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Who could endure the horrid thought!-What makes
Thy cold hand tremble? or is't mine
That feels so deathy?

Had. Dark imaginations haunt me
When I recall the dreadful interview.

Tam. O, tell them not-I would not hear them.

Had. But v;hy contemn a Spirit's love? so high,
So glorious, if he haply deigned ?-

Tam. Forswear
My Maker! love a Demon!

Had. N0—0, no—
My thoughts but wandered-Oft, alas! they wander.

Tam. Why dost thou speak so sadly now ?-and lo!
Thine eyes are fixed again upon Arcturus.
Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb,
Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power
To cause or cure thy melancholy mood ?-

[He appears lost in thought.] Tell me,

ascribʼst thou influence to the stars? Had. (starting.) The stars ! What know'st thou of the

Tam. I know that they were made to rule the night.
Had. Like palace lamps! thou echoest well thy grandsire.
Woman! the stars are living, glorious,
Amazing, infinite !

Tam. Speak not so wildly:-
I know them numberless, resplendent, set
As symbols of the countless, countless years
That make eternity.

Had. Eternity !-
Oh! mighty, glorious, miserable thought!
Had ye endured like those great sufferers,
Like them, seen ages, myriad ages roll;
Could ye but look into the void abyss
With eyes experienced, unobscured by torments,-
Then mightst thou name it, name it feelingly.

Tam. What ails thee, Hadad ?-Draw me not so close.
Had. Tamar! I need thy love—more than thy love-

Tam. Thy cheek is wet with tears—Nay, let us part'Tis late-I cannot, must not linger:

[Breaks from him, and exit.] Had. Loved and abhorred !--Still, still accursed !

[He paces, twice or thrice, up and down, with

passionate gestures ; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.]

-Oh! where,
In the illimitable space, in what
Profound of untried misery, when all
His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill
With life and beauty yonder infinite,
Their radiant journey run, for ever set,
Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning ?


Hadad's Description of the City of David.-HILLHOUSE.

'Tis so;—the hoary harper sings aright;
How beautiful is Zion !-Like a queen,
Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness,
Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass,
She sits aloft, begirt with battlements
And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard
The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,
Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods
Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses,
Wave their dark beauty round the tower of David.
Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrazures of alabaster shine;
Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah's mart with orient merchandise.
But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned,
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law
Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch,
And where the Glory hovers, here I war.


WHEN evening spreads her shades around,

And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound,

To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

* The remains and a biographical sketch of this remarkable girl were published last year by Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse. An interesting review f the volume appeared soon after in the London Quarterly : we are int When the broad orb of heaven is bright,

And looks around with golden eye ;
When Nature, softened by her light,

Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above

This world, and all this world can give,
O, sister, sing the song I love,

And tears of gratitude receive.
The song which thrills my bosom's core,

And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
0, sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing

Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,

And wafted by their breath away.

When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,

Shouldst thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,

And, sister, sing the song I love?

aware that it has been noticed in any periodical in this country. Southey has rendered himself distinguished for his attention to youthful genius. Except the cases of Chatterton and Henry Kirke White, he thinks there is no instance on record of “ so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement, as is exhibited in the history of this young lady. “In these poems, there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the friends and parents of the deceased, could have formed; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes.”

“She was peculiarly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy; she wished to hear it only at twilight ; thus, with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the windharp in the window when she was composing, seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible ; for it is said, that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost fainting; yet it was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to these verses, addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister.

“ To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses, in one place, approach the verge of meaning, but are on the wrong side of the line : to none can it be necessary to say, that they breathe the deep feeling of a mind essentially poetical.” The piece here referred to, is that extracted above. ED,

Hagar in the Wilderness.-N. P. Willis.

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were caroling a3 life
Were'a new thing to them; but, oh! it came
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed
Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out,
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long-lashes, as it had been flame.
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother's face until he caught
The spirit there, and young heart was swelling
Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigor is not there; and, though the morn

13 passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.
Oh! man may bear with suffering : his heart
Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp
Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear
One cord affection clings to, part one tie
That binds him to a woman's delicate love,
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand,
In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? O no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how, By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not.

She went her way with a strong step and slow; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed His hand till it was pained; for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning past, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,

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