Then think not of the mournful time

When I resigned my breath,
Nor of the place where I was laid,

The gloomy house of death;
But think of that high world, where I

No more shall suffer pain,
And of the time when all of us

In heaven shall meet again.

THE ANGLER'S SONG.

BY I. M'LELLAN, JUN.

When first the flame of day

Crimsons the sea-like mist, And from the valley rolls away

The haze, by the sunbeam kissed, Then to the lonely woods I pass,

With angling rod and line, While yet the dew-drops, in the grass,

Like flashing diamonds shine.

How vast the mossy forest-halls,

Silent, and full of gloom! Through the high roof the daybeam falls Like torch-light in a tomb.

The old trunks of trees rise round

Like pillars in a church of old,
And the wind fills them with a sound

As if a bell were tolled.

Where falls the noisy stream,

In many a bubble bright,
Along whose grassy margin gleam

Flowers gaudy to the sight,
There silently I stand,

Watching my angle play, And eagerly draw to the land

My speckled prey.

Oft, ere the carrion bird has left

His eyrie, the dead tree,
Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft

The cloud in heaven's blue sea,
Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds

To meet the misty day, My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,

My rod sought out its prey.

And when the Twilight, with a blush

Upon her cheek, goes by, And evening's universal hush

Fills all the darkened sky,
And steadily the tapers burn

In villages far away,
Then from the lonely stream I turn,
And from the forests gray.

OH, JUDAH!

BY PROSPER M. WETMORE.

Jerusalem mourneth.-Jeremiah.

Oh, Judah! thy dwellings are sad,

Thy children are weeping around, In sackcloth their bosoms are clad

As they look on the famishing ground; In the deserts they make them a home,

And the mountains awake to their cry; For the frown of Jehovah hath come,

And his anger is red in the sky.

Thy tender ones throng at the brink,

But the waters are gone from the well; They gaze on the rock, and they think

Of the gush of the stream from its cell; How they came to its margin before,

And drank in their innocent mirth: Away! it is sealed, and no more

Shall the fountain give freshness to earth.

The hearts of the mis are bowed,

And the lowly are haggard with care; The voices of mothers are loud,

As they shriek the wild note of despair.

Oh, Jerusalem! mourn through thy halls,

And bend to the dust in thy shame, For the doom that thy spirit appals,

Is famine, the sword, and the flame!

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS.

BY B. B. THATCHER.

Earth is the spirit's rayless cell; But then, as a bird soars home to the shade Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made,

In bonds no more to dwell ;

So will its weary wing Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done, And its breath flow free, as a bird's in the sun,

And the soft, fresh gales of spring.

O, not more sweet the tears
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the “hoary head,”

When it enters the eve of years.

Nor dearer, mid the foam
Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,
Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore,

To him that weeps for home.

Wings, like a dove, to fly! -
The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;-
O, for its home in the upper Life!

When, when will Death draw nigh!

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON,

ALL hail! thou noble land,

Our father's native soil !
O stretch thy mighty hand,

Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore:

For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright

The world o'er!

The Genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;

While the Tritons of the deep
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.

Then let the world combine-
O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky way, shall shine

Bright in fame!