Not now, on Zion's height alone, From every place below the skies, To heaven, and find acceptance there. In this thy house, whose doors we now To thee shall age, with snowy hair, O thou, to whom, in ancient time, To thee, at last, in every clime, Shall temples rise, and praise be sung. Evening Music of the Angels.-HILLHOUSE. Low warblings, now, and solitary harps, Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices. Louder as they swelled, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mixed with clear silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes, Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Vernal Melody in the Forest.-CARLOS WILCOX.* WITH Sonorous notes Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed It seems a temple vast, the space within *He was a true poet, and deeply interesting in his character, both as a man and a Christian. He resembled Cowper in many respects ;-in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities-in the modest and retiring disposition of his mind-in its fine culture, and its original poetical cast-and not a little in the character of his poetry. It has been said with truth, that, if he had given himself to poetry as his chief occupation, he might have been the Cowper of New England. We pretend not to place his unfinished and broken compositions on a level with the works of the author of the Task; but they possess much of his spirit, and, at the same time, are original. Like Cowper, "he left the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and passion, for those of real life and simple nature, and for the developement of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral and religious truth." Amidst the throngs of imitators, whose names have crowded the pages of the annuals and magazines, his is never to be seen; and the merits of his poetry are almost unknown to those who regulate the criticisms of the public journals. But it is both a proof and a consequence of his original powers and his elevated feelings, that, instead of devoting his mind to the composition of short, artificial pieces for the public eye, he started at once upon a wide and noble subject, with the outline in his mind of a magnificent moral poem. The history, the scenery, and the public and domestic manners in this country, afforded scope for the composition of another Task, which, if the powers of the writer were equal to his subject, would be more for America, and the religious world, than even Cowper's was for England and his fellow men. Wilcox did not live to execute his design; but the fragments he has left us are so rich, in a vein of unaffected poetry and piety, that they make us sorrowful for what we have lost, and indignant that his merits are so little known and appreciated beyond a small circle of affectionate Christian friends.-ED. Mr. Adding new life and sweetness to them all. First peeping out, then starting forth at once Close of the Vision of Judgment.-HILLHOUSE. As when, from some proud capital that crowns Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnished domes, Intenser light, as toward the right hand host Mild turning, with a look ineffable, The invitation he proclaimed in accents Which on their ravished ears poured thrilling, like The silver sound of many trumpets heard Afar in sweetest jubilec; then, swift Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left, That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice Seemed like the crush of Heaven, pronounced the door Each angel spread his wings; in one dread swell Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth, Down from the lessening multitude came faint When, washed by evening showers, the huge-o be 1 sun That glared with anguish; starless, hopeless gloom Though in the far horizon lingered yet A lurid gleam; black clouds were mustering there, "As thy Day, so shall thy Strength be."- WHEN adverse winds and waves arise, When, with sad footstep, memory roves One trial more must yet be past, The Pilgrims.-MRS. SIGOURNEY. How slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main! -or reels, -Moons wax and wane, But still that lonely traveller treads the deep.I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern Winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds.— They land! They land!-not like the Genoese, With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies.-Forth they come From their long prison,-hardy forms, that brave The world's unkindness,-men of hoary hair, |