Then think not of the mournful time And of the time when all of us THE ANGLER'S SONG. BY I. M'LELLAN, JUN. WHEN first the flame of day 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 Where falls the noisy stream, Along whose grassy margin gleam There silently I stand, Watching my angle play, And eagerly draw to the land Oft, ere the carrion bird has left Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft 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. Он, Judah! thy dwellings are sad, As they look on the famishing ground; 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 mighty are bowed, As they shriek the wild note of despair. Oh, Jerusalem! mourn through thy halls, 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," Nor dearer, mid the foam Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar, Wings, like a dove, to fly! The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;- When, when will Death draw nigh! AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ALL hail! thou noble land, Our father's native soil! O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore: The world o'er! The Genius of our clime, From his pine-embattled steep, With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. O'er the main our naval line, |