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If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life;

If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss

Of brethren gone to that far distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike,—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid
Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes;
And in her simple song there seems to gush
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth

Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch
Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender'twig,
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of Autumn, when the corn
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field,
And the gay company of reapers bind

The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree
Close at the corn-field edge.

Lone whippoorwill,
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.
Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out,
And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes
His lodging in the wilderness of woods,

And lifts his anthem when the world is still:
And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man
And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews
To the red roses and the herbs, doth find
No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush
And the green, roving linnet are at rest,

And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased
Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.

Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines
The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge
Is seldom visited by human foot,

The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath silence of the wilderness:

And you may find her by some reedy pool,

Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock,
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.

Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.

How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down,
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;

And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.

And now, would'st thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth,
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

31

Sentimental Music.-F. G. HALLECK.

SOUNDS as of far off bells came on his ears;
He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres ;
He was mistaken; it was no such thing;

'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band. He muttered, as he lingered, listening,

Something of freedom, and our happy land; Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song,—his saddest, and his last:"Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream. And there are angel voices heard, In childhood's frolic hours, When life is but an April day, Of sunshine and of flowers.

"There's music in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there,
And in the laugh of forest girls
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird that drinks the dew
From violets of the spring,
Has music in his song, and in

The fluttering of his wing.

"There's music in the dash of waves,

When the swift bark cleaves their foam;
There's music heard upon her deck-
The mariner's song of home-

When moon and star-beams, smiling, meet,
At midnight, on the sea;

And there is music once a week

In Scudder's balcony.

"But the music of young thoughts too soon Is faint, and dies away,

And from our morning dreams we wake

To curse the coming day.

And childhood's frolic hours are brief,

And oft, in after years,

Their memory comes to chill the heart,

And dim the eye with tears.

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To-day the forest leaves are green;

They'll wither on the morrow,

And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long,
To the widow's wail of sorrow.
Come with the winter snows, and ask

Where are the forest birds;

The answer is a silent one,

More eloquent than words.

"The moonlight music of the waves

In storms is heard no more,

When the livid lightning mocks the wreck
At midnight on the shore;

And the mariner's song of home has ceased-
His corse is on the sea;

And music ceases, when it rains,

In Scudder's balcony."

The Silk-Worm.-MRS. HALE.

THERE is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to draw this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

I saw a fair young girl-her face

Was sweet as dream of cherished friendJust at the age when childhood's grace And maiden softness blend.

A silk-worm in her hand she laid;
Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred;
But gayly with her charge she played,
As 'twere a nestling bird.

She raised it to her dimpled cheek,
And let it rest and revel there:
O, why for outward beauty seek!
Love makes its favorites fair.

That worm-I should have shrunk, in truth, To feel the reptile o'er me move,

But, loved by innocence and youth,
I deemed it worthy love.

Would we, I thought, the soul imbue,
In early life, with sympathies
For every harmless thing, and view
Such creatures forined to please,—

And, when with usefulness combined,
Gives them our love and gentle care,-
O, we might have a world as kind
As God has made it fair!

There is no form upon our earth,

That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to call this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

The Reverie. Written from College on the Birth-Day of the Author's Mother.-FRISBIE.

No lights! they break the spell ;—away!
Let Fancy have her wildest play,
And, by the woodfire's cheery gleam,
Sit musing on her favorite theme,-
The dear domestic group, that meet,
This happy day, once more to greet,
With heartfelt warmth, and honest glee,
And infantile festivity.

O, as yon mirror's polished frame
Catches by fits the dying flame,
And indistinctly shows the moon
Half-shrouded in a glimmering gloom,-
O, could some wizard wave his wand,
And show me then the happy band!
-'Tis done: like summer clouds that pass
At noontide o'er the sunny grass,
From the dark mirror flits away
The scene, in broken disarray,
And lo, to Fancy's charmed eyes
The gay illusion seems to rise.

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