And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side!

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.

Mount Washington; the loftiest Peak of the White Mountains, N. H.-G. MELLEN.

MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height
The tall rocks brighten in the ether air,

And spirits from the skies come down at night,
To chant immortal songs to Freedom there!
Thine is the rock of other regions; where
The world of life which blooms so far below
Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appen.
Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow
Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow.

Thine is the summit where the clouds repose,
Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne:

When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws
His billowy mist amid the thunder's home!
Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come,
And bow the forests as they sweep along;
While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb,
The storms come forth-and, hurrying darkly on
Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong!

And, when the tumult of the air is fled,

And quenched in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name. The stars look down upon them-and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave, Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious braveThe richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave!

Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws The hoary mantle of the dying year,

Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows,

Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!

To the dying Year.-J. G. WHITTIER.

AND thou, gray voyager to the breezeless sea
Of infinite Oblivion, speed thou on!

Another gift of Time succeedeth thee,

Fresh from the hand of GoD! for thou hast done
The errand of thy destiny, and none

May dream of thy returning. Go! and bear
Mortality's frail records to thy cold,
Eternal prison-house ;-the midnight prayer
Of suffering bosoms, and the fevered care

Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold;
Ambition's grasp at greatness; the quenched light
Of broken spirits; the forgiven wrong,

And the abiding curse. Ay, bear along

These wrecks of thine own making. Lo! thy knell
Gathers upon the windy breath of night,
Its last and faintest echo! Fare thee well!

The Captain. A Fragment.*-BRAINARD.

SOLEMN he paced upon that schooner's deck,
And muttered of his hardships :-" I have been
Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide
Has dashed me on the sawyer; I have sailed
In the thick night, along the wave-washed edge
Of ice, in acres, by the pitiless coast

Of Labrador; and I have scraped my keel
O'er coral rocks in Madagascar seas;

And often, in my cold and midnight watch,
Have heard the warning voice of the lee shore
Speaking in breakers! Ay, and I have seen
The whale and sword-fish fight beneath my bows;
And, when they made the deep boil like a pot,
Have swung into its vortex; and I know
To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill,
And brave such dangers with a sailor's heart;—
But never yet, upon the stormy wave,
Or where the river mixes with the main,
Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay,
In all my rough experience of harm,
Met I-a Methodist meeting-house!

Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none,
Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern!
It comes in such a" questionable shape,"

I cannot even speak it! Up jib, Josey,

And make for Bridgeport! There, where Stratford Point,
Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy,

Are safe from such encounters, we'll protest!
And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale,
That once a Charleston schooner was beset,
Riding at anchor, by a meeting-house!

*The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said: "Arrived, schooner Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that harbor, during the rain storm on Thursday evening last, the Fame was run foul of by the wreck of the Methodist meeting-house from Norwich, which was carried away in the late freshet."

They that seek me early shall find me."-COLUMBIAN STAR.

COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest,
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze;
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways;
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast-
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,
Come, and secure interminable rest.

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;

Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover
Will to the embraces of the worm have gone;
Those who now bless thee will have passed for ever;
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee;
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be!

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die-
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.

Life is but shadows, save a promise given,

Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray: O, touch the sceptre !-with a hope in heavenCome, turn thy spirit from the world away.

Then will the crosses of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul,
And, shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal;
Home of the weary! where, in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss:

Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing,
Who would not early choose a lot like this?

8*

The pathway to the grave may be the same,
And the proud man shall tread it, and the low,
With his bowed head, shall bear him company.
Decay will make no difference, and death,
With his cold hand, shall make no difference;
And there will be no precedence of power,
In waking at the coming trump of God;
But in the temper of the invisible mind,
The godlike and undying intellect,

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!

The elevated brow of kings will lose
The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free,
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God,
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify him more.
It is life's mystery. The soul of man
Createth its own destiny of power;
And, as the trial is intenser here,
His being hath a nobler strength in heaven.

What is its earthly victory? Press on!
For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought,
Ye shall look down on monarchs. O, press on!
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence; and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your brow,
And read it like a talisman of love!
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought;
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky,
And, in the very fetters of your flesh,
Mating with the pure essences of heaven!
Press on! for in the grave there is no work,
And no device.'-Press on! while yet ye may!

So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst
Of his immortal nature; and he rends
The rock for secret fountains, and pursues
The path of the illimitable wind