So, in the world to follow this,

May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all here!

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

Two swallows, having flown into church during divine service, were apostrophized in the following stanzas.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,
Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.

Or if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

"Twere heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed,
And nature's own great God adore.

EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

THE INDIAN'S BRIDE.

WHY is that graceful female here,
With yon red hunter of the deer?
Of gentle mien and shape, she seems
For civil halls design'd,
Yet with the stately savage walks
As she were of his kind.

Look on her leafy diadem,
Enrich'd with many a floral gem;
Those simple ornaments about
Her candid brow, disclose
The loitering Spring's last violet,
And Summer's earliest rose;
But not a flower lies breathing there,
Sweet as herself, or half so fair.
Exchanging lustre with the sun,
A part of day she strays;
A glancing, living, human smile,
On nature's face she plays.
Can none instruct me what are these
Companions of the lofty trees?

Intent to blend with his her lot,

Fate form'd her all that he was not;

And as by mere unlikeness thoughts
Associate we see,

Their hearts from very difference caught
A perfect sympathy.
The household goddess here to be
Of that one dusky votary,

She left her pallid countrymen,
An earthling most divine,

And sought in this sequester'd wood
A solitary shrine.

Behold them roaming hand in hand,
Like night and sleep, along the land;
Observe their movements: he for her
Restrains his active stride,

While she assumes a bolder gait
To ramble at his side:

Thus, even as the steps they frame,
Their souls fast alter to the same.
The one forsakes ferocity,

And momently grows mild;
The other tempers more and more
The artful with the wild.

She humanizes him, and he
Educates her to liberty.

Oh, say not they must soon be old,

Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold! Yet envy I that sylvan pair

More than my words express,

The singular beauty of their lot,

And seeming happiness.

They have not been reduced to share

The painful pleasures of despair :

Their sun declines not in the sky,

Nor are their wishes cast,
Like shadows of the afternoon,
Repining towards the past:

With naught to dread or to repent,
The present yields them full content.

In solitude there is no crime;
Their actions are all free,
And passion lends their way of life
The only dignity;

And how should they have any cares?
Whose interest contends with theirs?

The world, or all they know of it,
Is theirs for them the stars are lit;
For them the earth beneath is green,
The heavens above are bright:
For them the moon doth wax and wane,
And decorate the night;

For them the branches of those trees
Wave music in the vernal breeze;
For them upon that dancing spray
The free bird sits and sings,

And glitt'ring insects flit about
Upon delighted wings;

For them that brook, the brakes among,
Murmurs its small and drowsy song;
For them the many-colour'd clouds
Their shapes diversify,

And change at once, like smiles and frowns,
Th' expression of the sky.
For them and by them all is gay,
And fresh and beautiful as they:
The images their minds receive,
Their minds assimilate,

To outward forms imparting thus
The glory of their state.

Could aught be painted otherwise

Than fair, seen through her star-bright eyes?

He too, because she fills his sight,

Each object falsely sees;

The pleasure that he has in her

Makes all things seem to please,

And this is love; and it is life
They lead, that Indian and his wife.

MEMORY.

How feels the guiltless dreamer, who

With idly curious gaze

Has let his mind's glance wander through The relics of past days?

As feels the pilgrim that has scann'd,

Within their skirting wall,

The moonlit marbles of some grand
Disburied capital;

Masses of whiteness and of gloom,
The darkly bright remains
Of desolate palace, empty tomb,
And desecrated fanes:

For in the ruins of old hours,
Remembrance haply sees
Temples, and tombs, and palaces,
Not different from these.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

MIDNIGHT was on the mighty deep,
And darkness filled the boundless sky,
While mid the raging wind was heard
The sea-bird's mournful cry;

For tempest clouds were mustering wrath
Across the seaman's trackless path.

It came at length: one fearful gust
Rent from the mast the shivering sail,
And drove the helpless bark along,
The plaything of the gale,

While fearfully the lightning's glare
Fell on the pale brows gather'd there,