WHO weeps the death of Pan? Pan is not dead,
But loves the shepherds still; * still leads the
In merry dances o'er the grassy lawns,
To his own pipes; as erst in Greece he led
The sylvan games, what time the god pursued
The beauteous Dryopè. The Naiads still
Haunt the green marge of every mountain rill;
The Dryads sport in every leafy wood;
Pan cannot die till Nature's self decease!
Full oft the reverent worshipper descries
His ruddy face and mischief-glancing eyes
Beneath the branches of old forest-trees
That tower remote from steps of worldly men,
Or hears his laugh far echoing down the glen!
*Pan curat oves, oviumque magistros.
LL things of beauty are not theirs alone
Who hold the fee; but unto him no less
Who can enjoy, than unto them who own,
Are sweetest uses given to possess.
For Heaven is bountiful; and suffers none
To make monopoly of aught that's fair
The breath of violets is not for one,
Nor loveliness of women; all may share
Who can discern; and He who made the law,
"Thou shalt not covet!" gave the subtile power
By which, unsinning, I may freely draw
Beauty and fragrance from each perfect flower
That decks the wayside, or adorns the lea,
Or in my neighbor's garden blooms for me!
AY, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead ;
He lives again in Heaven's unclouded life,
With other angels that have early fled
From these dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife. Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers, And e'en deny to brighter realms above
The few that deck this dreary world of ours:
Though much it seems a wonder and a woe
That one so loved should be so early lost,
And hallowed tears may unforbidden flow
To mourn the blossom that we cherished most,
Yet all is well; GOD's good design I see,
That where our treasure is, our hearts may be.
By any token writ upon your brow,
Or other test of Time,
Just to surprise me, foolishly confessed it.
Well, on your word, of course, I must receive it;
Although (to say the truth) it is, indeed,
As proselytes sometimes accept a creed,
While in their hearts they really don't believe it!
While all around is changed, no change appears,
My darling Sophie, to these eyes of mine,
In aught of thee that I have deemed divine,
To mark the number of the vanished years,
The kindly years that on that face of thine
Have spent their life, and, “dying, made no sign!"
VER PURPUREUM!"-Violet-colored Spring
Perhaps, good poet, in your vernal days
The simple truth might justify the phrase;
But now, dear Virgil, there is no such thing!
Perhaps, indeed, in your Italian clime,
Where o'er the year, if fair report be true,
Four seasons roll, instead of barely two,
There still may be a verdant vernal time;
But here, on these our chilly Northern shores,
Where April gleams with January's snows,
Not e'en a violet buds; and nothing "blows,"
Save blustering Boreas, - dreariest of bores.
O ver purpureum! where the Spring discloses
Her brightest purple on our lips and noses!
GALLIC bard the touching tale has told -the customary dower to save —
A sordid sire his only daughter gave
To a rich suitor, ugly, base, and old.
The mother too (such mothers there have been) With equal pleasure heard the formal vow, "With all my worldly goods I thee endow," And gave the bargain an approving grin. Then, to the girl, who stood with drooping head, The pallid image of a wretch forlorn, Mourning the hapless hour when she was born, The Priest said, "Agnes, wilt thou this man wed? “Of this my marriage, holy man,” said she, “Thou art the first to say a word to me!”
HINE is an ever-changing beauty; now With that proud look, so lofty yet serene In its high majesty, thou seem'st a queen, With all her diamonds blazing on her brow! Anon I see - as gentler thoughts arise
And mould thy features in their sweet control The pure, white ray that lights a maiden's soul, And struggles outward through her drooping eyes. Anon they flash; and now a golden light
Bursts o'er thy beauty, like the Orient's glow,
Bathing thy shoulders' and thy bosom's snow,
And all the woman beams upon my sight!
I kneel unto the queen, like knight of yore;
The maid I love; the woman I adore!
NGLORIOUS friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being “happy as a clam”!
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off, — as foemen take their spoil,
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
PRETTY picture hangs before my view;
The face, in little, of a Southern dame,
To me unknown (though not unknown to fame)
Save by the lines the cunning limner drew.
So grandly Grecian is the lady's head,
I took her for Minerva in disguise;
But when I marked the winning lips and eyes,
I thought of Aphrodite, in her stead ;
And then I kissed her calm, unanswering mouth
(The picture's mine) as any lover might,
In the deep fervor of a nuptial night,
And envied him who, in the "Sunny South,"
Calls her his own whose shadow can impart
Such very sunshine to a Northern heart!
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