nce, would hither steal,
With one, of all his tribe, who could his ire control.
And others signs,
Tokens of races, greatlier taught, that came
To write like record, though in smoother lines,
And thus declare a still more human flame.
Here love's caprice--
The hope, the doubt, the dear despondencies---
Joy that had never rest, hope without peace--
These each declared the grief he never flies.
And the great oak
Grew sacred to each separate pilgrimage,
Nor heeded, in his bulk, the sudden stroke
That scarred his giant trunk with seams of age.
And we who gaze
Upon each, rude memorial--letter and date--
Still undefaced by storm and length of days,
Stand, as beneath the shadow of a fate!
Some elder-born,
A sire of wood and vale, guardian and king
Of separate races, unsubdued, unshorn,
Whose memories grasp the lives of every meaner thing!
With great white beard
Far streaming with a prophet-like display,
Such as when Moses on the Mount appeared,
And prostrate tribes looked down, or looked away!
With outstretched arms,
Paternal, as if blessing--with a grace,
Such as, in strength and greatness, ever charms,
As wooing the subdued one to embrace!
Thus still it stood,
While the broad forests, 'neath the pioneer,
Perished--proud relic of the ancient wood--
Men loved the record-tree, and bade them spare!
And still at noon,
Repairing to its shadow, they explore
Its chronicles, still musing o'er th' unknown,
And telling well-known histories, told of yore!
We shall leave ours,
Dear heart! and when our sleep beneath its boughs
Shall suffer spring to spread o'er us her flowers,
Eyes that vow love like ours shall trace our vows.
THE RAINBOW.
BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
Mountain! that first received the foot of man--
Giving him shelter, when the shoreless flood
Went surging by, that whelmed a buried world--
I see thee in thy lonely grandeur rise--
I see the white-haired Patriarch, as he knelt
Beside his earthen altar, 'mid his sons,
While beat in praise the only pulse of life
Upon this buried planet,--
O'er the gorged
And furrowed
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