I HEAR thee speak of a better land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore—
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs?
-“Not there, not there, my child."
Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?—
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?
"Not there, not there, my child.”
Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand-
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?
"Not there, not there, my child."
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair;
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
Beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
"It is there, it is there, my child!”
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
I COME, I come! ye have called me long:
I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers,
By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers;
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fancs,
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have passed o'er the hill of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may now be your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
THOMAS HOOD.
BORN, 1800; DIED, 1845.
REMEMBRANCES.
I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a week too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;-
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups-
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birth-day-
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender spires,
Were close against the sky!
It was a childish ignorance,-
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven,
Than when I was a boy.
REV. CHARLES WOLFE.
BORN, 1791; DIED, 1823.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Nor a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried :
Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclos'd his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow:
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
The foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carv'd not a line, and we rais'd not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
THE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open sea!
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!
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