I bent the rushes to my feet,

And sought the water's silent flow,
I moved along the thin ice fleet,
Nor thought upon the death below.

I culled the violet in the dell,

Whose wild-rose gave a chequered shade,
And listened to each village bell,

So sweet by answering echo made.

In God's own house, on God's own day,
In neat attire, I bent the knee;
Pure sense of duty made me pray-
Joy made me join the melody.

Thus Memory, from her treasured urn,
Shakes o'er the mind her spring like rain:
Thus scenes turn up and palely burn,
Like night-lights in the ocean's train.

And still my soul shall these command,
While sorrow writes upon my face;
My thoughts are on my native land,
My heart is in my native place.

"Awake, Psaltery and Harp; I myself will awake early.” Psalms.-ANONYMOUS.

WAKE, when the mists of the blue mountains sleeping,
Like crowns of glory, in the distance lie ;-

When breathing from the south, o'er young buds sweeping,
The gale bears music through the sunny sky;—
While lake and meadow, upland, grove and stream,

Rise like the glory of an Eden dream.

Wake while unfettered thoughts, like treasures springing,
Bid the heart leap within its prison-cell ;-

As birds and brooks through the pure air are flinging
The mellow chant of their beguiling spell;-
When earliest winds their anthems have begun,
And, incense-laden, their sweet journeys run,

Then, Psaltery, and Harp, a tone awaken,
Whereto the echoing bosom shall reply,
As earth's rich scenes, by shadowy night forsaken,
Unfold their beauty to the filling eye;-
When, like the restless breeze, or wild-bird's lay,
Pure thoughts, on dove-like pinions, float away.

Wake then, too, man, when, from refreshing slumber,
And thy luxurious couch, thou dost arise,

Thanks for life's golden gifts-a countless numberCalm dreams, and soaring hopes, and summer skies; Wake!-let thy heart's fine chords be touched in praise, For the free spirit of undying Grace!

Isaiah xxxv.-BRAINARD.

A ROSE shall bloom in the lonely place,
A wild shall echo with sounds of joy,
For heaven's own gladness its bounds shall grace,
And forme angelic their songs employ.

And Lebanon's cedars shall rustle their boughs,
And fan their leaves in the scented air;
And Carmel and Sharon shall pay their vows,
And shout, for the glory of God is there.

O say to the fearful, Be strong of heart;
He comes in vengeance, but not for thee;
For thee He comes, his might to impart

To the trembling hand and the feeble knee

The blind shall see, the deaf shall hear,

The dumb shall raise their notes for Him,
The lame shall leap like the unharmed deer,
And the thirsty shall drink of the holy stream.

And the parched ground shall become a pool,
And the thirsty land a dew-washed mead;
And where the wildest beasts held rule,
The harmless of His fold shall feed.

There is a way, and a holy way,

Where the unclean foot shall never tread,

But from it the lowly shall not stray,
To it the penitent shall be led.

No lion shall rouse him from his lair,
Nor wild beast raven in foaming rage;
But the redeemed of the earth shall there
Pusue their peaceful pilgrimage.

The ransomed of God shall return to him
With a chorus of joy to an angel's lay;
With a tear of grief shall no eye be dim,
For sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

On listening to a Cricket.-ANDREWS NORTON.

I LOVE, thou little chirping thing,

To hear thy melancholy noise;

Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing
Of summer past and fading joys.

Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers,
Nor sport along the traveller's path,

But, through the winter's weary hours,
Shall warm thee at my lonely hearth.

And when my lamp's decaying beam
But dimly shows the lettered page,
Rich with some ancient poet's dream,
Or wisdom of a purer age,-

Then will I listen to thy sound,
And, musing o'er the embers pale,
With whitening ashes strewed around,
The forms of memory unveil;

Recall the many colored dreams,
That Fancy fondly weaves for youth,
When all the bright illusion seems
The pictured promises of truth;

Perchance, observe the fitful light,

And its faint flashes round the room,

And think some pleasures, feebly bright,
May lighten thus life's varied gloom.

I love the quiet midnight hour,

When Care, and Hope, and Passion sleep,
And Reason, with untroubled power,
Can her late vigils duly keep ;-

I love the night: and sooth to say,
Before the merry birds, that sing
In all the glare and noise of day,

Prefer the cricket's grating wing.

But, see! pale Autumn strews her leaves, Her withered leaves, o'er Nature's grave, While giant Winter she perceives,

Dark rushing from his icy cave;

And in his train the sleety showers,
That beat upon the barrer earth;

Thou, cricket, through these weary hours,
Shalt warm thee at my lonely hearth.

March.-BRYANT

THE stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again,

The glad and glorious sun dost bring,

And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,

When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

And the full springs, from frost set free,"
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But in thy sternest frown abides

A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.

April.-LONGFELLOW.

WHEN the warm sun, that brings.
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-in of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould

The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives:
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song

Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along

The forest openings.

And when bright sunset fills

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws