See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS, BY LONGFELLOW.

INTO the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions

Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

O Land O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed,
Into the Silent Land!

ODE. Collins.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck the hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

TO OUR ELDEST HEIR. Mrs. Henry Coleridge.

DEEM not that our eldest heir
Wins too much of love and care;
What a parent's heart can spare,
Who can measure truly?
Early crops were never found
To exhaust that fertile ground,
Still with riches 't will abound,
Ever springing newly.

See in yonder plot of flowers
How the tallest lily towers,

Catching beams and kindly showers

Which the heavens are shedding.

While the younger plants below
Less of sun and breezes know,
Till beyond the shade they grow,

High and richly spreading.

She that latest leaves the nest,
Little fledgling much carest,
Is not therefore loved the best,

Though the most protected;
Nor the gadding, daring child,
Oft reproved for antics wild,
Of our tenderness beguiled,

Or in thought neglected.

'Gainst the islet's rocky shore
Waves are beating evermore,

Yet with blooms it 's scattered o'er,
Decked in softest lustre ;

Nature favors it no less

Than the guarded, still recess,
Where the birds for shelter press,
And the harebells cluster.

EARTH, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother

Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, Golden ear and clustered wreath.

These to swell with strength and beauty Is the royal task of man;

Man's a king, his throne is Duty, `

Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,
All from dust receive their birth.

Barn, and mill, and wine-vat's treasures,
Earthly goods for earthly lives,
These are Nature's ancient pleasures,
These her child from her derives.

What the dream, but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
'T is our stored and ample dwelling,
'Tis from it the skies we see.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade, -
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness,
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

HELLVELLYN. -- Sir W. Scott.

In 1805, a young gentleman, who was fond of wandering amidst the romantic scenery of the "Lake District," in the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland, in England, lost his way on the Hellvellyn Mountains, and perished there. Three months afterwards his remains were found, guarded by a faithful terrier-dog, the sole companion of his rambles.

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge* round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Catchedicam* its left verge was defending,
One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou num

ber,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;

*Hills in the Lake District.