Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death Laid thus low by age? Or is't I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate. And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Like armor of steeled knight of Palestine, Who scoffs these sympathies Nor feels he, gently breathing through his soul, "How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man! How deaden thee to universal love, And joy of kindred, with all humble things— And surely it is so. He who the lily clothes in simple glory, He who doth hear the ravens cry for food, In signs mysterious, written what alone Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird. After a Tempest.-BRYANT. THE day had been a day of wind and storm ;— And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between. The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward; To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung, And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry, And darted up and down the butterfly, That seemed a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair; It was a scene of peace—and, like a spell, Upon the motionless wood that clothed the cell, And glassy river, and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while, far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, golden light. I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers, And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last The storm; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past; Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. A Winter Scene.-IDLE MAN. BUT Winter has yet brighter scenes;-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows, Or Autumn, with his many fruits and woods All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! Deep in the womb of Earth, where the gems grow, With amethyst and topaz, and the place Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. Description of the Quiet Island, From the Poem of "The Buccaneer."-RICHARD H. DANA. THE island lies nine leagues away. Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, But when the light winds lie at rest, How beautiful! No ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. And inland rests the green, warm dell; Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; But calm, low voices, words of grace, Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done- The religious Cottage.-D. HUNTINGTON. SEEST thou yon lonely cottage in the grove, Moss-grown, and decked with velvet verdure o'er? When the bright morning gilds the eastern skies, And tastes the sweets of nature as he goes- He breathes the fragrance, and pours forth the praise; Nor yet in solitude his prayers ascend; His faithful partner and their blooming train, To Him whose bounty clothes the smiling plain, And tunes the warbling throats that make the valleys ring |