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WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

[Born, 1810.]

MR. GALLAGHER, I believe, is a native of Ohio. | Literary Journal," "The Hesperian," and other He now resides in Cincinnati, where he conducts

a daily gazette. He has been engaged in literary pursuits from early life, and has edited, in succession, "The Cincinnati Mirror," "The Western

popular miscellanies. His first volume of poems appeared in 1835, and he has since published "Erato," in three volumes. The last-mentioned work embraces nearly all his metrical compositions.

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TO THE WEST.

LAND of the West!-green forest-land!
Clime of the fair, and the immense !
Favourite of Nature's liberal hand,

And child of her munificence!
Fill'd with a rapture warm, intense,
High on a cloud-girt hill I stand;

And with clear vision gazing thence, Thy glories round me far expand:

Rivers, whose likeness carth has not, And lakes, that elsewhere seas would be,Whose shores the countless wild herds dot, Fleet as the winds, and all as free;

Mountains that pierce the bending sky, And with the storm-cloud warfare wage:

Shooting their glittering peaks on high, To mock the fierce, red lightning's rage;

Arcadian vales, with vine-hung bowers, And grassy nooks, 'neath beechen shade, Where dance the never-resting Hours, To music of the bright cascade;

Skies softly beautiful, and blue As Italy's, with stars as bright;

Flowers rich as morning's sunrise hue, And gorgeous as the gemm'd midnight. Land of the West! green forest-land! Thus hath Creation's bounteous hand Upon thine ample bosom flung

Charms such as were her gift when the gray world

was young!

Land of the West!-where naught is old
Or fading, but tradition hoary,-

Thy yet unwritten annals hold

Of many a daring deed the story!
Man's might of arm hath here been tried,

And woman's glorious strength of soul,-
When war's fierce shout rang far and wide,
When vengeful foes at midnight stole
On slumbering innocence, and gave
Nor onset-shout, nor warning word,
Nor nature's strong appealings heard
From woman's lips, to "spare and save
Her unsuspecting little one,

Her only child-her son! her son!"
Unheard the supplicating tone,

Which ends in now a shriek, and now a deep

death-groan!

Land of the West!-green forest-land!
Thine early day for deeds is famed
Which in historic page shall stand

Till bravery is no longer named.
Thine early day!--it nursed a band

Of men who ne'er their lineage shamed:
The iron-nerved, the bravely good,
Who neither spared nor lavish'd blood--

Aye ready, morn, or night, or noon;
Fleet in the race, firm in the field,
Their sinewy arms their only shield--
Courage to Death alone to yield;

The men of DANIEL BOON!

Their dwelling-place--the "good green-wood;" Their favourite haunts--the long arcade, The murmuring and majestic flood,

The deep and solemn shade:

Where to them came the word of God,
When storm and darkness were abroad,

Breathed in the thunder's voice aloud,
And writ in lightning on the cloud.
And thus they lived: the dead leaves oft,

Heap'd by the playful winds, their bed;
Nor wish'd they couch more warm or soft
Nor pillow for the head,

Other than fitting root, or stone,
With the scant wood-moss overgrown.
Heroic band! But they have pass'd,
As pass the stars at rise of sun:
Melting into the ocean vast

Of Time, and sinking, one by one;
Yet lingering here and there a few,
As if to take a last, long view
Of the domain they won in strife
With foes who battled to the knife.
Peace unto those that sleep beneath us!

All honour to the few that yet do linger with us!

Land of the West!-thine early prime
Fades in the flight of hurrying Time;
Thy noble forests fall, as sweep
Europa's myriads o'er the deep;
And thy broad plains, with welcome warm,
Receive the onward-pressing swarm:
On mountain-height, in lowly vale,

By quiet lake, or gliding river,-
Wherever sweeps the chainless gale,
Onward sweep they, and forever.
O, may they come with hearts that ne'er
Can bend a tyrant's chain to wear;

With souls that would indignant turn,
And proud oppression's minions spurn;
With nerves of steel, and words of flame,
To strike and sear the wretch who'd bring our
land to shame!

Land of the West!--beneath the Heaven
There's not a fairer, lovelier clime;
Nor one to which was ever given
A destiny more high, sublime.
From Alleghany's base, to where

Our Western Andes prop the sky-
The home of Freedom's hearts is there,
And o'er it Freedom's eagles fly.
And here,--should e'er Columbia's land
Be rent with fierce intestine feud;
Shall Freedom's latest cohorts stand,

Till Freedom's eagles sink in blood,

And quench'd are all the stars that now her banners stud!

AUGUST.

DUST on thy mantle! dust,

Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!

A tarnish, as of rust,

Dims thy late-brilliant sheen:

And thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower— Change cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun

Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,
Scarce whispering in their pace,

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

Flame-like, the long midday,

With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd

The down upon the spray, Where rests the panting bird, Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

Seeds in the sultry air,

And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; E'en the tall pines, that rear

Their plumes to catch the breeze,

The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, Partake the general languor, and deep rest.

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The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush.

Tediously pass the hours,

And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root,
And droop the thirsting flowers,
Where the slant sunbeams shoot:
But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line,
Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline.

Faster, along the plain,

Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge: The kine are forth again,

The bird flits in the hedge.

Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun.
Welcome, mild eve!-the sultry day is done.

Pleasantly comest thou,

Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass;
And the curl'd corn-blades bow,

As the light breezes pass,

That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land.

So, to the thirsting soul,
Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love;
And the scathed heart, made whole,
Turneth in joy above,

To where the spirit freely may expand,
And rove, untrammel'd, in that "better land."

SPRING VERSES.

How with the song of every bird,
And with the scent of every flower,

Some recollection dear is stirr'd

Of many a long-departed hour,
Whose course, though shrouded now in night,
Was traced in lines of golden light!

I know not if, when years have cast
Their shadows on life's early dreams,
"Tis wise to touch the hope that's past,
And re-illume its fading beams:
But, though the future hath its star,
That olden hope is dearer far.

Of all the present, much is bright;
And in the coming years, I see
A brilliant and a cheering light,

Which burns before me constantly; Guiding my steps, through haze and gloom, To where Fame's turrets proudly loom.

Yet coldly shines it on my brow;

And in my breast it wakes to life None of the holy feelings now,

With which my boyhood's heart was rife : It cannot touch that secret spring Which erst made life so bless'd a thing.

Give me, then give me birds and flowers,

Which are the voice and breath of Spring! For those the songs of life's young hours With thrilling touch recall and sing: And these, with their sweet breath, impart Old tales, whose memory warms the heart.

MAY.

WOULD that thou couldst last for aye,
Merry, ever-merry May!

Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers,
Bursting buds, and breathing flowers;
Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested,
Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested;
Girdled with the eglantine,
Festoon'd with the dewy vine:
Merry, ever-merry May,

Would that thou couldst last for aye!

Out beneath thy morning sky
Dian's bow still hangs on high;
And in the blue depths afar
Glimmers, here and there, a star.
Diamonds robe the bending grass,

Glistening, early flowers among-
Monad's world, and fairy's glass,-
Bathing-fount for wandering sprite-
By mysterious fingers hung,
In the lone and quiet night.
Now the freshening breezes pass—
Gathering, as they steal along,
Rich perfume, and matin-song;

Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dew-drop

And quickly to destruction hurl'd

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But hath swept the green earth's bosom;
Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom,
Dallying with the simplest flower
In mossy nook and rosy bower;
To the perfumed green-house straying,
And with rich exotics playing;
Then, unsated, sweeping over
Banks of thyme, and fields of clover!
Out beneath thy evening sky,
Groups of children caper by,
Crown'd with flowers, and rush along
With joyous laugh, and shout, and song.
Flashing eye, and radiant cheek,
Spirits all unsunn'd bespeak.

They are in life's May-month hours,

And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but life's flowers?

Would that thou couldst last for aye,
Merry, ever-merry May!

Made of sun-gleams, shade, and showers,
Bursting buds, and breathing flowers;
Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested,
Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested;
Girdled with the eglantine,

Festoon'd with the dewy vine:

Merry, ever-merry May,

Would that thou couldst last for aye!

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Out beneath thy noontide sky,
On a shady slope I lie,

Giving fancy ample play;
And there's not more blest than I,
One of ADAM's race to-day.
Out beneath thy noontide sky!
Earth, how beautiful! how clear
Of cloud or mist the atmosphere!
What a glory greets the eye!
What a calm, or quiet stir,

Steals o'er Nature's worshipper

Silent, yet so eloquent,

That we feel 'tis heaven-sent!

Waking thoughts, that long have slumber'd, Passion-dimm'd and earth-encumber'd

Bearing soul and sense away,

To revel in the perfect day

Which 'waits us, when we shall for aye

[clay!

Discard this darksome dust-this prison-house of

Out beneath thy evening sky,

Not a breeze that wanders by

OUR EARLY DAYS.

OUR early days!-How often back
We turn on life's bewildering track,
To where, o'er hill and valley, plays
The sunlight of our early days!

A boy-my truant steps were seen
Where streams were bright, and meadows green;
Where flowers, in beauty and perfume,
Breathed ever of the Eden-bloom;
And birds, abroad in the free wind,
Sang, as they left the earth behind
And wing'd their joyous way above,
Of Eden-peace, and Eden-love.
That life was of the soul, as well
As of the outward visible;
And now, its streams are dry; and sere
And brown its meadows all appear;
Gone are its flowers; its bird's glad voice
But seldom bids my heart rejoice;
And, like the mist as comes the day,
Its Eden-glories roll away.

A youth-the mountain-torrent made
The music which my soul obey'd.
To shun the crowded ways of men,
And seek the old tradition'd glen,
Where, through the dim, uncertain light,
Moved many an ever-changing sprite,
Alone the splinter'd crag to dare,
While trooping shadows fill'd the air,
And quicken'd fancy many a form
Traced vaguely in the gathering storm,
To tread the forest's lone arcades,
And dream of Sherwood's peopled shades,

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Thou art thyself thine enemy!

And Windsor's haunted "alleys green"

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Dingle" and "bosky bourn" between,
Till burst upon my raptured glance

The whole wide realm of Old Romance:
Such was the life I lived-a youth!
But vanish'd, at the touch of Truth,
And never to be known agen,
Is all that made my being then.

A man the thirst for fame was mine,
And bow'd me at Ambition's shrine,
Among the votaries who have given

Time, health, hope, peace--and madly striven,
Ay, madly! for that which, when found,
Is oftenest but an empty sound.

And I have worshipp'd!-
-even yet
Mine eye is on the idol set;

But it hath found so much to be

But hollowness and mockery,
That from its worship oft it turns
To where a light intenser burns,
Before whose radiance, pure and warm,
Ambition's star must cease to charm.

Our early days!-They haunt us ever-
Bright star-gleams on life's silent river,
Which pierce the shadows, deep and dun,
That bar e'en manhood's noonday sun.

THE LABOURER.

STAND UP-erect! Thou hast the form,
And likeness of thy God!-who more?

A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? the high

In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee?

A feather, which thou mightest cast

Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No:—uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires

Forever, till thus check'd;
These are thine enemies--thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labour and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

The great!--what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has GoD with equal favours thee
Neglected to endow ?

True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust!
Nor place uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust

Of both--a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,

True faith, and holy trust in GoD, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up, then that thy little span Of life may be well trod!

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST.

THE mothers of our forest-land!
Stout-hearted dames were they;
With nerve to wield the battle-brand,
And join the border-fray.

Our rough land had no braver,

In its days of blood and strife-
Aye ready for severest toil,
Aye free to peril life.

The mothers of our forest-land!

On old Kentucky's soil

How shared they, with each dauntless band,
War's tempest and life's toil!
They shrank not from the foeman-

They quail'd not in the fight-
But cheer'd their husbands through the day,
And soothed them through the night.

The mothers of our forest-land!

Their bosoms pillow'd men!

And proud were they by such to stand, In hammock, fort, or glen,

To load the sure, old rifle

To run the leaden ball

To watch a battling husband's place,
And fill it, should he fall:

The mothers of our forest-land!

Such were their daily deeds.

Their monument!-where does it stand?
Their epitaph!—who reads?
No braver dames had Sparta,

No nobler matrons Rome-
Yet who or lauds or honours them,
E'en in their own green home?

The mothers of our forest-land!

They sleep in unknown graves: And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves,

They had not been more neglected!

But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground."

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

[Born about 1810.]

MR. CLARKE is a native of Boston. He is a grandson of the Reverend JAMES FREEMAN, D. D., for many years minister of King's Chapel, in that city, and was from his childhood designed for the church. He was educated in the university and in the divinity-school at Cambridge, and on being

admitted to orders, went to Louisville, Kentucky, where he resided several years, and conducted with much ability a monthly miscellany of religion and letters, entitled "The Western Messenger." In 1840 he returned to Boston, and he is now pastor of a church in that city.

HYMN AND PRAYER.

INFINITE Spirit! who art round us ever,

In whom we float, as motes in summer-sky, May neither life nor death the sweet bond sever, Which joins us to our unseen Friend on high.

Unseen-yet not unfelt-if any thought

Has raised our mind from earth, or pure desire, A generous act, or noble purpose brought,

It is thy breath, O LORD, which fans the fire.

To me, the meanest of thy creatures, kneeling, Conscious of weakness, ignorance,sin, and shame, Give such a force of holy thought and feeling, That I may live to glorify thy name;

That I may conquer base desire and passion,

That I may rise o'er selfish thought and will, O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, Walk humbly, softly, leaning on thee still.

I am unworthy. Yet, for their dear sake

I ask, whose roots planted in me are found; For precious vines are propp'd by rudest stake, And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground. Beneath my leaves, though early fallen and faded, Young plants are warm'd,-they drink my branches' dew:

Let them not, LORD, by me be Upas-shaded; Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true. For their sake, too, the faithful, wise, and bold,

Whose generous love has been my pride and stay, Those who have found in me some trace of gold, For their sake purify my lead and clay.

And let not all the pains and toil be wasted,

Spent on my youth by saints now gone to rest; Nor that deep sorrow my Redeemer tasted,

When on his soul the guilt of man was press'd.

Tender and sensitive, he braved the storm,

That we might fly a well-deserved fate,
Pour'd out his soul in supplication warm,
Look'd with his eyes of love on eyes of hate.

Let all this goodness by my mind be seen,
Let all this mercy on my heart be seal'd!
Lord, if thou wilt, thy power can make me clean:
O, speak the word-thy servant shall be heal'd.

THE POET.

HE touch'd the earth, a soul of flame,
His bearing proud, his spirit high;
Fill'd with the heavens from whence he came,
He smiled upon man's destiny.

Yet smiled as one who knows no fear,
And felt a secret strength within,
Who wonder'd at the pitying tear

Shed over human loss and sin.

Lit by an inward, brighter light

Than aught that round about him shone, He walk'd erect through shades of night; Clear was his pathway-but how lone! Men gaze in wonder and in awe

Upon a form so like to theirs, Worship the presence, yet withdraw And carry elsewhere warmer prayers. Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest, Forgetting once his strange estate, Unloosed the lyre from off his breast,

And strung its chords to human fate;

And, gayly snatching some rude air,

Caroll'd by idle, passing tongue, Gave back the notes that linger'd there,

And in Heaven's tones earth's low lay sung;

Then warmly grasp'd the hand that sought
To thank him with a brother's soul,
And when the generous wine was brought,
Shared in the feast and quaff'd the bowl;

Men laid their hearts low at his feet,

And sunn'd their being in his light, Press'd on his way his steps to greet,

And in his love forgot his might.

And when, a wanderer long on earth,
On him its shadow also fell,
And dimm'd the lustre of a birth
Whose day-spring was from Heaven's own well;

They cherish'd e'en the tears he shed,
Their woes were hallow'd by his wo,
Humanity, half cold and dead,
Had been revived in genius' glow.

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