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MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Yes, the Year is growing old.
And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold. Plncks the old man by the beard, Sorely,—sorely!
The leaves are falling, falling.
Solemuly and slow;
It is a sonnd of woe,
A sonnd of woe!
TIirough woods and monntain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
Singing, "Pray for this poor sonl,
And the hooded clonds, like friai-s.
Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;—
lint their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather.
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Like weak, despised Lear,
Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
These poems' were written for the most part during my college life, ami all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have fonnd their way into schools, and seem to be snccessful. Others lead a vagabond and precarions existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names, and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar oecasion, "I caunot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have negleeted, and aimost exposed, bronght from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a moi-e decorons garb."
AN APRIL DAY.
When the warn sun that brings Seed-time and harvest has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
I love the season well, When forest glades are teaming with bright
forms, Nor dark and many-folded clonds foretell
The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened monld The sapling draws its sustenance and thrives; Thongh stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.
The softly-war bled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colonred
wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.
When the bright suuset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope
throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And when the eve is born,
And twinkles many a star.
Inverted in the tide. Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows
throw, And the fair trees look over side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April!—many a thonght Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are-wed; Nor shall they fail, till to its antuum bronght,
Life's golden fruit is shed.
With what a glory comes and goes the year!
Comes down upon the autuum sun, and with
There is a beantiful spirit breathing now
Oh, what a glory doth this world pnt on For him, who, with a fervent heart goes forth Under the bright and glorions sky, and looks On dnties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves. Shall have a voice and give him eloqnent
teachings. He shall so hear the soleum hyum, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place withont a tear.
WOODS IN WINTER.
When winter winds are piereing chill.
With soleum feet I tread the hill
O'er the bare upland, and away
The embracing suubeams chastely play,
Where, twisted ronnd the barren oak,
And summer winds the stiliness broke,
Where, from their frozen urus, mnte springs
Shrilly the skater's iron rings.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene.
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
Bnt still wild umsic is abroad.
Pale, desert woods! within yonr crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse aecord.
Amid the vocal reeds pipe lond.
Chili airs aint wintry winds! my car
1 hear it in the opening year,—
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF
AT TnE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WnEN the dying flame of day
And the ceuser hurning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The Mood-red bauner, that with prayer
Had been cousecrated there. And the nuus' sweet hyum was heard the while Sung low in the dim, mysterions aisle. "Take thy bauner! May it wave
Prondly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of onr vale,
When the clarion's umsic thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills.
When the spear in confiiet shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
"Take thy bauner! and, beneath
"Take thy bauner! Bnt when night
"Take thy bauner!—and if e'er
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
They gathered mid-way ronnd the wooded
I Then o'er the vale, wllh gentle swell, ; The umsic of the village bill
'Game sweetly to tlie echo-giving hills;
If thon art worn aml hard beset
With sorrows that thon wonidst forget.
If thon wonidst read u lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills!—No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. Theee is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle sonth wind
blows; , . ,, , ,
Where, underneath the while-thorn in the glade,
amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thonghts from
As to the suushine and the pure, bright air
bards , ....
Have ever loved the caim and quiet shades
looks in .'- M ,
Monntain, and shattered cliff, and suuny vale.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
yonth. My busy faney oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beanty That dwell in nature,—of the heaveuly forms We worship in onr dreams, and the soft hnes That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the
clonds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blne of Mav. is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her Blushes the richuess of an antuum sky. With ever-shifting beanty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle a ir of Spring,
As, from the morning s dcWy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that tt is a joy
BURIAL OF THE M1NNISINK.
On suuny slope and heecheu swell.
Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blne hills. One clond of white,
Aronnd a far uplifted cone,
In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian's sonl awakes.
Bnt soon a funeral hyum was heard
They sang, that by his native bowers
And thirty suows had not yet sheu
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his prond and martial dress,
They buried the dark chief, they freed
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE
FROM THE SPANISH.
Don Jorge Mauriqne. the anthor of the following poem, flonrished in the last half of the fifteenth centarv. He followed the profession of arms, umt died on the fleid of baitle. Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes hononrable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ccies; ami speaks of him as •'a yonth of estimable qualities, who in this war, gave brilliant proofs of his valonr. He died yonng; and was thus cnt off from long exereising his great virtnes, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genins, which was aiready known to fumc." He was mortally wonnded in a skirmish near Canavete. in the year 1479.
The name of Rodrigo Maariqne. the father of the poet, Conde de Predes and Maestre do Santiago, is well known in spanish history and song. He died in 1479; aecording to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; bnt, aecording to the poem of his son. in Ocana. It was his death which called forth the poem upon which rests the literary repntation of the yonnger Mauriqne. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Mauriqne, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beanties, rich embellishments of genins, and higli moral reflectious, monrned the death of his father as with a funeral hyum." This praise is not exaggeration. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beantiful; and, in aecordance with it, the style moves on—caim, diguitied, and majestic.
0 Let the sonl her slumbers break.
Let the thonght be quickened, and awake
Awake to sec
How soon this life is past and gone,
How death comes softiy stealing on,
Swiftly onr pleasures glide away,
The moments that r,re speeding fast
Onward its conrse the present keeps,
And, did we jndge of time aright.
Let no one fondly dream again.
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Our lives are rivers, gliding free,
Thither all earthiy pomp and boast
Thither the mighty torrents stray.
I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators Hiki sous of song.
The deathiess few;
Fletion entices and deceives.
And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves.
Lies poisonons dew.
To One alone my thonghts arise.
The Eternal Trnth,—the Good and Wise,—
To Him I cry.
Who shared on earth onr common lot,
IUU the world comprehended not
This world is bnt the rugged road
So let us choose that narrow way.
Our cradle is the starting place,
Did we bnt use it as we onght,
This world wonld school each wandering thonght
To its high state.
Faith wings the sonl beyond the sky, .
Up to that better world on high.
For which we wait.
Yes, the glad messenger of love,
Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursne on earth.
The shapes we case.
Amid a world of treachery!
They vanish ere death shnts the eye,
And leave no trace.
Time steals them from us,—chances strange,
Disastrons aecidents, and change,
That come to all;
Even in the most exalted state.
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;
The strongest fall.
Tell me,—the charms that lovers seek