THE NEW MOON.

WHEN, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,
'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new Moon's modest bow grow bright,
As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,
When first the wandering eye
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays
Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things-
The hopes of early years;
And childhood's purity and grace,

And joys, that like a rainbow chase

The passing shower of tears.

THE NEW MOON.

The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that virgin beam
Comes out upon the air;

And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes
On the soft promise there.

Most welcome to the lover's sight,
Glitters that pure, emerging light;
For prattling poets say,
That sweetest is the lovers' walk,
And tenderest is their murmured talk,
Beneath its gentle ray.

And there do graver men behold
A type of errors, loved of old,

Forsaken and forgiven ;

And thoughts and wishes not of earth,
Just opening in their early birth,

Like that new light in Heaven.

BRYANT.

51

THE ENGLISH BOY.

"Go, call thy sons: instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born."

LOOK from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!

Thy country's fields around thee gleam

In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll'd since foeman's march
Pass'd o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind
Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time
The halls beneath thee lie,

Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore
Our England's chivalry.

AKENSIDE.