Apostrophe to the Sun.-J. G. PERCIVAL.

CENTRE of light and energy, thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,

Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown,

On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light;

Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,

And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright.

Thy path is high in heaven ;-we cannot gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar,
To mingle with the equal light of star;
For thou, so vast to us, art, in the whole,
One of the sparks of night that fire the air;
And, as around thy centre planets roll,

*

So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;
Thy light is hid,—and all things droop and mourn;
Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne ;
Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn
Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;

All, that was once so beautiful, is torn

By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake,
And, in their maddening rush, the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers, and would die, but thy return
Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow
Of all the power, that brooded in the urn

Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn
All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there

Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair

The vales are thine :—and when the touch of spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light
They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing

Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore ;

The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night,
The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er
Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore.

The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream,
That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood

Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food
Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays.

Thine are the mountains,—where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky

Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by ;—
Aloft, in thy eternal smile, they lie,

Dazzling, but cold;-thy farewell glance looks there,
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear,

Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair.

The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues
Are pencilled by thee; when thou bendest low,
Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues
Their waving folds with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw

Shame on the proudest art;

*

*

These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march;
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form, with perfect curve, a lifted line
Striding the earth and air;-man looks and tells
How peace and mercy in its beauty shine,

And how the heavenly messenger impels

Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells.

The ocean is thy vassal :-thou dost sway

His waves to thy dominion, and they go

Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Rising and falling in eternal flow;

Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And take them wings and spring aloft in air,

And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell.
O, with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,
I hurry o'er the waters when the sail

Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well
Over the curling billow, and the gale

Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

"I thought it slept."--HENRY PICKERING.

From Recollections of Childhood.

I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay,

As it was wont, within its cradle, now

Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange
Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed
Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept-

And yet its little bosom did not move!

I bent me down to look into its eyes,

But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand;
But mine it would not clasp. What should I do?
"Wake, brother, wake!" I then, impatient, cried;
Open thine eyes, and look on me again!"
He would not hear my voice. All pale beside
My weeping mother sat," and gazed and looked
Unutterable things." "Will he not wake?"
I eager asked. She answered but with tears.

Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look,

Were cast-now on the babe once more were fixed

And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh

And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,
And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said-

"My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he's dead; he never will awake."

He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad-
"He never will awake"-sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before; and tears,
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.*

The Snow-Storm.-ANONYMOUS.

THE cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night,

A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifted snows she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow-

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone-
"O God," she cried, in accents wild,

"If I must perish, save my child!”

She stripped her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapped the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by:

She lay beneath a snowy veil;

* From this little tale of unaffected, childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. It was exhibited at the National Academy in that city.

The frost of death was in her eye;

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ;-
He moved the robe from off the child;

The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

"I went and washed, and I received sight.”—NEW YORK EVENING POST.

WHEN the great Master spoke,
He touched his withered eyes,
And, at one gleam, upon him broke
The glad earth and the skies.

And he saw the city's walls,
And king's and prophet's tomb,
And arches proud, and vaulted halls,
And the temple's lofty dome.

He looked on the river's flood,

And the flash of mountain rills,

And the gentle wave of the palms, that stood
Upon Judea's hills.

He saw, on heights and plains,

Creatures of every race;

But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face.

And his virgin sight beheld

The ruddy glow of even,

And the thousand shining orbs that filled
The azure depths of heaven.

And woman's voice before

Had cheered his gloomy nigh,
But to see the angel form she wore
Made deeper the delight.

And his heart, at daylight's close,
For the bright world where he trod,
And when the yellow morning rose,
Gave speechless thanks to God.