Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;
A quiet look is in each face,
Subdued and holy fear :

Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done-
Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won.

The religious Cottage.-D. HUNTINGTON,

SEEST thou yon lonely cottage in the grove,
With little garden neatly planned before,
Its roof deep shaded by the elms above,

Moss-grown, and decked with velvet verdure o'er?
Go lift the willing latch-the scene explore-
Sweet peace, and love, and joy, thou there shalt find;
For there Religion dwells; whose sacred lore
Leaves the proud wisdom of the world behind,
And pours a heavenly ray on every humble mind.

When the bright morning gilds the eastern skies,
Up springs the peasant from his calm repose;
Forth to his honest toil he cheerful hies,

And tastes the sweets of nature as he goes-
But first, of Sharon's fairest, sweetest rose,

He breathes the fragrance, and pours forth the praise;
Looks to the source whence every blessing flows,
Ponders the page which heavenly truth conveys,
And to its Author's hand commits his future ways.

Nor yet in solitude his prayers ascend;

His faithful partner and their blooming train,
The precious word, with reverent minds, attend,
The heaven-directed path of life to gain.
Their voices mingle in the grateful strain-
The lay of love and joy together sing,

To Him whose bounty clothes the smiling plain,
Who spreads the beauties of the blooming spring,

And tunes the warbling throats that make the valleys ring.

The two Homes.-ANONYMOUS.

SEEST thou my home? 'Tis where yon woods are waving, In their dark richness, to the sunny air;

Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, Leads down the hill a vein of light-'tis there.

'Mid these green haunts how many a spring lies gleaming, Fringed with the violet, colored by the skies!

My boyhood's haunts, through days of summer, dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies.

My home-the spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track;

From its white walls, the very tendrils, wreathing,
Seem, with soft links, to draw the wanderer back.

There am I loved! There prayed for! There my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye!
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother-
Soon their glad footsteps down the path would fly!
There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home voices meet at day's decline;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending-
There laughs my home-Sad stranger, where is thine?

Ask thou of mine? In solemn peace 'tis lying,
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away;

"Tis where I, too, am loved with love undying,

And fond hearts wait my step. But where are they?

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling,
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air;

I know it not, yet trust the whisper telling

My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there.

And what is home? and where but with the living?
Happy thou art, and so canst gaze on thine :
My spirit feels, but in its weary roving,

That with the dead-where'er they be-is mine.

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother;
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene:
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother,

I will believe-but dark seas roll between.

To a Sister.-EDWARD EVERETT.

YES, dear one, to the envied train
Of those around thy homage pay;
But wilt thou never kindly deign
To think of him that's far away?
Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile,
For many years I may not see;
But wilt thou not sometimes the while,
My sister dear, remember me?

But not in Fashion's brilliant hall,
Surrounded by the gay and fair,
And thou the fairest of them all,-

O, think not, think not of me there.
But when the thoughtless crowd is gone,
And hushed the voice of senseless glee,
And all is silent, still and lone,

And thou art sad, remember me.

Remember me--but, loveliest, ne'er,
When, in his orbit fair and high,
The morning's glowing charioteer
Rides proudly up the blushing sky;
But when the waning moon-beam sleeps
At moon-light on that lonely lea,
And nature's pensive spirit weeps
In all her dews, remember me.

Remember me, I pray-but not
In Flora's gay and blooming hour,
When every brake hath found its note,
And sunshine smiles in every flower;
But when the falling leaf is sear,
And withers sadly from the tree,
And o'er the ruins of the year

Cold Autumn weeps, remember me.

Remember me--but choose not, dear,
The hour when, on the gentle lake,
The sportive wavelets, blue and clear,
Soft rippling, to the margin break;
But when the deaf'ning billows foam
In madness o'er the pathless sea,

Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam
Across them, and remember me.

Remember me-but not to join

If haply some thy friends should praise; 'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine

To echo what the stranger says.
They know us not-but shouldst thou meet
Some faithful friend of me and thee,

Softly, sometimes, to him repeat

My name, and then remember me.

Remember me-not, I entreat,

In scenes of festal week-day joy, For then it were not kind or meet,

Thy thought thy pleasure should alloy;

But on the sacred, solemn day,

And, dearest, on thy bended knee, When thou for those thou lov'st dost pray, Sweet spirit, then remember me.

Remember me--but not as I

On thee forever, ever dwell,

With anxious heart and drooping eye,

And doubts 'twould grieve thee should I tell;

But in thy calm, unclouded heart,

Where dark and gloomy visions flee,

Oh there, my sister, be my part,

And kindly there remember me.

To the Moon.-WALSH'S NATIONAL GAZETTE

WHEN the gross cares of daylight end,
And selfish passions cease to be,
How will the exulting thought ascend
Bright mystery, to thee!

Distant and calm, the spirit land,

To which is breathed hope's fondest prayer;

Where seraph's wings their hues expand,
And harpings charm the air.

O, glorious is the rising sun,
Pavilioned in his blushing glow,
When fairy winds have just begun
To wake the flowers below;

Or shrined amid the western gold,
While evening's balmy odors rise,
And fancy can almost behold

The elysium of the skies.

Yet far surpassing the bright dawn
Of purple sunset is thy power;
For death's dim veil is half withdrawn
At thy presiding hour.

Affection seeks, in thy calm sphere,
The soul beyond life's stormy sea;
And minds too pure to sorrow here,
Fair planet, dwell with thee.

The bright stars shine around the throne,
The lonely ocean greets thy ray;
Air, sea, and earth,-all seem to own
Thy spiritual sway.

My native Land—My native Place.-ANONYMOUS.

My thoughts are in my native land,
My heart is in my native place,
Where willows bend to breezes bland,
And kiss the river's rippling face;

Where sunny shrubs disperse their scent,
And raise their blossoms high to heaven,
As if in calm acknowledgment

For brilliant hues and virtues given.

My thoughts are with my youthful days,
Where sin and grief were but a name;
When every field had golden ways,

And pleasure with the day-light came.