And long upon these ancient hills,
By glory's light enshrined,
May rise the dwellings of the free,
The city of the mind.

SEBA SMITH.

THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOWSTORM.

"In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snowstorm in the nighttime, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing."

THE Cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,

And mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wander'd with her child:
As through the drifting snow she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow:

Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was gone: "Oh, God!" she cried, in accents wild,

"If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripp'd her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapp'd the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss one tear she shed,
And sunk upon her snowy bed.

At dawn a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil;
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale;
He moved the robe from off the child,
The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled!

NEHEMIAH CLEAVELAND.

AN AIR-CHATEAU.

How beauteous in the glowing west,
Those thousand-tinted isles that float;
On the broad sea of light they rest,
Or pass to lovelier realms remote.
Methinks it were a bliss to roam
Where those far fields in beauty lie;
Methinks there were a welcome home
In the soft clime of yonder sky.
On some bright, sunny cloud, I'd build
My palace in the verge of heaven;
On marble fix it firm, and gild

Its cornices with gold of even.

From amethystine beds I'd draw

My blocks to shape its swelling dome; Here should you trace the old Doric law, There the Corinthian grace of Rome.

In avenues of enchanting sweep,

Broad oaks and towering elms should stand; Blue lakes in placid stillness sleep,

And currents roll o'er silver sand.

Perchance, to animate the scene,
Beyond the reach of art and gold,
Some spirit, whose seraphic mien
Should wear no trace of earthly mould,
Crowning each hope, might cheer my eyes
With beauty, and with love my heart,
And to my sky-hung Paradise

Its last and loveliest charm impart.

The day, with her, more calm, more bright,
Would flit on silken wing away;

With her, the dark and drowsy night
Seem soft and cheerful as the day.

Pensive we'd rove where scarce a ray
Pierces the dun o'erhanging shade,
Or, arm in arm, delighted stray

Through flowery lawn and emerald glade.
The joys of high, soul-kindling thought;
Sweet converse at the twilight hour;
The pleasures of a life, untaught
To pant for wealth or sigh for power;
The calm delights of letter'd ease;
Of virtuous toil the peaceful rest:
Who finds his bliss in such as these,
How truly wise, how deeply bless'd!
Of joy, on earth or in the skies,

But one perennial spring is found;
Deep in the soul that fountain lies,
And flowers of Eden fringe it round.

WILLIAM D. GALLAHER.

AUGUST.

"The quiet August noon has come;
A slumberous silence fills the sky;
The winds are still, the trees are dumb,
In glassy sleep the waters lie."

DUST on thy mantle! dust,

Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!
A tarnish, as of rust,

Dimmeth thy brilliant sheen :

BRYANT.

And the young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower, Change cometh o'er them with every hour.

These hath the August sun

Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face: And still and lazily run,

Scarce whispering in their pace,

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.
Flame-like, the long midday,

With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd
The down upon the spray,
Where rests the panting bird,

Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

Seeds in the sultry air,

And gossamer webwork on the sleeping trees!
E'en the tall pines, that rear

Their plumes to catch the breeze,
The slightest breeze from the unfruitful West,
Partake the general languor and deep rest.
Happy, as man may be,

Stretch'd on his back, in homely beanvine bower, While the voluptuous bee

Robs each surrounding flower,

And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast,
The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.

Against the mazy sky,

Motionless rests the thin and fleecy cloud,
LEE, such have met thine eye,
And such thy canvass crowd!

And, painter, ere it from thy easel goes,
With the sky's light, and shade, and warmth it glows.
Thy pencil, too, can give
Form to the glowing images that throng
The poet's brain, and live

For ever in his song.

Glory awaits thee, gifted one! and Fame
High in Art's temple shall inscribe thy name.
Soberly, in the shade,

Repose the patient cow and toilworn ox;
Or in the shoal stream wade,
Shelter'd by jutting rocks:

The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush.
Slow, now, along the plain,

Creeps the cool shade, and on the meadow's edge;
The kine are forth again,

The bird flits in the hedge;

Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun.
Welcome, mild eve! the sultry day is done.
Pleasantly comest thou,

Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass;
And the curled cornblades bow

As the light breezes pass,

That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land.

So to the thirsting soul

Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love;
And the scathed heart, made whole,
Turneth in joy above,

To where the spirit freely may expand,
And rove untrammell'd in that "better land."

[Euphas, a young Roman and a Christian, appears before Piso, a persecutor of the Christians at Rome, to demand the liberation of his father Thraseno, who is in prison on account of his faith. He informs him that Paulus, the son of Piso, who had become enamoured of Miriam, the sister of Euphas, is in the hands of the Christians, and proposes to give him up in exchange for Thraseno. The dialogue thus proceeds: Euphas. LET me but die First of thy victims