Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold:
Along the horizon castled shapes were piled,

Turrets and towers, whose fronts, embattled, gleamed
With yellow light: smit by the slanting ray,
A ruddy beam the canopy reflected;

With deeper light the ruby blushed; and thick
Upon the seraphs' wings the glowing spots
Seemed drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff,
With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung,
Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits
Cast off, upon the dewy air, huge flakes
Of golden lustre. Over all the hill,

The heavenly legions, the assembled world,
Evening her crimson tint forever drew.

Round I gazed,

'Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn,
Faded the glories of the dying day.

Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud
The solitary star of evening shone.

While gazing wistful on that peerless light,
Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft

In dreams, strange images will mix,) sad thoughts
Passed o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, Farewell,
Pale, beauteous planet, that display'st so soft,
Amid yon glowing streak, thy transient beam,
A long, a last farewell! Seasons have changed,
Ages and empires rolled, like smoke, away;
But thou, unaltered, beam'st as silver fair
As on thy birthnight. Bright and watchful eyes,
From palaces and bowers, have hailed thy gem
With secret transport. Natal star of love,
And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy,
How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray!
How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green,
Signal of rest, and social converse sweet,
Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheered
The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison!

Wyoming.-F. G. HALLECK.

"Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas."

THOU Com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last,
"On Susquehannah's side, fair Wyoming!"
Image of many a dream, in hours long past,
When life was in its bud and blossoming,
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring
Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes,
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing,

I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies,
The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

I then but dreamed: thou art before me now,

In life, a vision of the brain no more.

I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,
That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er;

And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore,
Within a bower of sycamores am laid;

And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore

The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery

With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar :
And there are tales of sad reality,

In the dark legends of thy border war,

With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are.

But where are they, the beings of the mind,

The bard's creations, moulded not of clay,

Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned

Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave-where are they?

We need not ask. The people of to-day

Appear good, honest, quiet men enough,

And hospitable too-for ready pay,-

With manners, like their roads, a little rough,

And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho' tough.

Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate,
And the town records, is the Albert now

Of Wyoming; like him, in church and state,
Her Doric column; and upon his brow

The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow,
Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain
To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow,
That stands full-uniformed upon the plain,

To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain.

For he would look particularly droll

In his "Iberian boot" and "Spanish plume,"
And be the wonder of each Christian soul,
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom.
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom,
Hath many a model here; for woman's eye,
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home,
Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high
To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper-Poesy.

There's one in the next field-of sweet sixteen-
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born
In heaven with her jacket of light green,
"Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn,
Without a shoe or stocking,-hoeing corn.
Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there,
With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne,
I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player

The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire.

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old,

Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped
Upon their day of massacre.

She told

Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept,

Whereon her father and five brothers slept

Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave,

When all the land a funeral mourning kept.

And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave,

By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave.

And on the margin of yon orchard hill

Are marks where time-worn battlements have been;

And in the tall grass traces linger still

Of" arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin."

Five hundred of her brave that Valley green

Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ;

But twenty lived to tell the noon-day scene-
And where are now the twenty? Passed away
Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day?

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,

Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power,
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently to one of gentle mould like thee,

As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom,
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.

Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.

Daybreak.-RICHARD H. Dana.

"The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window open ed towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang."—

The Pilgrim's Progress.

Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long,
In fiery armor, up the heavens high

Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song.
Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh.
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.
Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why

My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;

Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.

"Canst thou grow sad," thou say'st," as earth grows bright? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse

In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light

Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source? With creatures innocent thou must, perforce,

A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.

And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,
Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,

And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure."

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue
Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still-save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth
With discord strange, and all that man calls life.
With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife;

And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies :-
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties:

He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies.

And 'tis because man useth so amiss

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;

Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this,

Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,

From her fair face?-It is that man is mad!

Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine,

When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.

Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are thine:

While I to earth am bound:-When will the heavens be mine:

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense

Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence: