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RICHARD H. DANA.

THIS great poet was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1787, and was educated at Harvard College. He studied law in Baltimore, and after practising a short time in the courts, turned his attention to literature. In 1833 appeared his "Poems and Prose Writings," in one volume; and he has since published a few pieces in the periodicals. Mr. Dana's works are of the first rank in literary art, and they are pervaded by a profoundly religious and philosophical spirit.

ISLAND OF THE BUCANIERS.

THE island lies nine leagues away.
Along its solitary shore,

Of craggy rock and sandy bay,

No sound but ocean's roar,

Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her nome,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,

And on the glassy, heaving sea,
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently;

How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,

And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;

The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell

Rings cheerful, far and wide,

Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks,
That feed about the vale among the rocks.

Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat

In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;

Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

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Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade, To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, Then back into themselves in rivers run, Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide,

Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide.

Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains
And flings to break his strong and viewless chains;
Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors,
Hark! hear him! how he beats and tugs and roars,
As if he would break forth again, and sweep
Each living thing within his lowest deep.

Type of the Infinite! I look away
Over thy billows, and I cannot stay
My thought upon a resting-place, or make
A shore beyond my vision, where they break;
But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain

To think; then rests, and then puts forth again.
Thou hold'st me by a spell; and on thy beach
I feel all soul; and thoughts unmeasured reach
Far back beyond all date. And, O! how old
Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast rolled
Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn,
Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn;
Waiting, thou mighty minister of death,

Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath.
At last thou didst it well! The dread command
Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land;
And then once more, unto the silent heaven
Thy lone and melancholy voice was given.

And though the land is thronged again, O Sea!
Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee.
The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call,
Share thy own spirit: it is sadness all!
How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down
Yonder tall cliff-he with the iron crown!

And see; those sable pines along the steep,
Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep!

Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge
Over the dead, with thy low beating surge.

DAYBREAK.

"The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang."-The Pilgrira s Progress.

Now, brighter than the host that all night long,

In fiery armor, far up in the sky

Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song,

Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh,

Star of the dawning! Cheerful is thine eye;

And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.

Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;

Thou bidd'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.

Canst thou grow sad, thou say'st, as earth grows bright?
And sigh, when little birds begin discourse

In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light

Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh source?
With creatures innocent thou must perforce

A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.

And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,
Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,

And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure.

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue,
Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hilltops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still-save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth,
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil, and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth
With discord strange, and all that man calls life.
With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife ;
And airs and woods and streams breathe harmonies.
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties :-
He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies.

It is because man useth so amiss

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she in such fresh hour as this
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,
From her fair face?-It is that man is mad!
Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine

-

When nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.

Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are thine ; While I to earth am bound:-When will the heavens be mine?

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense

Of simpler things; could nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering humbly why it is, and whence:
But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad-I'm lonely in the crowd.

But not for this alone, the silent tear

Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn hour: fresh life is near ;-
But all my joys!-they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye

Shall see them pass. Breathe calm-my spirit's torn;
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high-

Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh.

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be
That I-whom nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea-
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters-feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit ;-who, as my own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur
A beauty see-that I this mother mild

Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce and wild!

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth! In crown of living fire
Up comes the day! As if they conscious quaffed-
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire

Laugh in the wakening light.-Go, vain desire!
The dusky lights are gone; go thou thy way!
And pining discontent, like them, expire!

Be called my chamber, Peace, when ends the day;
And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.

O LISTEN, man!

Celestial voices

A voice within us speaks the startling word,
"Man, thou shalt never die !"
Hymn it around our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality!

Thick, clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

-O, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in

From all the air! "Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating in day's setting glories; night,
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears;
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,

All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,

As one vast, mystic instrument, are touched

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