DEPARTURE OF THE PIONEER'.
FAR away from the hill-side, the lake and the hamlet,
The rock, and the brook, and yon meadow so gay:
From the footpath that winds by the side of the streamlet;
From his hut, and the grave of his friend, far away;
He has gone where the footsteps of man never ventured,
Where the glooms of the wild tangled forests are centred,
Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered,
No blood-hound has roused up the deer with his bay.
He has left the green valley for paths where the bison
Roams through the prairies, or leaps o'er the flood:
Where the snake in the swamp sucks the deadliest poison,
And the cat of the mountains keeps watch for its food.
But the leaf shall be greener, the sky shall be purer,
The eyes shall be clearer, the rifle be surer,
And stronger the arm of the fearless endurer,
That trusts nought but Heaven in his way through the wood.
Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer,
Firm be his step through each wearisome mile,
Far from the cruel man, far from the plunderer,
Far from the track of the mean and the vile!
And when death, with the last of his terrors assails him,
And all but the last throb of memory fails him,
He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him,
And light up the cold touch of death with a smile.
And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre,'
There for his pall shall the oak-leaves be spread
The sweet-briar shall bloom, and the wild-grapes shall cluster,
And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed.
There shall they mix with the fern and the heather,
There shall the young eagle shed its first feather,
The wolves with his wild-dogs shall lie there together,
And mourn o'er the spot where the hunter is laid.
1 The Pioneer, a name given by the Americans to the first settler in a new country.
THIS delightful poet has, as yet, only written short pieces in various periodicals.
THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light
And wheels her course in a joyous flight!
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there:
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.
At morn I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and around her flings
A shower of light from her purple wings,
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstasy!
At noon she hies to a cool retreat,
Where bowering elms over waters meet;
She dimples the wave, where the green leaves dip,
That smiles, as it curls, like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.
At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy;
And round the skirts of each sweeping fold,
She paints a border of crimson and gold,
When the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
Where their god in his glory has passed away.
She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream;
Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air,
The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere;
LYRICS unite the spirit of Pierpont's odes with the tenderness of Bryant. Poetry is said to be only the amusement of his leisure hours.
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK1.
ON sunny-slope and beechen swell
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And when the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory that the wood receives
At sunset in its golden leaves.
Far upward in the mellow light,
Rose the blue hills-one cloud of white;
Around, a far uplifted cone
In the warm blush of evening shone-
An image of the silver lakes
By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard,
Where the soft breath of evening stirr❜d
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart and strong in hand
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his
They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;
But as the summer-fruit decays,
So died he, in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Covered the warrior, and within
Its heavy folds, the weapons, made
For the hard toils of war, were laid!
The cuirass woven of plaited reeds,
And the broad belt of shells and beads.
Before, a dark-haired virgin-train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.
1 The Minnisinks are a tribe of the North American Indians.
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd
They buried the dark chief; they freed
Beside the grave his battle-steed;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart: one piercing neigh
Arose-and on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again!
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE CONSECRATION
OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.
Take thy banner-may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks!
Take thy banner!-and beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
2 Pulaski, a noble Pole, who served as a volunteer in the American war
Take thy banner!-But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him-he our love hath shared!
Spare him as thou wouldst be spared!
Take thy banner!—and if eʼer
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be,
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!
And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.
EARTH, WITH HER THOUSAND VOICES, PRAISES GOD.
WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal's3 tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and Elysian song
His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.
Devotion breathed aloud from every chord;-
The voice of praise was heard in every tone,
And prayer, and thanks to Him, the Eternal One,-
To Him, that, with bright inspiration, touched
The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song,
And warmed the soul with new vitality.
A stirring energy through Nature breathed;-
The voice of adoration from her broke,
Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard
Long in the sullen waterfall,-what time
Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth
Its bloom or blighting,-when the Summer smiled,
Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned.
The Deity was there!-a nameless spirit
Moved in the hearts of men to do Him homage;
Or when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale,
Hung weeping o'er the melancholy sun,
They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees,
And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,
Where the pale vine clung round their simple altars,
3 "Jubal was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ."
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