The vales are thine :-and when the touch of spring Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore ;— The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night, The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam, Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. Thine are the mountains,-where they purely lift Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift Dazzling, but cold;-thy farewell glance looks there, The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, And how the heavenly messenger impels Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells. The ocean is thy vassal :-thou dost sway Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And take them wings and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale. "I thought it slept."-HENRY PICKERING. From Recollections of Childhood. I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, As it was wont, within its cradle, now Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange And yet its little bosom did not move! I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand; He would not hear my voice. All pale beside Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look, Were cast-now on the babe once more were fixed And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms, And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep; Alas! he's dead; he never will awake." He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more The Snow-Storm.-ANONYMOUS. THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, A mother wandered with her child. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifts of snow Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone"O God," she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!" She stripped her mantle from her breast, At dawn, a traveller passed by: She lay beneath a snowy veil; *From this little tale of unaffected, childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture It was exhibited at the National Academy in that city. The frost of death was in her eye; Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ;- "I went and washed, and I received sight."-NEW YORK EVENING POST. WHEN the great Master spoke, And he saw the city's walls, And king's and prophet's tomb, He looked on the river's flood, And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms, that stood He saw, on heights and plains, Creatures of every race; But a mighty thrill ran through his veins And his virgin sight beheld The ruddy glow of even, And the thousand shining orbs that filled And woman's voice before Had cheered his gloomy nigh, And his heart, at daylight's close, The Huma.*-LOUISA P. SMITH. FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird, Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, Fly on, nor seek a place of rest In the home of " care-worn things:" The fields of upper air are thine, I would thy home, bright one, were mine, I would never wander, bird, like thee, With wing and spirit once light and free, They should wear no more the chain With which they are bound and fettered here, For ever struggling for skies more clear There are many things like thee, bright bird; Hopes as thy plumage gay; Our air is with them for ever stirred, But still in air they stay. And Happiness, like thee, fair one, But rests in a land of brighter sun, On a waveless, peaceful shore, And stoops to lave her weary wings, Where the fount of "living waters" springs. The Paint King.—WASHINGTON ALLSTON. FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young; "A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground." |