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And consecrated palaces of mind !
Come out, thou pale and visionary youth,
And mark the paths of nature !

Sweetly breathes
The cool noon zephyr through the green arcades
Formed by the hand of nature, -summer's voice
Lives in the babbling rivulets, and swells
In the clear notes of nature's choristers !
Look how the grain bends to the breezes' kiss -
See the rich sun-light twinkling through the shade
Of yon old hoary wood! And mark yon scene,
A simple cottage, slumbering on the breast
Of a calm valley, like a pale white cloud
Floating amid the soft blue depths of heaven!
List! on the wind's wing comes the silver note
Of some untutored girl; and hark ! 't is mocked
By a glad echo in the far-off hills !
Look now about thee, student!-See the sheaves
Piled in the winnowed meadow, and away
Over the lonely landscape mark the girls
Binding the corn!

The twilight hastens onCome, let us watch from this enamelled bank For the first star. Shadows are sailing fast Over the silent valleys, and the birds Fly in strange order towards to-morrow's dawn! Thy cheek, young student, hath a healthier hue; Thy step is more elastic. It were well

That thou didst often wander from the crowd,
And hold brief commune with the living things
That pant on nature's bosom. Time soon steals
The polish from young foreheads. Thou wilt be
Too soon among thy fathers, that thy strength
Must needs be wasted hunting cunning paths,
That lead to wisdom's temples. Live awhile,
And gaze among the crowd in thoughtfulness,
And thou wilt soon grow weary of the palm
That wisdom weaves for laurels. It is not
A dream of glory that gives happiness
To the aspiring spirit. Virtue dwells
Oftener in peasants’ simple cottages
Than in the monarch's palace. Where she is,
Is human weal, and gentle hearts and peace !

Philadelphia, May 20, 1829.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ.

My birth-day! As the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears.

MOORE.

I'm twenty-two;- I’m twenty-two,—they gaily give me

joy, As if I should be glad to hear that I was less a boy ; They do not know how carelessly their words have given

pain To one, whose heart would leap to be a happy boy again!

A change has o'er my spirit passed, my mirthful hours

are few, The light is all departed now my early feelings knew; I used to love the morning grey, the twilight's quiet

deep, But now, like shadows on the sea, upon my thoughts they creep.

III.

And love was as a holy star when this brief year was

young, And my whole worship of the sky on one sweet ray was

fung; But worldly things have come between, and shut it from

my sight, And though that star shines purely yet, I mourn its

hidden light!

IV. And fame!--I bent to it my knee, and bowed to it my

brow, And it is like a coal upon my living spirit now; But when I prayed for fire from Heaven to touch the soul,

I bowed, I little thought the lightning flash would come in such a

cloud.

Ye give me joy! Is it because another year has fled ? That I am farther from my youth, and nearer to the

dead ? Is it that manhood's cares are come,- my happy boy

hood o’er, Because the visions I have loved, will visit me no more!

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Oh wherefore give me joy, when I can smile no welcome

back? I've found no flower, and seen no light, on manhood's

weary track: My love is deep-ambition deep-and heart and mind

will on, But love is fainting by the way, and fame consumes ere

won ! Philadelphia, May 2, 1829.

LUNACY.

BY JOHN BOWRING, ESQ.

The saddest scene of sadness is the fall
Of intellectual greatness from its height;—
That darkness is most desolate of all
Which shadows and o'erwhelms mind's glorious light:
And time sees nothing in its thoughtful flight
So grievous as the unlooked-for funeral
Of holy expectations, which, once bright
And beautiful, now rest beneath the pall
Of absolute despair. The sad undoing
Of man's sublimest deeds,—the wreck, the ruin
Of mental power and splendour, are to me
A page unreadable in the fair book-
O Infinite Wisdom,- of Thy mystery ;-
To Thee, O God! not there—To thee I look!

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