New-York daily tribune., 1845-12-27

vowed that would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine have no. kept the VOW.
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now
call the phantoms OF n thousand hours bowers
Each from his voceess grave they have in visioned
or studious Zeal Loves delight
OutwatcheG with me the envious Night:
They know that never joy ilumed my brow,
Uninked with hope that thou wouldst free
This world from ts dark slavery,
That thou o awful LONELINESS,
Wouldst live whateer these words can not express.
The day becomes more solemn and serene
When noon is past there is harmony
In Autumn and q lustrc in its sky,
Which through the Summer is not heard nor seen
As il it couid not be- as ii it had not been
Thus let thy power, which like the truth
OF nature on my passive youth
Descended, TO my onward life supply
It's calm, to one who worships thee.
And every form containing thee,
Whom, SPIRIT iair thy spells did bind
To fear himself and love all human kind.
The following is happily expressive Of his mild
sweet grace
LINES TO a CRITIC.
HONEY from silkworms who can gather
Or silk from the yellow beei
The grass may grow in winter weather
AS as hate in me.
tIa,e men who can't and men who pray,
And men who rail like thee:
An equal passion to repay
They are not coy like me.
Or seek some slave of power and gold,
To be thy dear hearts mate
Thy love will move that bigot cold,
Sooner than me thy hate.
A passion like the one prove
Can not divided be;
hate thy of truth and love:
How should then hate thee'
December, 1917.
Here is one Of his IEolian Melodies;
THE PAST
WIlr thou forget the happy hours
Which Uc buried Loves sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpscs cold
Blossoms and leaves. instead OF mould?
Blossoms which the joys that fell,
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain
Forget the dead the past o yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for IT.
Memories that make the heart tomb,
Regrets which glide through the spirits gloom,
And with ehastly w wlispers tell
That JOY, once lost, Is pam.
The Hymns 10 Apollo and to Pan are among the
finest specimens OF his genius, and form beautiful
contrast one to the other:
HYMN OF APOLLO.
THE sleepess Hours who watch me as lie,
Curtained with siar-enwoven tapestries,
From the broad moonlight of the sky,
Tanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes
Waken me when their mother. the grey Dawn.
Tells them that dreams and that the Moon is gone
Then arise and climbing Heavens blue dome,
walk over the mountains and the waves
Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;
NV footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves
Are hlled with my bright presence, and the air
Leaves the green earth TO my embraces bare
The sunbeams are my shafts, with which kill
Deceit that loves the nigh, and fears the day;
Ali men who do or even imagine III
Fly me and from the glory OF my ray
Good minds and open actions take new might
Until diminished by the reign OF Night.
feed the clouds, the ranbows and the flowers,
With their ethereal coors; the Moons globe
And the pure stars in their eternal bowers
Are cinctured with my power as with robe;
Whatever lamps on earth or heaven may shine,
Are portions OF one power, which is mine.
stand at noon upon the peak of heaven,
Then with unwilling steps wander down
Into the clouds Of the Atlantic even;
For grief thar depart they weep and frown
What look is delightful than the smile
With which soothc them from the Western Isle
am the eve with which the Universe
Behods itself and knows itself divine
All harmony OF instrument or verse,
All prophecy, all medicine are mine,
All light Of Art or Nature TO my song,
Victory and Praise in their OWN right belong.