The night of death and bondage flies,
The dawning tints appear.

Zion, from deepest shades of gloom,
Awakes to glorious day;

Her desert wastes with verdure bloom,
Her shadows flee away.

To heal her wounds, her night dispel,
The heralds* cross the main;
On Calvary's awful brow they tell,
That JESUS lives again.

From Salem's towers, the Islam sign,
With holy zeal, is hurled:

'Tis there IMMANUEL's symbols shine
His banner is unfurled.

The gladdening news, conveyed afar,
Remotest nations hear;
To welcome Judah's rising star,
The ransomed tribes appear.

Again in Bethlehem swells the song,
The choral breaks again;

While Jordan's shores the strains prolong,
"GOOD-WILL, AND PEACE TO MEN

On the Close of the Year.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

'Tis midnight-from the dark blue sky,

The stars, which now look down on earth,

Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,
And give to countless changes birth.

And when the pyramids shall fall,

And, mouldering, mix as dust in air,
The dwellers on this altered ball
May still behold them glorious there.

*Missionaries to Palestine.

Shine on shine on! with you I tread
The march of ages, orbs of light;
A last eclipse may o'er you spread;
To me, to me, there comes no night.

O, what concerns it him, whose way
Lies upward to the immortal dead,
That a few hairs are turning gray,

Or one more year of life has fled?

Swift years, but teach me how to bear,
To feel, and act, with strength and skill,
To reason wisely, nobly dare,

And speed your courses as ye will.

When life's meridian toils are done,
How calm, how rich, the twilight glow!
The morning twilight of a sun,

That shines not here-on things below.

But sorrow, sickness, death-the pain
To leave, or lose, wife, children, friends-
What then? Shall we not meet again,
Where parting comes not, sorrow ends?

The fondness of a parent's care,

The changeless trust that woman gives, The smile of childhood-it is there, That all we love in them still lives.

Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being, feel thy power;

Pursue thy bright and endless way.

Saturday Afternoon.-N. P. WILLIS.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.

It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and " I 'bide my time;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

Fall of Tecumseh.-NEW YORK STATESMAN.

WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, To the war-blast indignantly tramping?

Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, The steel bit impatiently champing.

'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,
Conducting the free and the fearless.

Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing that chivalrous sally;

The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,
To pour his response from the valley.

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, And nought but the war-whoop given;

The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As if by the lightning riven.

The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,
Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,
That upward went wildly flying.

In the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended;
His rowels were bathed in the purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,
Till met by a savage, whose rank and might
Were shown by the plume he was wearing.

The moment was fearful; a mightier foe

Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.

O ne'er may the nations again be cursed
With conflict so dark and appalling!-
Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst
From their agonized bosoms in falling.

Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot
Where the hopes of the red man perished;
But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal;

And long shall the Indian warrior sing
The deeds of Tecumseh the royal.

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder.*

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps,
With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him;

And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps,
By the mound where his followers bore him.

The Missionaries' Farewell.-ANONYMOUS.

LAND where the bones of our fathers are sleeping,
Land where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping,
Land where the light of Jehovah is shining,
We leave thee lamenting, but not with repining.

Land of our fathers, in grief we forsake thee,
Land of our friends, may Jehovah protect thee,
Land of the church, may the light shine around thee,
Nor darkness, nor trouble, nor sorrow confound thee.

God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His brightness;
Gird thee with joy, let thy robes be of whiteness:
God is thy God! let thy hills shout for gladness;
But ah! we must leave thee-we leave thee in sadness.

Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean:
Dark are our hearts; but the fire of devotion
Kindles within;-and a far distant nation
Shall learn from our lips the glad song of salvation.

Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows!
Land of our rest!-when a few more to-morrows
Pass o'er our heads, we will seek our cold pillows,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billows.

*This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "king of the woods," was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15