TO IDA.
BY HORACE PHELPS, M. D.
THE gale is fresh upon my brow,
The evening dew my cheek has wet,
The bark moves merrily, and now
The moonlight and the wave have met;
The mountain heights their shadows throw,
In dark and frowning majesty,
Upon the rolling waters' flow,
As sorrows cross young memory:
What wants this scene to be divine?
Thy gentle heart to beat with mine.
The lover's star her watch doth keep
In the blue vault of yonder sky;
While all around is hushed to sleep,
I deem thy angel spirit nigh;
'Twere rapture never felt before
In this serene and midnight noon,
To hear from yonder lonely shore
The watch-dog bay the full bright moon,
Couldst thou be here to share this hour
My heart's beloved and buried flower.
There is a spirit rides the air;
I hear its murmur on the stream,
I see its form of beauty fair
Disporting in the moonlight beam
It is the spirit of delight
Of young affection's ecstasy,
And in its form and features bright
Thine own fair face and form I see:
It hovers o'er my head, and now
I feel its hand upon my brow.
I see the light of feeling play
And sparkle in its winning smile,
To chase my brooding cares away,
And all my sorrows to beguile;
I hear the voice I loved to hear
Mix with the music of the stream;
The well-known accents strike my ear:
Away! 'tis fancy's wildest dream:
I am alone beneath the star,
And thou art in thy grave afar!
THE WAS AND THE IS.
BY O. EVERTS, M. D.
AWAY in the mist of past ages,
The was-life of wondrous renown—
(Which lives but in History's pages,
And the tales which Traditions hand down,
Or in marbles that still o'er us frown)—
Yet looks as if towering away
Far above all the Is or To-be
And a power still seemeth to sway,
Though the present convulse to be free,
And the future no prophet-eyes see.
But only it seemeth—not real!
A shadowy monster untruth!
An image of vapors ideal,
That floats in the sky of our youth,
Ere we see with strong visions in sooth!
And thus, while we gaze it departs,
And a better, a nobler appears;
The Is-life more wonderful starts
From its home in the heavenly spheres,
And fills us with hopes and with fears!
And we rise, while our hearts strongly beat,
And say to our fears, all begone!
They vanish, like clouds that retreat
Before the all-conquering sun—
And we nerve for the deeds to be done!
Ah! now does the youth feel his strength!
See his cheeks, how they glow! and his eye,
How it sparkles and gleams! till at length
His soul reaches out to the sky,
And his thoughts through the universe fly!
And his steps are elastic as air,
Yet consciously proud—and his tread
Over ruins of temples that were—
And religion whose priesthoods are dead,
Is as if there no prayer had been said.
The Is-life is now all to him!
With a glance toward the future, inspired
He moves with his might every limb—
His soul with ambition is fired—
And he grows in his task never tired.
He triumphs! The truth is his sword,
And the shams and the phantoms that are,
Shrink back to antiquity's horde,
To be buried with falsehoods that were,
Whilst fame everlasting's his share!
Oh! the Is is the life then for me!
The Was had its tasks and its men;
And others will crowd the To-be,
And laugh at all this that hath been—
But to me, what matters it then?