Who was with Martyn, when he breathed his last,
A martyr pale, on Asia's burning sod?
Who cheered his spirit as it onward past

From its frail house of clay ?-The hosts of God. Oh! ye who trust, when earthly toils shall cease, To find a home in heaven's unfading clime, Drink deeper at the fountain head of peace,

And cleanse your spirits for that world sublime!

The Wife.-NEW YORK DAILY ADVERTISER.

"She flung her white arms around him-Thou art
That this poor heart can cling to."

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.

I could have smiled on every blow

From Life's full quiver thrown,

While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be " alone."

I could-I think I could have brooked,
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked

With less of love than now;

For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been "alone."

But thus to see, from day to day,

Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;—
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be " alone;"-

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,

As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say,
"Earth may not claim thee longer;"
Nay, dearest; 'tis too much-this heart
Must break, when thou art gone;
It must not be; we may not part;

I could not live" alone!"

Song of the Stars.-BRYANT.

WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,
And the empty realms of darkness and death

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath,
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame,
From the void abyss, by myriads came,
In the joy of youth, as they darted away,

Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung;

And this was the song the bright ones sung:

"Away, away! through the wide, wide sky,-
The fair blue fields that before us lie,-
Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll,
Each planet, poised on her turning pole,
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white.
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

"For the Source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides.
Lo, yonder the living splendors play:

Away, on our joyous path away!

"Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,

In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass!

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!

And the path of the gentle winds is seen,

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean

"And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;

And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews;
And, twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round!

"Away, away!-in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, love is brooding, and life is born,

And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

"Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years.
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent
To the farthest wall of the firmament,—

The boundless visible smile of Him,

To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim."

Summer Evening at a short Distance from the City.ALONZO LEWIS.

AND now the city smoke begins to rise,
And spread its volume o'er the misty sea;
From school dismissed, the barefoot urchin hies
To drive the cattle from the upland lea;
With gentle pace we cross the polished beach,
And the sun sets as we our mansion reach.

Then come the social joys of summer eve,
The pleasant walk along the river-side,
What time their task the weary boatmen leave,
And little fishes from the silver tide,
Elate with joy, leap in successive springs,
And spread the wavelets in diverging rings.

High overhead the stripe-winged nighthawk soars,
With loud responses to his distant love;
And while the air for insects he explores,
In frequent swoop descending from above,
Startles, with whizzing sound, the fearful wight,
Who wanders lonely in the silent night.

Around our heads the bat, on leathern wings,
In airy circles wheels his sudden flight;
The whippoorwill, in distant forest, sings
Her loud, unvaried song; and o'er the night
The boding owl, upon the evening gale,
Sends forth her wild and melancholy wail.

The first sweet hour of gentle evening flies,
On downy pinions to eternal rest;
Along the vale the balmy breezes rise,

Fanning the languid boughs; while in the west
The last faint streaks of daylight die away,
And night and silence close the summer day.

Introduction to the Poem of" Yamoyden."-
ROBERT C. SANDS.

Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,
The last that either bard shall e'er essay :
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,
That first awoke them in a happier day:
Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,
His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay

Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honors crave; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave !

Friend of my youth! with thee began the love
Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,
'Mid classic realms of splendors past to rove,
O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;
Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams
Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage,
For ever lit by memory's twilight beams;
Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,
Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.

There would we linger oft, entranced, to hear,
O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll;
Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear,
Through Argive palaces shrill echoing stole ;
There would we mark, uncurbed by all control,
In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight;

Or hold communion with the musing soul
Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night,
In loved Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.

Homeward we turned to that fair land, but late
Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast,
Where Mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate,
And kept the key, till three millenniums past;
When, as creation's noblest work was last,
Latest, to man it was vouchsafed to see
Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast,
And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be
An empire and a home, most worthy for the free.

And here forerunners strange and meet were found
Of that blest freedom, only dreamed before ;-
Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round
Their birth and story, as the hue they bore.
"Earth was their mother;" or they knew no more,
Or would not that their secret should be told;
For they were grave and silent; and such lore,
To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold,

The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.

Kind Nature's commoners, from her they drew
Their needful wants, and learned not how to hoard;
And him whom strength and wisdom crowned they knew,
But with no servile reverence, as their lord.

And on their mountain summits they adored

One great, good Spirit, in his high abode,
And thence their incense and orisons poured

To his pervading presence, that abroad

They felt through all his works, their Father, King, and God.

And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,
The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,
Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,
They imaged spirits beautiful and good;
But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,
Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,
Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,
The angry forms they saw of powers malign;

These they besought to spare, those blessed for aid divine.