THE OLD CEDAR TREE.

They have left the Old Cedar, those merry, bright birds,
They passed off like the echo of light spoken words,--
The sprigs are unbent, the soft nests are all bare,
And a lone, solemn look does the Old Cedar wear;
No more do their wings, with their glorious sheen,
Press, like rubies and gems, on the Cedar's dark green;
When the king of the winds sang his winter refrain
They chimed in the chorus, their last farewell strain.

They've left the Old Cedar, that sheltered their young,
When their first flights were taken, and first lays were sung;

Their songs are all hushed, like the music of love,
When the dark clouds of grief veil the brightness above;
They've vanished away, as our summer friends flee,
When the winds of adversity ruffle life's sea;
They have fled, like the smiles from the brow we adore,
When doubt enters in, where faith rested before.

They have left the Old Cedar, as children who stray
From the sheltering breast where their tiny heads lay;
They're winging their way to some gay summer bower,
Where they'll feel not the might of the storm-spirit's power;
They've left the Old Cedar, to list to the tones
Of the sighing winds only,--their sobs, and their moans.
They never could brook for their plumage so red
To grow dull, in the darkness that hangs overhead.

But lo! from the north, on the sleet and the hail,
With free, dauntless wing, on the breast of the gale,
Comes a band of brown birds, and with merry a "PEE DEE,"
Seem to ask for a home in the Old Cedar Tree.

Their songs are not sweet as the warblings of old,
That gushed from the bosoms of crimson and gold;
Yet their hearts, though all wrapped in a coat of dull gray,
Spread their cheerfulness round, in their own quiet way.

Oh, thus, when we mortals grow weary and sad,
With nothing to make the heart merry, or glad,--
When the tones we have cherished fall not on the ear,
And the green leaves of love have grown yellow and sere,--
May some kind spirit then, though the storm-cloud is dark,
And the arrows of Fate pierce our souls as their mark,
Come to rest in our bosoms, though humble they be,
Like the brown birds that rest in the Old Cedar Tree.

      MY HEART HAS HAD SWEET VISIONS.

My heart has had sweet visions,
      And has dreamed them o'er and o'er,
As I sit, this calm June evening,
      Outside my cottage door;
All around me flowers are glowing--
      The nurslings of my care,
While the winds are softly playing
      'Mong the tresses of my hair.

The sweet night-blooming jasmine,
      With pearly dew is wet,
And geraniums blend their perfume
      With the rose and mignionette;
No mortal sound is breaking
      Earth's sacred time of rest,

There's a holy quiet round me,
      And a quiet in my breast.

Methinks that unseen fingers
      Are pressing on my brow,
As a troop of happy spirits
      Are clustering round me now;
The early loved and beautiful,
      I see them each and all,--
Round each brow, shining brightly,
      A fadeless coronal.

They come to bring me messages,
      Amid such hours as these
When the stars send golden quivers
      Through the flower-laden trees,--
When the moon sails o'er the ocean,
      In her silver-broidered vest,
When a hush is in the forest,
      And the waters are at rest.

I feel each blissful presence,
      I list each murmuring tone,
And I know they are about me,
      "My beautiful, my own."

They ever loved sweet flowers,
      The moonlight, and the breeze,--
Thus each summer evening finds me
      Alone, mid scenes like these.

'Tis thus I courage borrow,
      The patient brow to wear,
Through each coming day of sadness,
      Disappointment, and care;
For I know, when night's gemmed curtain
      Falls lightly o'er the sea,
Those dwellers of the spirit land
      Will be again with me.

                THE STAR BEAMS.

The star beams that came with the fairies last nigh,
      And the silver moonlight in the vale,
And went wooing the roses that blushed in their light,
      And the lilies, so proud, and so pale;
While the low winds were breathing far over the sea,
      'Mid the bright, crystal waves' gentle flow,
The songs they loved best,--while the soft lullaby
      Echoed down where the green sea weeds grow--

They are gone! all gone, from their banqueting hall
      To-night, though the roses are there,
Adown in the vale; but roses and all
      Are robed in the hues of despair:
As sweetly as ever, the stars beam to-night,
      O'er the land of the citron and vine,
And toy, with a happier blush of delight,
      With the joys of that odorous clime.

And when next thy come, with their false, burning rays,
      The clouds from the skies will have flown,
But the lilies will bow, to avert their rude gaze,
      As they'll turn to the last that have blown;
The flowrets have learnt from the pitiless rain,
      And the winds that blew down from the skies,
How fickle they are, and how futile, and vain
      'Twere to trust to the light of their eyes.

Thus, the sweet smiles of friendship, and love, in our youth,
      Fall, like gems on the shrine of the heart;
We dream they are drops from the fountain of truth--
      That their treasures will never depart;
But the vision will fade, and we laugh at them all;
      Their light on the bosom may glow,--
'Twill warm it as much as the sunbeams that fall
      On a mountain top, crusted with snow.

                   MY LYRE.

The beautiful thoughts that come floating along,
      To illumine my heart with their lightness,
I never can breathe in my rambling song,
      For the chords of my lyre want lightness.

The deep, silver base ones are covered with dust,
      The tenor ones soiled, and worn,
And the face of my lyre is covered with dust,
      And of all its bright gilding is shorn.

The harmonic tones that its bosom should swell,
      Are sullen, discordant, and cold,
And a gloom, and a sadness, will over it dwell,
      As it sings the dear mem'ries of old.

Yet I'll cling to it still, for I never could wake
      A lyre, all shining and new;
My rude, careless fingers the wrong chords would take,
      And make the notes harsh, and untrue.

                         HAPPY HOURS.

There are hours when my spirit folds her weary, wandering wings,
And sees, nor heeds the passing of sublunary things,
While holding fond communion with the loved of other days,
As they throng in troops about me, all veiled from mortal gaze;
Their smiles are like the sunshine, that gently wanders through
The red-bud, in the spring time, while wet with morning dew;
And their voices make sweet music, like a low, sweet matin hymn,
Stealing out upon the waters, from Cathedral, old, and dim;

Or like a chime of silver bells, in Alpine mountain rung,
Where melodious strains are ever, by wooing zephyrs sung.

When each day of grief and sadness is numbered with the past,
And Lethean chains are lightly o'er sleeping myriads cast;
Then, as Clan-Alpine's Chieftain, the dauntless Roderic Dhu,
With bugle, 'mong the mountains, called his warriors, brave and true,
From each rock, and crag, and ravine, uprose the hardy band,
To promptly do his bidding--to go, or bravely stand!
So memory waves her sceptre, o'er her empire of the heart,
And from each nook, and cranny, beloved idols start;
They wear the "bonnie pladdie" of loyalty and truth,--
Their countersign,--"We love thee, as you loved us in thy youth."

Once more I feel their breathing, and their hands are clasped in mine,
While we drink from golden goblets affection's rosy wine,
Oh! it fills the heart with gladness, with purer, holier love,
And fits it for communings with angel ones above;
To thus, amid life's folly, its wickedness and sin,
Put off the outer vestment, and dwell awhile within,
Where the mem'ry of lost hours, and thoughts of vanished years,
Are like a blooming island, in a sea of briny tears,
Within whose magic circle reigns a calm, unbroken rest,
While the dove of peace sits brooding, on her vine-embowered nest.

               THE GOLD COMET.
                  Written in 1849.

Ho! see to the westward, 'way up in the skies,
Rising upward, still up, a gold comet arise!
And, hark! floating out on the breast of the sea,
With the soft breath of even, a wild melody;
'Tis the gold hunter's song, the hurrah for the mines,
As the multitude haste where the golden dust shines!

O'er the Emerald Isle, o'er the waters of Dair,
On the bright flowing Rhine, the gold comet is there:
To destroy the earth came the comets of old,
But this one has come to convert it to gold;
O'er the ends of the earth its long, bright streamer gleams,
But its nucleus is hid in California's streams.

But, beward, oh! beware of its treacherous glow,
'Twill lead thee o'er desolate mountains of snow;
O'er deserts, whose sands are all burning and red,
Engulphing the forms of the dying and dead;
Beware of its glow--like the funeral light,
It illumines the way to a long, dismal night!

'Tis the Jack-o'-the-lantern, to lure from their home
The cherished, and loved, a drear pathway to roam.
O, the soft, spirit light, from many an eye,
Went out, as that comet flashed up in the sky;
And many a hearth has grown cheerless, and lone,
For their stars to its wild, witching brightness have flown!

            STANZAS,--
Composed while gazing on a Beacon Light, on Lake Erie.

Oh, say, why art thou gleaming,
Thy glances downward streaming,
      From thy tower, lone and high?
To-night no clouds are lying,
No angry lightnings flying,
      Across the summer sky.

The winds are all reposing
'Mong flowers, soft enclosing,
      To list their gentle lay;
While the upper orbs are smiling
On the crystal waves, beguiling
      The midnight hours away.

Then tell me why thou 'rt gleaming,
Thy glances downward streaming,
      From thy tower, lone and high?

Dost tell of hope, or fearing,
To the mariner, while nearing
      Thy ever watchful eye?

Thou 'dst tell me, there are lying,
Where the mermaids, low, are sighing,
      Beneath the glassy waves,
Dark rocks, that frown forever,
That yield their victims, never,
      From their deep and silent graves.

This, then, is why thou 'rt keeping
Thy vigils, never sleeping,
      Beside the rock-bound shore;
A faithful warder, truly,
Still giving, not unduly,
      Thy warnings evermore.

Like the spirit light that guides us,
Th[r]ough whatever fate betides us,
      On life's uncertain sea,
To tell us of the sadness,
'Neath the silver tide of gladness,
      Where fearful maelstroms be.

Or, through joys round us falling,
Like unhushed voices, calling,
      To the entranced heart, "beware;"
Or, through clouds of grief and sorrow,
Ever pointing to the morrow,
      Where happiest visions are.

Oh! would the heart might harken,
Ere storms around us darken,
      To that monitory voice,
As the seaman heeds thy warning
Through the night, till rosy morning
      Lights the pathway of his choice.

              THE STORM.

Down through the darkness, flashing,
      Cometh streams of lurid light,
And the rain-drops, madly dashing
      'Gainst the sullen brow of night;
Earth trembles 'neath the raving
      Of the Storm-god, in the sky,
And fain would shrink from braving
      The brightness of his eye.

And now, methinks, the bounding waves,
      And troubled winds, that sweep
Around the lonely mountain caves,
      Have wakened from their sleep
The ghools [sic] and sprites that dwell within--
      Such tumult wild outpours,
As if each den of woe and sin
      Were keeping open doors.

But why should mortals shrink aghast
      At elemental strife,
Whose breasts have felt the seething blast,
      That sweeps the path of life?
Nay, let the child of hope, and love,
      The careless, happy one,
Droop, when the angry clouds above
      Obscure the setting sun.

Not so, the sorrow-laden heart,
      Like freighted ship at sea,
It will not bound, and leap, and start,
      When cross waves strike the lee,
But calmly look upn the sky,
      In clashing armor drest:--
The oak will never fear to die,
      Whose leaves are sered, [sic] at best.

                       CORA RAYMOND.

Oh, pleasant were the days, Cora Raymond, when together
We rambled o'er the hill-top, and among the blooming heather;
We knew each sunny nook, where the early dasies [sic] grew,
And ever gentle violets, the yellow, white, and blue;
We had arbors in the glen, where we used to sit and sing,
When the buds began to burst, in the merry, gladsome spring;
We had our favorite birds, and knew each tiny nest,
If thrush, or robin built it, a linnet, or red-breast.

Then, when the sultry summer months came, with their gleaming prize
Of berries, and their bursting buds, of thousand brilliant dies,
Oh, 'twas sport to find them out, in the breezy forest hall,
And twine those wild-wood gems in a glowing coronal,
Which, brilliant as they shone, were not radiant as the dreams
That filled our trusting hearts, with their many-tinted beams;
Then we were like the waters, that glided at our feet,
Never thinking of the chasms, and the darkness, they must meet.

Thus, from childhood, Cora Raymond, we grew up, side by side,
Until the day you left me, a fair, and happy bride:
The light of early love, and hope, shone brightly in your eye,
From which the tear drops trickled, as you bade us all "good-by;"
The little birds sang sweetly, out on the cottage eaves,
And the morn was fair, and brilliant, as a vision fancy weaves,

But sighs would still be starting, 'mong the household, all the day,
For, Cora, thou wert wedded, and wandering far away.

But few short years have passed since then, yet, Cora, you and I
Have seen the darkest frowns of Fate o'ershade our summer sky;
Have felt her glance, like lightning shaft, sink deep within the soul,
And heard, amid the beating storms, her sullen thunders roll;
The flowers of youth lie withering, in Time's dark, funeral urn,
And the stars that lit our early way, now dimly, faintly burn;
Content, that sat upon our hearts, as if upon a throne,
Has, like a vanquished monarch, from beleaguered castle flown.

The same bright heavens, dear Cora, still smile in beauty o'er us,
The same green hills, and valleys, are round us, and before us.

But the harp of thy young spirit is broken and unstrung,
And, like a lute neglected, on the willow branches hung;
The blighting mists have fallen on that gentle heart of thine,
And the weight of many sorrows lie o'er heavily on mine;
The haunts we so much loved are still as beauteous as of yore,
But, ah, we'll wander gaily 'mong their shadows nevermore.

      WE ARE ALL GROPING.
Taken from "Joe's" death scene, in Chapter xlvii, of Dickens "Bleak House."

      We are all, all "groping"
Through the darkness and the gloom,
      Adown the path, sloping,
From the cradle to the tomb.

      We are all "moving on,"
Scarcely knowing left from right,
      For oft the guide is gone
Who should lead us through the night.

      But destiny has spoken,
"Move ahead, move ahead,"
      Till the worn cart is broken
In the valley of the dead.

      And we that grope alone,
O'er the "long, and rugged road,"
      Hear the "shaking wheels" moan,
As they tremble 'neath their load.

      There are steps we have dusted
At the portals of the tomb,
      But the broad gates are rusted,
And the heart fills with gloom,

      As with "Reason's" key we try
The stubborn bolts to turn,
      While the magic one doth lie
Only in the funeral urn.

      But the "light is coming fast"
"O'er the dark, benighted way,"
      'Twill burst, when we have passed
Through the gates of endless day.

      MY GALLERY OF PICTURES.

I 've a gallery of pictures,
      That cast their fadeless light
O'er my soul's fast-coming darkness,
      Like the vestal queen of night,
They pass before my vision,
      And I scan them, one by one,
When the evening shades are round us,
      And my daily toils are done.

The beautiful, the cherished,
      I 've treasured each, and all,
In affection's ruby settings,
      In the heart's most favored hall;
There landscapes, bright, are painted,
      In colors rich and rare;
Broad, green, and fruitful meadows,
      And purling streams, are there.

There are gently sloping hill-sides,
      All covered o'er with trees,
That wave their dewy tresses
      In the ever sportive breeze,--
Where we used to go each even,
      A fair, young girl and I,
To see the sunlight fading,
      And the stars bestrew the sky.

And listen to the mourning
      Of some lonely turtle dove,
And weep, to think it telling
      Of its hopelessness and love.
Oh, I 've many such bright pictures,
      Of happy, joyous years,
Ere they were dimmed, or darkened,
      By bitter, burning tears;

Each has its own bright corner,
      Its own peculiar nook,
And they 're never moved, or taken
      From the self-same peg or hook;
There Memory, like a student,
      All veiled from outward sight,
Sits, wrapt among her pictures,
      In a painter's mellow light.

      SONG--THE MAGYAR CHIEF.

We have come with songs and gladness,
      We have come with welcomes sweet,
We have come the Magyar Chieftain,
      With throbbing hearts, to greet;
We have come,w ith busy fingers,
      To weave a chaplet, now,
Of bright roses with the laurel
      Around the hero's brow.

CHORUS.
Then sound the bugle, beat loud the drum,
      Free let our banners wave,
The nation's honored guest has come--
      The great Hungarian brave!

We are grieved, that with our welcome
      Must mingle the adieu,
But our blessings, noble Magyar,
      And our hearts will go with you;
While the arm of this great nation
      Shall guard thy chosen way,
As was raised the wand of Moses,
      To make the waves obey.
                  Then sound the bugle, etc.

They are waiting, they are waiting,
      In valley and in glen,
They are waiting for their chieftain,
      Brave, dauntless, fearless men!
They are waiting for his signal,
      With iron will and hand
Nerved and bent, to break the fetters
      That bind his cherished land.
                  Then sound the bugle, etc.

      LINES--
Sent with a bouquet of exotics to a Friend.

Oh! wearily pass by the hours
      Of this long, sultry, summer-time day,
And I 'll joy when the far, green wood bowers
      Are clothed in eve's mantle of gray.

Too deep is the stillness around me,
      Too wild are the thoughts of my brain,
And too painfully long have they bound me
      In the links of their mystical chain.

But longer the shadows are creeping
      Adown the green hills in the west,
And the last golden sunlight is sleeping
      On the river's broad, mirroring breast.

Then I 'll shake off this lethargic feeling,
      As morn shakes the dew from her wings,
While happy thoughts come o'er me, stealing,
      Like the notes that my pet bird now sings;

And, by the soft light round me falling,
      I 'll leave my lone lattice awhile,
For the voice of the flowers seem calling,
      The gloom of my heart to beguile.

O, sweet are their odorous breathing
      And the light of their tear-laden eyes
Glows with joy, while the star-beams are wreathing
      Their light round the queen of the skies.

I 'll gather some buds that I 've cherished,
      And sprig of geranium tree,
Which the dews and the zephyrs have nourished,
      And twine in an off'ring for thee.

O, simple the gift is, and faded
      Will be their soft petals, so rare,
Ere they reach thee, and all darkly shaded,
      Yet their sweetness will still linger there.

Thus, though friendship's sweet flowers may decay,
      In long years of sorrow and gloom,
Still, the heart's sacred shrine, where they lay,
      Will retain their exquisite perfume.

            THE ANGEL'S VISIT.

The angels in heaven were making a crown,
      With the first water jewels all set,
But one still was wanting, and marveled they much
      Where they this bright jewel should get.
The angel of death, with his cold, chilling frown,
      Plumed his broad, raven wings for the flight,
In the search of this one wanting gem for the crown,
      All radiant, all gleaming with light.

He paused o'er the ocean--a proud ship was there,
      Its colors waved fearless and free,
Ah, ha, thought the angel, there's noble gems there,
      Though scarce bright enough though for me;--

      I'll gather them soon for a coronal bright,
            Proud trophies, to hang up in heaven;
      But, pure as they are, they 'll not answer to-night
            The orders, to me, that were given.

      Then he flew to a mansion, and hovered around
            Where a maiden was passing away,
Where the long, silken curtains, low, drooped to the ground
      From the couch, where the lovely one lay.
The angel long sighed, as he murmured, "Not now,
      Although thou art destined for bliss;
Though the spirit is pure that illumes thy pale brow,
      Yet 'tis scarce bright enough, now, for this."

So he waved his white scroll, and flew off to the strand,
      Where the waters were rolling along,
Where, 'mid the waves' glee, as they leaped o'er the sand,
      Echoed jests, and wild snatches of song.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the angel, "here, here is my prize,
      He with the soft smile and delicate cheek,

I 'll just give a glance in those glorious eyes,
      And so gently to him will I speak."

Then the rush of his wings, as he soared to the skies,
      Smote the hearts of that joyous band;
They looked through the gloom, and their far straining eyes
      Could discern but the white, unpraised hand,
As the waters were folding his brow to their breast,
      And the curls of his long, golden hair;
And they knew by that sign, though the waves were at rest,
      That the angel of death had been there.

A tall, stately man, in deep agony, wept,
      Down by the broad river's side;
'Neath the green crystal waters his young brother slept,
      His parents' best loved one, their pride:
From their far, eastern home rose a heart-rending prayer,
      Far up to the "Great Supreme's" throne,
For the sad, fearful tidings to those fond ones there,
      On the wings of the lightning* had flown.

         * Telegraph.

They prayed that the waves might give up the fair boy,
      That the angel had left in their keeping;
They could not endure that their heart's treasured joy
      In the river's dark caves should be sleeping.
The "Great Supreme" answered their prayer, and his word,
      Like the voice of an avenging one, came;
The waters were troubled, when his voice they heard,
      And grew fiery red, in their shame.

"Ho! give up, thou river, give up thy bright dead!"
      (The thunders brought the message from God,)
And the waves gave their trust*, from their pebbly bed,
      To rest 'neath the flower-gemmed sod.

* This alludes to the recovery of the body immediately after a severe storm on the third day after the fatal catastrophe.

      AN INVOCATION.
Respectfully inscribed to Mrs. E. C. HAWKINS, of Cincinnati.

A glowing oasis lies, serene,
With crystal founts, and bowers of green,
      Within life's desert plain,
Where each bird of love that dwelleth there,
Is ever filling the perfumed air
      With some enchanting strain.

There the flowers of friendship spring and grow,
And beautiful buds of fancy blow
      In starry, moon-clad nooks;
And low-voiced harps, with leaves entwined,
Whose strings are swept by the gentle wind,
      Keep time with the singing brooks.

There the minstrel learns the thrilling notes,
That over the chords of his lyre float;
      There the poet weaves his lay;
And the painter gathers the colors, bright,
Taht gleam in the rainbow's varied light,
      Or from the star-beams stray.

And I 've a nook in this eden spot,
A shady, cool, breeze-loving grot,
      With its well-springs, all my own,
Where I sometimes sing a gentle lay,
To while the long, long hours away,
      Or, silent, muse alone.

And I sometimes gather buds, to twine
Round a goblet, filled with rosy wine--
      A libation pure, and true--
To drink to some Friend, beloved, and far,
That gleams in my soul, like a radiant star
      And thus do I drink to you.

May happiness, health, and those ye love
Be spared to thy hopes, by heaven above,
      While thy footsteps linger here;

And may fate bring never, a darkling cloud,
A single joy with gloom to enshroud,
      Or sadden thee with a far.

And may I not hope, as years glide along,
And hushed are the notes of my lonely song,
      That one chord in thy soul may be,
With a thrill of gladness, gently stirred,
As autumn leaves by a passing bird,
      With a thought of       Eulalie.

      THE SEASON OF THE FLOWERS.

Again it is the summer time,
      The season of the flowers,
When the fa[i]ries people every glen,
      Through all the moonlight hours;
When the earth is like an open book,
      A book of old romance,
Where the vision takes whole chapters in
      At every passing glance.

For who has not some favorite haunt--
      In the green-wood it may be,
Or arbor, down the garden slope,
      Or 'neath some spreading tree,
Where oft, with cherished ones, we 've had
      Long hours of pleasant talk,
Have sung sweet songs, have dreamed bright dreams,
      In many a rural walk.

Oh! I have many, many such,
      Each valley and each glen,
Around my native dwelling place,
      Are teeming full of them,
Like true, revolving satellites,
      That cluster round the sun,
To shed abroad their glory
      When the weary day is done.

So, when the wintry hours
      Have ceased their reign on earth,
And the wild-birds fill each forest
      With melody and mirth,
There comes a troop of fancies, bright,
      Like stars of summer eve,
And round about my spirit
      Their golden tissues weave.

I never cull a lovely flower,
      Or form a bright bouquet,
But there comes a thought of dear ones
      O'er the ocean, far away,
Or of those who wove fair garlands,
      But a year ago, with me,
Who now are gently sleeping
      Beneath the cypress tree.

O, I treasure all earth's beauty,
      Though I taste her wells of woe,
And oft in gushing melody
      My heart will overflow--
Though all untaught my lyre,
      And wild and free my strain
As boatmen's ringing chorus,
      Or gondolier's refrain.

            THE DESERT BURIAL.

"Oh! leave me not in this fearful spot,
      In this desert, wild and drear,
O, heaven! dear brother, bury me not,
      For I cannot rest me here."
A fearful thing, then, it was to trace
      The look of wild agony
That swept, like a cloud, o'er that fair, young face,
      When he felt that he must die.

Then closed those lips, so pale and mute,
      When these last words were spoken,
Like the sadd'ning wail of discarded lute,
      When its chords are shrunk and broken.

The crimson sun then sunk once more,
      Away in the distant west,
As a conqueror, when the battle 's o'er,
      Lies down in his gory vest.

Yet from the depths of that lurid sky,
      And over those burning sands,
The simoom-like winds came surging by,
      Like those of Arabian lands;
Alone, alone, on the desert plain
      Fell, darkly, the deep despair,
That rent the sorrowing hearts in twain
      Of the wretched beings there.

'Twas a scene to quench the spirit's light,
      To see that desolate band
Making his bed, by the moon-beams light,
      Far down in the arid sand;
They left him there, in his loneliness,
      Entombed 'neath unfriendly skies,
Their cheerless steps, to wearily press,
      On, on to the glittering prize!