The National Republican And Ohio Political Register

Selected Poetry.

FROM THE NEW-ENGLAND GALAXY.

There is a charm in Infancy,
While life is fresh and new—
Oh! would that charm might never die,
Or lose its delicate hue!

There's a charm in Youth's impurpled gleam.
When the pulse with hope beats high,
And phantom shapes of glory beam
On the flashing, up-raised eye.

There is a charm in Manhood's time,
When the swiftly fleeting hours
Have brought the reason's vigorous prime,
The Autumn of the powers.

High thoughts, that bold and arching brow,
That anxious face proclaim—
Ambition's kindlings fire him now,
The stirring hope of fame.

There is a charm in life's decay,
When the spirit's wings, unfurled,
But wait to take their flight away
To a purer, brighter world!

A light unearthly fires the eye
Of the sinking man of years,
And the hope of immortality
Dispels all mortal fears.

There's a magical charm in Woman's smile,
Man would in vain oppose—
It can the aching heart beguile
Of a thousand clustering woes.

There is a charm in the heart's first beat,
When Love's ethereal flame
Hath sent its kindling, quickening heat
Through Youth's impassioned frame!

There's a melting charm in this sweet hour
Of hopes, and fears, and blushes:
When the cheek discloses Passion's power
By its crimson, burning flushes.

Man loves thee, Woman, for thou art
The sun-light of his day—
The unwavering magnet of his heart,
That guides him on his way.

His Cynosure is Woman's eyes;
And he turns, with a fond devotion,
To where those brightening beacons rise
O'er life's tempestuous ocean.

Who that has basked in the sunny glance
Of Woman's approving smile,
Can the dizzy round of Pleasure dance,
Where Vice hath spread her wile?

Ah none! its soft and healing power
Frail Man full oft hath found—
It falls on the heart, like a freshening shower
On the parched and thirsty ground.

And Music too hath power to charm,
And teach the breast to thrill;
And Sorrow's darkest hours disarm
Of half their sense of ill.

There's a charm in Philomela's hymn,
Soft rising on the gale,
When the lovely bird, from yon oak-limb,
Sends forth her plaintive wail.

You would almost think that mournful tone
Was a tender mother's cry.
As she bent o'er her babe's sepulchral stone,
And wept that it must die!

There's a charm in the bending cypress trees,
As they wave above the tomb.
And seem to raise on the passing breeze
The dirge of faded bloom.

They speak the voice of buried love,
Of a love unquenched by death—
Soft as the plaint of the widow'd dove,
Or the whispering west wind's breath,

There's a charm in white-rob'd Virtue's mien,
And upward-gazing eye,
As she looks beyond this troubled scene
To her home above the sky.

Turn where you will—Great Nature's voice
Is resonant with love—
She bids her numerous sons rejoice
In their God and Friend above!

MOUNTAIN BARD.