ON FINDING THE KEY OF AN OLD
PIANO.
UNLOCK, unlock the shrines of memory,
And bid her many keys their voices send
Up in the silent hour unto me.
Speak! that the tones of other years may lend
Their vanished harmonies and lost romance
To days immersed in gloom and dissonance.
Thou, who the while unconscious played thy part,
And called fair music from her silent cell
To echo murmurs from the gushing heart,
Come! wake once more the departed spell:
I fain would hear of things and thoughts again,
Which mingled often with the stealing strain.
Hark! it comes creeping on: it is an air
Full of strange wailing-mournfully profound;
Some music-spirit moaning in despair,
Prisoned in that sweet barrier of sound:
And yet, methinks "might I a captive be,
If thus environed in captivity!"
And shadowy forms around the instrument
Come closely pressing, whispering low words
That keep time with the music, redolent
Of deep vibrations in the hidden chords
That round the heart their hurried measure keep,
And sway its pulses with resistless sweep.
Voice of the voiceless! Graves give up their dead,
And at thy word departed echoes ring,
Familiar carols from the lips that fled
Long weary years ago, with fatal wing,
Unto the silent regions of the tomb,
And died away there in its hollow gloom.
Hush! other instruments are creeping in
To perfect the concordance of the whole,
And well remembered voices now begin
To bear on wings invisible my soul.
My own! amongst them I can hear my own—
Alas! 'tis almost a forgotten tone!
Was it eve dark'ning o'er the pleasant room,
When the soft breezes of the summer night
Breathed through its atmosphere a faint perfume,
Or when the autumn's crimson fire-light
Glowed upon every brow-thou still wert there,
Wreck of departed days, with many an air.
Joyous or sorrowful-profound or wild-
Swiftly thy sweeping chords gave out their tones,
Light as the laughter of a sinless child-
Deep as the anguish told in captive moans-
Smooth as the flow of rivers to the sea-
Irregular as dark insanity.
There have been hands that are beneath the mould,
(I seem to feel their chillness in thy touch)-
Eyes, wept the while they moved, that now are cold
As this impassive metal: yet are such
The things that bind us nearest, move us most,
And leave a hopeless voice when they are lost.
Now, stranger hands across those keys will run,
And other walls for other groups surround,
and stranger eyes look lovingly upon
The unconscious mover of the realm of sound:
That realm, once sacred, my sweet home, to thee,
And ever sacred to my memory.
But thou, impassive thing, thus severed wide
From thy sole wealth in those harmonious waves,
Another empire be thine own beside:
Be thou the pass-key to the spirit caves,
Thou the deliverer of their captive throng,
The portal spirit of the gate of song.
THAT pale and shadowy beauty,
It haunts my vision now:
The genius radiating
From the dazzling marble brow-
The high and saintly fervor,
The meek and childlike faith,
The trusting glance, which sayeth
More than mortal accent saith:
They haunt me when the night-winds swell,
And daylight can not break their spell.
I see the blue eye shining
Through the lashes as they fall,
An inward glory speaking
To the inward life of all-
A ray that was illumined
At the far celestial light,
And burns through mist and shadow,
A beacon ever bright,
Serene, seraphic, and sublime,
And changeless with the flight of time.
A faint, transparent rose-light
Is trembling on the cheek,
And lingering on the pale lip-
A glow that seems to speak:
It wavers like the taper
Dim lit at forest shrine,
When night-winds whisper to it:
It breathes of the Divine,
With its ethereal mystery,
Too fragile of the earth to be.
Her grace is as a shadow
As undefinable;
Wedded to every motion thus,
And rarely beautiful.
Untaught, and all unconscious,
It hath a voice to me
Which eloquently speaketh
Of inward harmony:
Of Soul and Sense together swayed-
To the First Soul an offering made.
That pale and shadowy beauty,
It seemed an inward thing—
A spiritual vision—
A chaste imagining:
Not all in form or feature
The fairy phantom dwelt,
But, like the air of heaven,
Was yet less seen than felt-
A presence the true heart to move
To praise, and prayer, and holy love.
THE SEA AND THE SOVEREIGN.
It is and that after the death of Prince William, eldest son of Henry I., king of England, who was wrecked off the coast of Normandy, the monarch was never seen to smile more.
OPEN, ye ruthless waves!
Open the mouths of your uncounted graves,
To swallow up a king!
It is no common thing:
A kingdom in one man incarnated
Goes down to hold his court among your dead!
Jewels lie fathoms down
To glisten, set in crystal, on his crown;
A coral carcanet
An insect realm may set
(A bauble that a king were proud to wear) Upon his marble throat, all stiff and bare.
Build him an amber throne,
And deck it well with many a burning stone;
And let his footstool be
And hang his hall with stalactites, whose sheen
May make a daylight in the submarine.
An argosy of pearls
May glisten in his waving yellow curls:
I ween no wealthier prince
Hath swayed a kingdom, since
The silver was as dust in Judah's street,
Trodden by Solomon's imperial feet.
Out bursts the ancient Sea
With bitter merriment in mockery:
Take thou," she saith, "the gem
To deck thy diadem
The hidden riches of my caves be thine;
I have thy treasure-pay thyself in mine!
"The pomp is bootless now,
A gemmed tiara for that fleshless brow!
There is no need of thrones
For those enamelled bones;
Of daylight for those hollow, sightless eyes! I rob not: take thou booty for my prize."
There is a broken groan,
A wail of sorrow from a kingly throne;
There is a human heart
Of which he was a part
Whom thou hast swallowed, thou devouring Sea! A father's heart and cry of agony!
For him thy gifts are brought
For him thine ores with cunning skill are wrought. He only cries aloud:
"I crave but for a shroud! Oh Ocean, pitiless, relentless one!
Thy riches keep: give back, give back my son!
"Could I but see my child
In death, my bitter anguish were more mild;
His buried form unseen
Stands day and me between-
My vision blinds, my soul, my reason warps;
Ocean! I would but once behold his corpse!"
Day laughs out on the sky
With the glad brightness of her waking eye;
In the all-blessed Spring
Earth is a happy thing;
MISS LARCOM is a native of Massachusetts, and was for several years employed in one of the factories at Lowell. She has been a frequent contributor to the Lowell Offering, for the early volumes of which she wrote a series of parables that attracted much attention. She is now a teacher in Illinois, but continues to write for this interesting periodical, which illustrates so beautifully the character, taste, and abilities, of the New England operatives. Mr. Whittier, in referring to some of her poems, observes: 66 That they were written by a young woman whose life has been no long holyday of leisure, but
THE cheerful sunbeams hastened up the east,
Chasing the gray mists to the mountain-tops,
And morning burst upon Gilboa's hills.
The playful kids were leaping o'er the crags;
The little happy birds, that all night long
In the dry clefts had found a nestling-place,
Were flying sunward, singing hymns of praise;
And from the green, awakening vales arose
The sound of bleating herds and lowing kine.
Elisha's servant, issuing early forth
To the day's needful toil, with vigorous step
Trod a worn path that wound among the rocks.
He paused to gaze upon the enlivening scene,
And hear the harmony of Nature's joy,
And bless the God of morning.
A flash of light unusual struck his eye:
Half doubting, he beheld a line of spears
And burnished shields, that from a neighboring hill
In mocking splendor threw the sunlight back;
And saw, stretched far around, a circle wide
Of rich war-chariots, while horsemen armed
Crowded each mountain-pass and deep defile.
Too well he knew the terrible array-
The Assyrian host, his master's foes and his!
Fear, like an inward demon, blanched his cheek,
Stared from his eye, and shook his nerveless limbs.
Poor, feeble man! why, e'en the little birds,
That sung so blithely o'er the frightful chasms,
Had taught him stronger confidence than this.
Yet, weak as he, how often we forget
That in our great All-seeing Father's sight
We are worth more than sparrows!
Unto the prophet's dwelling, nor did rest
Back he turned
one of toil and privation, does not indeed enhance their intrinsic merit, but it lends thenr selves, long to see the cords of caste broken, an interest in the eyes of those who, like our and the poor niceties of aristocratic exclusiveness, irrational and unchristian everywhere, but in addition ridiculous in a country like ours, vanish before the true nobility of mind-the natural graces of a good heart and a useful life—the self-sustained dignity of a spirit superior to the folly of accounting labor degradation, and usefulness a calamity, and which can not count as common and unclean the duties which God has sanctified."
Till, faint with terror, at his feet he fell.
The man of God upon his threshold stood,
His forehead bared unto the streaming light,
And inspiration beaming from his eye.
Doth he not tremble? Nay; the cedar-tree,
That stands in unmoved grandeur at his side,
Is not more firm than he. Calmly he scans
The panoply of war before him spread,
As 't were a flock reposing in the shade.
He hears his prostrate servant's stifled cry-
Alas, my master! how shall we escape?"
How foolish must such fright have seemed to him
Whose eyes the Lord had opened! Should he deign
To speak a soothing word, and lull his fears?
If man might e'er be proud, 't was surely he,
Who had been singled out from common men
To be an oracle unto his kind.
His was the dignity sublime of one
Who feels divinity within him burn,
And thinks the thoughts and speaks the words of
But haughtiness belongs to narrow souls, And wisdom is too godlike to be proud. Elisha owned himself of kindred dust With that frail trembler. Mildly he replied: "Fear thou no more; for lo! a mightier force Than all yon heathen host, is on our side.”— "But where?" the servant's doubtful glance in
quires.
The prophet answered not, but clasped his hands,
Looked up to heaven, and prayed in tones subdued,
"Lord, open thou his eyes, that he
How changed the scene! these rocks, that lately
Opaque and dull beneath the azure sky,
Are robed in glory that outshines the sun.
Embattled legions gird the prophet round
With blazoned banners and heaven-tempered spears,
Horses and chariots, in whose fiery sheen
The of Syria's army but appears
pomp
Like a dim candle in the noonday blaze:
The mount is full of angels!
Blest were we,
When every earthly prospect is shut in,
And all our mortal helpers disappear,
If, with Faith's eye undimmed and opened wide,
We might behold the blessed angel-troop
Which God, our God, has promised shall encamp
Round those who fear his name. Our sickly doubts,
That fit like foul night-ravens o'er our souls,
Would hush their screams and fly before the dawn;
And we should learn to fear no evil thing,
And in Adversity's grim gaze could smile.
Sometimes, when wandering in a labyrinth
Whence we can find no clue, and all is dark,
We wonder why our spirits do not die.
Perhaps in secret bowed, some holy soul
Utters for us the prophet's kind request;
And we, though dimly, are allowed to see
The prints of angels' feet along the road;
And our hearts, beating lightly, follow on
After the steps that sound before, albeit
Uncertain whose they are, though we are sure
Of a safe outlet from the tangled way.
Father of Spirits! Savior of our souls!
Let heavenly guides go with us down life's way;
And when we come unto that river's brink
Upon whose other bank in light and love
We shall be as the angels-then we know
Thou wilt be near us, though this earthborn clay,
Shrinking in mortal terror from the plunge
Which shall release its tenant unto bliss,
May with foreboding clouds obscure our faith
And hide thy presence. Oh! hear now one prayer
Which then our hearts may be too faint to breathe:
"Lord, open
thou our eyes, that we may see!"
THE BURNING PRAIRIE. EVENING throws her dusky mantle
O'er the boundless, grassy sea; Here and there, like ships at anchor, In the moonlight stands a tree; While the stars that nightly travel O'er the highway of the skies, Bend upon earth's weary pilgrims
Still and clear their earnest eyes. Now the constellations brighten: Like a stern and warlike lord, Bright Orion leads the pageantHe of gleaming belt and sword. In his wake glide forth the Pleiads; By the pole-star leaps the Bear; Down the star-paved road in silence Rides the Lady in her Chair!
But behold! an earthly glimmer
Rises 'neath the starry beam;
Far along the prairie's border
How the ruddy fringes, stream!
See the red flames darting forward,
Sparkling through the withered grass,
While the lurid smoke uprolling
Stains the azure as they pass.
Who the distant blaze enkindled?
Can it be some savage clan
Flinging out the winged wildfire
To affright the pale-faced man?
Nay for Mississippi's water
Speeds no sachem's light canoe,
And beside the dark Missouri
Are the Indians' wigwams few.
'Tis the farmer's mighty besom:
Thus he sweeps the fertile plain-
Lays it bare unto the baptism
Of the softening vernal rains
Where the billowy flame is rolling,
Shall a warmer sun behold
Verdant pastures richly laden,
Harvests tinged with wavy gold.
Brighter visions burst upon me;
For the dear enchantress, Hope,
Bids me look into the future
Through her magic telescope.
Lo! a glorious blaze ascending-
Purer, loftier doth it grow,
Every ridge and swell revealing,
Softened in the mellow glow.
"Tis the central fire of Freedom,
Lighted on the nation's heart:
Cynosure of happy millions,
Fadeless peace its rays impart;
Truth and Love, their white wings waving,
Sit and fan it all day long,
And to meet its warmth and brightness
Ever pours a grateful throng.
Let it blaze! The Pilgrim's watch-fire,
Kindled first on Plymouth rock,
Must not die upon the prairies,
Nor with fitful flickerings mock.
Every lowly cabin window
Shall reflect its steady light,
And beyond the red horizon
It shall make the country bright.
Then the gazers of the nations,
And the watchers of the skies,
Looking through the coming ages
Shall behold, with joyful eyes,
In the fiery track of Freedom
Fall the mild baptismal rain,
And the ashes of old Evil
Feed the Future's golden grain.
"EDITH MAY" is a name bestowed, I believe, by Mr. N. P. Willis, upon one of the most brilliant of our younger poets. She is a native and until recently was a resident of Philadelphia; but for three or four years her home has been in "the most secluded part of Pennsylvania, on the borders of a small lake, in one of that state's most romantic neighborhoods." The character of her genius will be seen in her Count Julio, which was written when she was but seventeen years of age; and the critical reader will feel as much hope as pleasure as he sees in its splendid blossoming promise of future fruits with which few of the productions of female genius can be compared.
Her dramatic power, observation of life, imagination, fancy, and the easy and na'ural flow of her verse, which is nowhere marred by any blemish of imperfect taste, entitle this very youthful poet to a place in the common estimation inferior to none occupied by wri ters of her years. And there are scattered through her poems gleams of an intelligence which they do not fully disclose, and felici ties of expression betraying a latent power greater than is exerted, so that we are not authorized to receive what she has accom plished, brilliant as it is, as a demonstration of the entire character and force of her faculties.
MID piles beneath whose fretted cornices
Echo still babbles of a glorious past,
Dwelt Julio, the miser. Nobly born,
Reared amid palaces, and trained from youth
To the gay vices of a liberal age,
How came it now, that year on year sped on
To leave the proud count in his silent halls,
Hoarding the gold once lavished?
Who by his side grew up to womanhood:
And these he worshipped, loathing all things else.
His couch was ruder than a cloistered monk's-
Bianca's head was pillowed upon down;
His fare was scanty and his raiment coarse,
But she was clad like princes, and her board
Heaped with the costliest viands. From the world
He shrank abhorrent, but Bianca shone
Proudest and fairest in a brilliant court.
Her youth had been most lonely. By his side
To watch the piling of the golden heaps
He told so greedily; to play alone
In gardens where no hand had put aside
The flowers and weeds, that in one tangled woof
Hung o'er the fountain's dusty bed, and crept
Round the tall porticoes; perchance to sit
Hour after hour all silent at his feet,
Twining her small arms and her baby throat
With the rare treasures that his caskets held-
Rubies, and pearls, and flashing carcanets,
Her costly playthings-all companionless,
These were her childish pastimes. Years wore on,
Till the close dawn of perfect womanhood
Flushed in her cheek and brightened in her eye-
And the girl learned to know how fair the face
Those dingy walls had cloistered from the sun;
To bear her head more proudly, and to step,
If not so lightly, with a gracelier tread.
Love-songs were framed for her; her midnight rest
Was broken by the sound of silver lutes,
And the young gallants caracoled their steeds
Gayly at eve beneath her balcony.
Young and fair,
The haughtiest noble of the Roman court,
The stateliest of the highborn throng that graced
Its princely revels, he had left the feast,
Bidding the bright wine that he quaffed in parting,
Be to him thence accurs d. Nevermore
Checked he his courser by the Tiber's bank,
Nor struck the sweet chords of his lute, nor trod
Glad measures with the bright-lipped Roman dames;
And from the lintels of his banquet-hall
The spider balanced on its gossamer thread,
Dust heaped the silken couches, and where swept
Golden-fringed curtains to the chequered floor,
The rat gnawed silently, and gray moths fed
On the rich produce of the Asian loom.
Men shunned his threshold, and his palace doors
Creaked on their rusty hinges. Prince and peasant
Alike turned coldly at his coming step;
The very beggar, that at noontide lay
Basking 'neath sunlight in the quiet street,
Stretched not his hand forth as the miser passed.
He cared not for their scorn. Man's breath to him
Was like the wind that sweeps the scathed oak
And finds no leaf to flutter! Fate had left
Only two things on earth for him to love-
The gold he heaped, and the fair, motherless child,
She went forth to the world, and careless lips
Told her the shame that was her heritage,
And scornful fingers pointed as she passed
To the rare jewels and the broidered robes
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