"Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past."
AGAIN September's golden day,
Serenely still, intensely bright,
Fades on the umber'd hills away,

And melts into the coming night.
Again Moshassuck's silver tide
Reflects each green herb on its side,
Each tassell'd wreath and tangling vine
Whose tendrils o'er its margin twine.
And, standing on its velvet shore,

Where yesternight with thee I stood,
I trace its devious course once more,

Far winding on through vale and wood.
Now glimmering through yon golden mist,
By the last glinting sunbeams kiss'd,
Now lost where lengthening shadows fall
From hazel-copse and moss-fringed wall.
Near where yon rocks the stream inurn
The lonely gentian blossoms still,
Still wave the star-flower and the fern
O'er the soft outline of the hill;
While far aloft, where pine trees throw
Their shade athwart the sunset glow,
Thin vapours cloud the illumined air,
And parting daylight lingers there.
But, ah, no longer thou art near

This varied loveliness to see,
And I, though fondly lingering here,

To-night can only think on thee;-
The flowers thy gentle hand caress'd
Still lie unwither'd on my breast,
And still thy footsteps print the shore
Where thou and I may rove no more.
Again I hear the murmuring fall

Of water from some distant dell,
The beetle's hum, the cricket's call,

And, far away, that evening bell,—
Again, again those sounds I hear,
But, O, how desolate and drear
They seem to-night-how like a knell
The music of that evening bell.
Again the new moon in the west,
Scarce seen upon yon golden sky,
Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest
With one pale planet trembling nigh,—
And beautiful her pearly light

As when we bless'd its beams last night,
But thou art on the far blue sea,

And I can only think of thee.

* Mrs. WHITMAN, formerly Miss POWER, is a native of Providence, Rhode Island, in which city she now resides.

Others are gazing

REVEREND BENJAMIN D. WINSLOW.*

THE LOVER STUDENT.

WITH a burning brow and weary limb,
From the parting glance of day,
The student sits in his study dim,

Till the east with dawn is gray;

But what are those musty tomes to him?
His spirit is far away.

He seeks, in fancy, the hall of light

Where his lady leads the dance,

Where the festal bowers are gleaming bright,
Lit up by her sunny glance;

And he thinks of her the livelong night-
She thinketh of him-perchance!

Yet many a gallant knight is by,

To dwell on each gushing tone,

To drink the smile of that love-lit eye,

Which should beam on him alone;

To woo with the vow, the glance and sigh,
The heart that he claims his own.
The student bends o'er the snowy page,
And he grasps his well-worn pen,
That he may write him a lesson sage,
To read to the sons of men ;
But softer lessons his thoughts engage,
And he flings it down again.

The student's orisons must arise
At the vesper's solemn peal,
So he gazeth up to the tranquil skies,
Which no angel forms reveal,
But an earthly seraph's laughing eyes
Mid his whisper'd prayers will steal.

In vain his spirit would now recur
To his little study dim,

In vain the notes of the vesper stir
In the cloister cold and grim;

Through the livelong night he thinks of her-
Doth his lady think of him?

Then up he looks to the clear, cold moon,
But no calm to him she brings;
His troubled spirit is out of tune,
And loosen'd its countless strings;
Yet, in the quiet of night's still noon,
To his lady-love he sings:

"Thou in thy bower,
And I in my cell,
Through each festal hour
Divided must dwell;
Yet we're united,

Though forms are apart,
Since love's vows plighted
Have bound us in heart.
"Proud sons of fashion
Now murmur to thee
Accents of passion,

All treason to me;

The "Sermons and Poetical Remains of the Reverend B. D. WINSLOW," edited by Bishop DOANE, were pub. lished in 1841. He died in 1840, in the twenty-fifth year of his age.

On that glance divine, Others are praising

Are their words like mine?

"Heed not the wooer

With soft vows express'd,
One heart beats truer-
Thou know'st in whose breast.
To him thou hast spoken
Words not lightly told;
His heart would be broken

If thine should grow cold!
"The stars faintly glimmer
And fade into day,
This taper burns dimmer
With vanishing ray';
O, never thus fading,

May fortune grow pale,
With sorrow-clouds shading,
Or plighted faith fail!
"Hush, my wild numbers!
Dawn breaketh above-
Soft be thy slumbers,
Adieu to thee, love!
Sad vigils keeping,

I think upon thee,
And dream of thee sleeping,
My own MELANIE!"

C. G. EASTMAN.*

A MID-SUMMER DAY SCENE.

THE farmer sat in his easy chair,

Smoking his pipe of clay,

While his hale old wife, with busy care,
Was clearing the dinner away;

A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,
On her grandfather's knee was catching the flies.
The old man placed his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face,

He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat long ago in that place!

As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,
"Don't smoke," said the child, "how it makes you

cry!"

The house-dog slumber'd upon the floor,

Where the sun, after noon, would steal;
The busy old wife, by the open door,

Was turning the spinning-wheel;
And the old brass clock on the mantletree,
Had plodded along to almost three;
Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,

While close to his heaving breast
The moisten'd brow and the head so fair
Of his dear grandchild were press'd.
His frosty locks mid her soft hair lay-
Fast asleep were they both, on that summer day!

Mr. EASTMAN, the author of "Lyrical, and other Poems," is a native of Vermont, and now conducts "The Spirit of the Age" newspaper, at Woodstock, in that

state.

EPHRAIM PEABODY.*

LAKE ERIE.

THESE lovely shores! how lone and still

A hundred years ago,

The unbroken forest stood above,

The waters dash'd below:

The waters of a lonely sea,
Where never sail was furl'd,
Embosom'd in a wilderness,
Which was itself a world.

A hundred years! go back; and lo!
Where, closing in the view,

Juts out the shore, with rapid oar
Darts round a frail canoe.-
"Tis a white voyager, and see,
His prow is westward set

O'er the calm wave: hail to thy bold,
World-seeking bark, MARQUETTE !

The lonely bird, that picks his food

Where rise the waves, and sink,

At their strange coming, with shrill scream,
Starts from the sandy brink;
The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky,
Floats o'er on level wing,

And the savage from his covert looks,
With arrow on the string.

A hundred years are past and gone,
And all the rocky coast

Is turreted with shining towns,
An empire's noble boast.
And the old wilderness is changed
To cultured vale and hill;

And the circuit of its mountains
An empire's numbers fill.

THE BACKWOODSMAN.

THE silent wilderness for me!

Where never sound is heard, Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot, And the flitting wing of bird, Or its low and interrupted note,

And the deer's quick, crackling tread, And the swaying of the forest boughs, As the wind moves overhead.

Alone, (how glorious to be free!)

My good dog at my side, My rifle hanging in my arm, I range the forests wide. And now the regal buffalo

Across the plains I chase;

Now track the mountain stream, to find
The beaver's lurking place.

I stand upon the mountain's top,
And (solitude profound!)

Not even a woodman's smoke curls up
Within the horizon's bound.

*Mr. PEABODY is an Unitarian clergyman. He is a native of New Hampshire, and has resided several years in the western states.

Below, as o'er its ocean breadth
The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves
Is glancing in the sun.

I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,
And this imperial domain-

This kingdom-all is mine.

This bending heaven, these floating clouds,
Waters that ever roll,

And wilderness of glory, bring
Their offerings to my soul.

My palace, built by God's own hand,
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,

Pillar'd and roof'd with green.
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences,
My festal lamps are stars.

Though when in this, my lonely home,
My star-watch'd couch I press,

I hear no fond "good-night"-think not
I am companionless.

O, no! I see my father's house,

The hill, the tree, the stream,
And the looks and voices of my home
Come gently to my dream.

And in these solitary haunts,
While slumbers every tree
In night and silence, Gon himself
Seems nearer unto me.

I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;
And as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hush'd in prayer.

JOHN M. HARNEY, M. D.*

ON A FRIEND.

DEVOUT, yet cheerful; pious, not austere;
To others lenient, to himself severe;
Though honour'd, modest; diffident, though praised;
The proud he humbled, and the humble raised;
Studious, yet social; though polite, yet plain;
No man more learned, yet no man less vain.
His fame would universal envy move,
But envy's lost in universal love.

That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt,
Yet certain 'tis we ne'er have found them out.

If faults he has, (as man, 'tis said, must have,)
They are the only faults he ne'er forgave.

I flatter not absurd to flatter where
Just praise is fulsome, and offends the ear.

* Doctor HARNEY, I believe, was a native of Kentucky. His principal poetical work, “Crystalina, a Fairy Tale," was published in New York in 1816. He was the author of several other poems, the best known of which is "The Fever Dream."

SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH.*

THE HUMA.†

FLY on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on-nor seek a place of rest

In the home of "care-worn things;"
"Twould dim the light of thy shining crest
And thy brightly burnish'd wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.
The fields of upper air are thine,

Thy place where stars shine free;

I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.

I would never wander, bird, like thee,
So near this place again,

With wing and spirit once light and free,

They should wear no more the chain With which they are bound and fetter'd here, Forever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird,
Hopes as thy plumage gay;

Our air is with them forever stirr'd,
But still in air they stay.

And happiness, like thee, fair one,
Is ever hovering o'er,

But rests in a land of brighter sun,

On a waveless, peaceful shore,

And stoops to lave her weary wings

Where the fount of "living waters" springs.

He came too late!-Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;

Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorn'd the offering of a heart
Which linger'd on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late!-At once he felt
That all his power was o'er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had pass'd away,

Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

Mrs. SMITH was born at Detroit, in June, 1811. Her maiden name was HICKMAN. In 1828 she was married to the late SAMUEL JENKS SMITH, then editor of a literary journal in Providence. A collection of her poems was published in that city in 1830. She died in February, 1832.

A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air and never touch the ground.

Miss BOGART, of New York, is a daughter of the late Reverend Doctor BOGART, of that city. Her poems have been published under the signature of "ESTELLE.'

He came too late!-The subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,

Not by offence of spoken words,

But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdain'd his tardy vow,
And coldly turn'd away.

He came too late!-Her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;

No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,
Nor in his whisper'd tone.

And when, with word and smile he tried
Affection still to prove,

She nerved her heart with woman's pride, And spurn'd his fickle love.