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POEMS.

THE GOOD WINE.

Oh! thou only God of wine,

Comfort this poor heart of mine,
With that nectar of thy blood.

Alexander Rosse, 1650.

WINE of Cyprus, not for me,
Thou, nor juice of Italy;
Nor Atlantic's luscious pride,
From Madeira's sunny side;
Nor from Caprea's royal hoard,
Nor from Lisbon's modern board,
Nor from elder Egypt's crypt,
Which Mark Antony hath stripped
Nor from Rhine or laughing France,
Where Garonne's blue ripples dance,
Nor from banks of classic river,
Winding Po or Guadalquiver.

All the grapes in vintage crushed,
Could not satisfy my thirst;
Purple flood in chrysolite,
Where it moves itself aright,

Freely poured in princely hall,
Sparkling at high festival,

Well refined, or on the lees,
Could not my ambition please;
Draught that passing pleasure brings,
Leaving ever during stings.

When my lips the beaker kiss,
I have other wine than this,
Taken from the fruitful hill,
Which doth live in poesy still;
Where for vine, a cross of wood,
Guarded by the Roman, stood;
Whose rich spoil was gathered when
Triumphed hell and triumphed men :
Crushed and mangled was whose grape,
While the heavens looked agape,
And in sackcloth hid—whose wine
Streaming, dimmed the mid-day's shine,
Fermented in nature's sigh,

Ripened in the earthquake's cry.

How it stirs my languid blood!
How it cheers my soul, like food!
Drink, ye kings! and cares forget,
Drink, ye sad! and triumph yet.
Drink, ye aged! strength renew,
Drink, ye children! 'tis for you.
Drink, ye pilgrims! while 'tis nigh-

Drink, nor in the desert die.

Drink, ye fainting! thirst ye never,

Drink, ye dying! live for ever.

WOMAN.

By Woman's words to man so well seducing,
Came sin's accursed entrance and our wo;
She, the unhallowed science introducing,

Of good, forbidden, taught us ill to know.

By Woman's lips were first the accents spoken
To cheer a world whose hope was in the grave;
That Jesus had the three-days slumber broken,
And, rising, showed that He was strong to save.

She, from free Eden to the earth's dark prison,
Led Adam by the flattery of her tongue;
She unto Peter told, "the Lord is risen!"
In melody like that to sweet harps strung.

By Woman, then, though sometimes cometh sorrow,
(And who of mortals is exempt from this?)
By Woman's love, besides the hope of morrow,
There's full fruition of the present bliss.

She, in life's sunshine, will increase life's pleasure By social converse, and the charms of mind; She, in affliction, will be found a treasure,

To soothe the heart and banish care, unkind.

She, in youth's journey, from the wayside flower
Will pluck the thorn, lest it should give thee pain;
age still constant, and in death's last hour
A helper when all other help is vain.

In

Go, then, ye heartless! to whom Woman never
Brings up pure images of peace and home,
And fireside joys, and faithful care, whenever
Pale Sickness seizes, or afflictions come;

Go to that selfish love the cold world offers,
And find your solace, if indeed ye can;
For me, I'll ever seek, despising scoffers,

Her virtuous smile - God's richest boon to man!

THE CHOIR.

I WENT to Chapel some few Sundays since
In Chatham street, New York; a stranger there,
And yet at home within those hallowed walls
Where all are welcome. It was early yet,
So I awhile surveyed the edifice,

Admiring at the growth of piety,

Or growth of that fair city, which had changed
Its Theatres to temples. Soon the seats,
Spacious, and free to poor and rich alike,
Were filled. The holy man of God his place
Ascended; silence reigned and hearts seemed hushed
At consciousness that Jesus was within;

When presently the Choir, whose ample place,
Unwonted, was behind the sacred desk,
And in full view of worshippers, began:

He dies! the Friend of Sinners dies!

In low

And sweetly plaintive notes, in which I thought

The very soul of harmony spake out,

Did many voices, well attuned, reply
Subduingly — Here's love beyond degree!
So rich, so melancholy, and so soft

The strains that rose and fell upon the ear, —
So fitly modulation of the tones
Was married to the language, blending sense
With melody, and to the heart and head
Conveying truly, sweetly, mournfully,

The import,

that my soul was satisfied,

And yet was troubled. Could I help but go
With the sad story? — could I help but hear
The voice of Salem's daughters, as they wept?—
Or could I then resist the plaintive call:

“Come, saints, and drop a tear or two for Him
Who groaned beneath your load!"- Could I refrain
From joyful tears, as the triumphant burst
Gave token that the God had left the tomb,

And risen, Conqueror and King?

I gazed

Upon the leader of this wondrous power
Of minstrelsy concentrate, as he sat
Midst of the choir, upon the farthest seat,
And highest-the spirit he of music
Personified. His frame, obedient to

The stirring impulse of the mellow sounds,
Involuntarily bent, now at the close,
Symphonious, and now to full extent

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