINK. The ground bird flutters from the grass Bounds in the thicket's breast; The red-bird rears his crimson wing From the long fern of yonder spring, A sweet and peaceful rest Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound Long will the shuddering hunter tell How oft the sire-the babe-the wife 'Mid havoc's fiery scathe; Until the boldest quail'd to mark, Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark. At length the fisher furl'd his sail Within the shelter'd creek, The hunter trod his forest trail The mustering band to seek; The settler cast his axe away, With the rude arms that chance supplied, And die, or conquer, side by side. Behind the footsteps of their foe, 19 |