Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, Checkered by one night's frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees, That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick, Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below With its bright colors, intermixed with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain; Then, rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps,
The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropped
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.
On the Loss of Professor Fisher.—BRAINARD.
THE breath of air, that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm; The drops of dew, exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise, and assume the tempest's threatening form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,
Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster, when the might Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.
So science whispered in thy charmed ear, And radiant learning beckoned thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee!-But there is a shore Where storms are hushed, where tempests never rage; Where angry skies and blackening seas no more With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod- Thy home is heaven, and thy Friend is God.
J have a high sense of the virtue and dignity of the female character; and would not, by any means, be thought to attribute to the ladies emphatically, the fault here spoken of. But I have remarked it in some of my friends, who, in all but this, were among the loveliest of their sex. In such, the blemish is more distinct and striking, because so strongly contrasted with the superior delicacy and loveliness of their natures.
"MY GOD!" the beauty oft exclaimed, With deep impassioned tone-
But not in humble prayer she named The High and Holy One!
'Twas not upon the bended knee,
With soul upraised to heaven,
Pleading, with heartfelt agony, That she might be forgiven.
'Twas not in heavenly strains to raise To the great Source of good
Her daily offering of praise, Her song of gratitude.
But in the gay and thoughtless crowd, And in the festive hall,
'Mid scenes of mirth and mockery proud, She named the Lord of All.
She called upon that awful name, When laughter loudest rang- Or when the flush of triumph came- Or disappointment's pang!
The idlest thing that flattery knew, The most unmeaning jest,
From those sweet lips profanely drew Names of the Holiest !
I thought-How sweet that voice would be,
Breathing this prayer to heaven
My God, I worship only thee;
O, be my sins forgiven!"
He knoweth our Frame, He remembereth we are Dust.DANA.
THOU, who didst form us with mysterious powers, Didst give a conscious soul, and call it ours, "Tis thou alone who know'st the strife within; Thou'lt kindly judge, nor name each weakness sin. Thou art not man, who only sees in part, Yet deals unsparing with a brother's heart; For thou look'st in upon the struggling throng That war-the good with ill-the weak with strong. And those thy hand hath wrought of finer frame, When grief o'erthrows the mind, thou wilt not blame. "It is enough!" thou'lt say, and pity show; Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of wo!- Thy heart find rest-thy dark mind clear away, And thou sit in the peace of heaven's calm day!"
Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love And doth death cancel the great bond that holds Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds, But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out The Eternal Mind-the Father of all thought- Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?— Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms
* We scarcely know where, in the English language, we could point out a finer extract than this,-of the same character. It has a softened grandeur worthy of the subject; especially in the noble paragraph commencing "O, listen, man!"-ED.
Of uncreated light have visited and lived?- Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, Which One, with gentle hand the vail of flesh Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed In glory?-throne, before which, even now, Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed?— Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, Thou awful, unseen Presence-are they quenched, Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not; as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars?
And with our frames do perish all our loves? Do those that took their root and put forth Luds, And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, And make it send forth winning harmonies,— That to the cheek do give its living glow, And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utteranceAre these the body's accidents ?-no more?To live in it, and when that dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame?
A voice within us speaks that startling word,
Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls: according harps, By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality:
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song.
O, listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in
From all the air! Tis in the gentle moonlight; 'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
The mysterious Music of Ocean.-WALSH'S NATIONAL GAZETTE.
"And the people of this place say, that, at certain seasons, beautiful sounds are heard from the ocean."-Mavor's Voyages.
LONELY and wild it rose,
That strain of solemn music from the sea, As though the bright air trembled to disclose An ocean mystery.
Again a low, sweet tone,
Fainting in murmurs on the listening day, Just bade the excited thought its presence own, Then died away.
Once more the gush of sound, Struggling and swelling from the heaving plain, Thrilled a rich peal triumphantly around, And fled again.
O boundless deep! we know
Thou hast strange wonders in thy gloom concealed, Gems, flashing gems, from whose unearthly glow Sunlight is sealed.
Showers her rich colors with unsparing hand, Where coral trees their graceful branches fling O'er golden sand.
But tell, O restless main!
Who are the dwellers in thy world beneath, That thus the watery realm cannot contain The joy they breathe?
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