DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK..

YOUNG mother, he is gone!

His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast ;
No more the music-tone

Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd;
His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee:
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.

His was the morning hour,

And he hath pass'd in beauty from the day,
A bud, not yet a flower,

Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray;
The death-wind swept him to his soft repose,
As frost, in spring-time, blights the early rose.

Never on earth again

Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear,
Like some Eolian strain,

Breathing at eventide serene and clear;
His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes
The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.

And from thy yearning heart,

Whose inmost core was warm with love for him,
A gladness must depart,

And those kind eyes with many tears be dim;
While lonely memories, an unceasing train,
Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

Yet, mourner, while the day

Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by,

And hope forbids one ray

To stream athwart the grief-discolour'd sky;
There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom
A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.

'Tis from the better land!

There, bathed in radiance that around them springs,
Thy loved one's wings expand;

As with the choiring cherubim he sings,
And all the glory of that God can see,
Who said, on earth, to children, "Come to me."

Mother, thy child is bless'd:

And though his presence may be lost to thee,
And vacant leave thy breast,

And miss'd, a sweet load from thy parent knee;
Though tones familiar from thine ear have pass'd,
Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.

251

BRONX.

BY JOSEPH R. DRAKE.

I SAT me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends, who linger while they sever;
Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow

Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,

Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beech was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen

Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,

Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes unheeded.

The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around,

The bluefinch carol'd in the still retreat;

The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground

Where lichens make a carpet for his feet;

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle
Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

BRONX.

There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses,
White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies flaunting
Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting

253

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden
Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,

Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,

The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?
Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands,
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?
Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be
A face more pleasant than the face of men.
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see
A well-remember'd form in each old tree,

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

22

MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

BY JOHN H. BRYANT.

THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale,

With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure born of gentler showers.

'Twas there my young existence was begun, My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done,

I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height-the sweetest of the day.

There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain,

I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home,

In the lone path that winds across the plain,
To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labours of the day.

And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathering in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze,
I wander'd till the starlight on the stream
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.