Where lies our path ?-A poet, and inquire

What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre?
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow;
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow;
There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers;
Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers,
Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides.
Your theme is MUSIC;-Yonder rolls the wave,
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave,
Enchanted by his lyre :-Citharon's shade
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth,
Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth.
And fast by Hæmus, Thracian Hebrus creeps
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps,
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along,
Was still melodious, and expired in song.
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell;
There be thy path-for there the muses dwell.
No, no-a lonelier, lovelier path be mine;
Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine.
There purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow.
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm ;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;

I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse:

In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,

And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.
Here arching vines their leafy banner spread,

Shake their green shields, and purple odors shed,
At once repelling Syria's burning ray,

And breathing freshness on the sultry day.

Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing,
Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring;
And here, as musing on my theme divine,-
I gather flowers to bloom along my line,
And hang my garlands in festoons around,

Inwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound;
And fondly, warmly, humbly hope the Power,
That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower,
Drew living water from this rocky shrine,
Purpled the clustering honors of the vine,
And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither,

To weave a garland, will not let it wither;-
Wond'ring, I listen to the strain sublime,

That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time,
Wafted in grand simplicity along,

The undying breath, the very soul of song.

On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh.-
BRAINARD.

"The spider's most attenuated thread

Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie

On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze."

ANOTHER! 'tis a sad word to the heart,
That one by one has lost its hold on life,
From all it loved or valued, forced to part
In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife
That cuts at once and kills: its tortured strife
Is with distilled affliction, drop by drop

Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife
With grief and sorrow: all that we would prop,

Or would be propped with, falls; when shall the ruin stop!

The sea has one, and Palestine has one,

And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid
Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone,
And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid—
And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid,
Turn to some other monument-nor know

Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read;
Whose loved and honored relics lie below;
Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo.

There is a world of bliss hereafter-else
Why are the bad above, the good beneath
The green grass of the grave? The Mower fells
Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe
(When he his desolating blade shall sheathe,
And rest him from his work) in a pure sky,

Above the smoke of burning worlds;-and Death
On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie,

When Time, with all his years and centuries, has passed by.

From "The Minstrel Girl."-JAMES G. WHITTIER.

AGAIN 'twas evening.-Agnes knelt,
Pale, passionless,-a sainted one :
On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt
The last beams of the setting sun.
Alone-the damp and cloistered wall
Was round her like a sepulchre;
And at the vesper's mournful call
Was bending every worshipper.
She knelt-her knee upon the stone-
Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye,
As it were sin to gaze upon

The changes of the changeful sky.
It seemed as if a sudden thought

Of her enthusiast moments came
With the bland eve--and she had sought
To stifle in her heart the flame

Of its awakened memory:

She felt she might not cherish, then,
The raptures of a spirit, free

And passionate as hers had been,
When its sole worship was, to look
With a delighted eye abroad;
And read, as from an open book,
The written languages of God.

How changed she kneels!-the vile, gray hood,
Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair;
And where the jewelled silk hath flowed,
Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire.

And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul,
Which, all unfit for Nature's gladness,
Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl,
And drain with joy its draught of madness?
Read ye the secret, who have nursed
In your own hearts intenser feelings,
Which stole upon ye, at the first,

Like bland and musical revealings

From some untrodden Paradise,

Until your very soul was theirs;
And from their maddening ecstasies

Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers.

But she is sometimes happy now-
And yet her happiness is not
Such as the buoyant heart may know-
And it is blended with her lot
To chasten every smile with tears,

And look on life with tempered gladness, That, undebased by human fears,

Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness, Like sunshine on the falling rain,

Or as the moonlight on the cloud;-
Nor would she mingle once again
With life's unsympathising crowd;—
But, yielding up to earnest prayer
Life's dark and mournful residue,
She waiteth for her summons where
The pure in heart their faith renew.

The Torn Hat.-N. P. WILLIS.

THERE'S Something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,

His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all-

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now-
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,

And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there-
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace,
Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on these golden wings
Which time has fettered now-

Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,

And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,

That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess-

When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high-
How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all;
And on its silent wing,

How with the clouds he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!

The Memory of the Just is blessed.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THOU too, blest Raikes-philanthropist divine-
Who, all unconscious what thy hands had done,
Didst plant that germ, whose glorious fruit shall shine
When from his throne doth fall yon darkened sun,-

The Sabbath bell, the Teacher's hallowed lore,
The countless throng from childhood's snares set free,

Who in sweet strains the Sire of Heaven adore,
Shall point in solemn gratitude to thee