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Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more-
In nature's calmest hour, he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves—puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world :
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow-men? Why, then, he deems
'Tis hate for hate :-as he, so each one seems.

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breastWhich gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.

Spring in Town.-BRYANT.
The country ever has a lagging spring,

Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses. Showers and sunshine bring

Slowly the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing birds come back;
Within the city's bounds the time of flowers

Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours,

Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May. Shine on our roofs, and chase the wintry gloomAnd, lo, our borders glow with sudden bloom. For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then

Gorgeous as are a rivulets banks in June, That, overhung with blossoms, through its glen

Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon; And they that search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.

For here are eyes that shame the violet,

Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies;
And foreheads white as when, in clusters set,

The anemonies by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie

Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled-
Thrice happy man, whose trade it is to buy,

And bake, and braid those love-nets of the world.
Who curls of every glossy color keepest,
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest !

And well thou mayst; for Italy's brown maids

Send the dark locks with which their brows are drest And Tuscan lasses from their jetty braids

Crop half to buy a ribbon for the rest;
But the fresh Norman girls their ringlets spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then henceforth let no maid or matron grieve

To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Frowzy or thin; for Vignardonne shall give

Such piles of curls as nature never knew :
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
Had blushed outdone, and owned herself a fright.

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street

Like notes of wood-birds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet

Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by ;
The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space,
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.
No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,

Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,-

A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
To Singsing and the shores of Tappan bay.
Ye that dash by in chariots, who will care

For steeds and footmen now? Ye cannot show

Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,

And last edition of the shape! Ah no; These sights are for the earth and open sky, And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

The Sabbath.-CARLOS Wilcox.

Who scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires, Emblem and earnest of eternal rest, A festival with fruits celestial crowned, A jubilee releasing him from earth, The day delights and animates the saint. It gives new vigor to the languid pulse Of life divine, restores the wandering feet, Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, Establishing them all upon a rock. Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come. To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn Seems like the first, when every thing was new. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold. In every thing a smiling God is seen. On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines. In objects overlooked On other days he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell. While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o’er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now To bring him near; for Faith performs the work; In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, With such transparent vividness, she feels

Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd
To sudden vision. Such is oft her power
In God's own house, which, in the absorbing act
Of adoration, or inspiring praise,
She with his glory fills, as once a cloud
Of radiance filled the temple's inner court.

Industry and Prayer.—CARLOS Wilcox.

TIME well employed is Satan's deadliest foe : It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend : Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer, Statues, without it in the form of guards.

The closet which the saint devotes to prayer Is not his temple only, but his tower, Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked; His armory, to which he soon retreats When danger warns, his weapons to select, And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead, When taken by surprise and half o'ercome, That, now, to venture near the hallowed place Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul Glad to impose on conscience with a show Of humble veneration, to secure Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed, It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.

The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too nea! The upper world of purity and light. He loses sight of his intended prey, In that effulgence beaming from the throne Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails To succor and preserve the tempted soul, Whose time and talents rest or run to waste. Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse A salutary savor through the day, With charities and duties not well filled. These form the links of an electric chain That join the orisons of morn and eve, And propagate through all its several parts, While kept continuous, the ethereal fire; But if a break be found, the fire is spent.

Consolations of Religion to the Poor.–PERC VAL.

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken;
She is a widow ; she is old and poor ;
Her only hope is in that sacred token
Of peaceful happiness when life is o’er;
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her beicg's night'

She lives in her affections; for the grave
Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high, to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers,—so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more
She muses on the griess of former days;
Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.

And faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her: Death will come--
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow ; all its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee:
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

Extract from the Airs of Palestine.-PIERPONT. WHERE lies our path ?—Though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all.

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