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166  ELIZA FOLLEN.

Morn is the time to rise— 
The resurrection morn! 
Upspringing from the glorious skies 
On new-found pinions borne, 
To meet my Saviour's smile divine; 
Be such ecstatic rising mine!

ELIZA FOLLEN

WAS born in Boston, but now resides in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  She was married in September, 1828, to Professor Charles Follen, who perished in the conflagration of the steamer Lexington, in the winter of 1839.  Her chief work is the Memoir of her husband, published in five volumes; but several other interesting books in prose have appeared from her pen: Sketches of Married Life, The Skeptic, The Well-spent Hour, Selections from Fenelon, The Warning, &c.  In poetry, she has written Hymns, Songs, and Fables for children; and another little book called Nursery Songs.  A volume of Poems was published in Boston in 1839; from which we select the following pieces, as a fair specimen of her sweet and serious style.

WINTER SCENES IN THE COUNTRY.

THE short, dull, rainy day drew to a close; 
No gleam burst forth upon the western hills, 
With smiling promise of a brighter day, 
Dressing the leafless woods with golden light; 
But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round, 
And the unceasing rain pour'd like a torrent on. 
The wearied inmates of the house draw near 
The cheerful fire; the shutters all are closed; 

ELIZA FOLLEN. 167

A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say, 
Now let the darkness and rain prevail; 
Here all is bright! How beautiful is the sound 
Of the descending rain! how soft the wind 
Through the wet branches of the drooping elms! 
But hark! far off, beyond the sheltering hills, 
Is heard the gathering tempest's distant swell, 
Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes. 
The stream, that glided through its pebbly way 
To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on; 
The woods send forth a deep and heavy sigh; 
The gentle south has ceased; the rude northwest, 
Rejoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth. 
The rain is changed into a driving sleet, 
And when the fitful wind a moment lulls,
The feathery snow, almost inaudible,
Falls on the window-panes as soft and still
As the light brushings of an angel's wings, 
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts 
'Midst the the wild tumult of this stormy life. 
The tighten'd strings of nature's ceaseless harp 
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody, 
As the full swell returns.  The night comes on, 
And sleep upon this little world of ours 
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings; and man—
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth, 
The bold interpreter of nature's voice, 
Giving a language even to the stars—
Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart, 
Is still; and all unheeded is the storm, 
Save by the wakeful few who love the night; 
Those pure and active spirits that are placed 
As guards o'er wayward man; they who show forth 
God's holy image on the soul impress'd, 
They listen to the music of the storm,

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 21:41:44