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waters about thy throne. Every one can say, that now certainly thou hast visited this land, and hast not forgotten the utmost corners of the earth, in a time when men had thought that thou wast gone up from us to the farthest end of the heavens, and hadst left to do marvellously among the sons of these last ages. O, perfect and accomplish thy glorious acts; for men may leave their works unfinished, but thou art a God, thy nature is perfection." "The times and seasons pass along under thy feet, to go and come at thy bidding; and as thou didst dignify our fathers' days with many revelations, above all their foregoing ages, since thou tookest the flesh, so thou canst vouchsafe to us, though unworthy, as large a portion of thy spirit as thou pleasest for who shall prejudice thy all-governing will? Seeing the power of thy grace is not passed away with the primitive times, as fond and faithless men imagine, but thy kingdom is now at hand, and thou standing at the door; come forth out of thy royal chambers, O Prince of all the kings of the earth; put on the visible robes of thy imperial majesty; take up that unlimited sceptre which thy Almighty Father hath bequeathed thee; for now the voice of thy bride calls thee, and all creatures sigh to be renewed."
YET one smile more, departing, distant sun!
And the dark rocks, whose summer wreaths are cast,
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray ;
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
The Lyre.-MILTON WARD.
THERE was a lyre, 'tis said, that hung
Bright with the tears that morning wept,
The murmur of the shaded rills,
The birds, that sweetly warbled by,
And the soft echo from the hills,
Were heard not where that harp was nigh.
When the last light of fading day,
Along the bosom of the west
In colors softly mingled lay,
While night had darkened all the rest,― Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay, that rung
That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed
Nor e'en the poplar's foliage trembled,
In earth and air it shone no more;
To shield the harp of heavenly song!
The pang that thus its bosom tore,
That lyre they could not wake or warm.
Scenery of Andover.-GEORGE B. CHEEVER.
THERE is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the back-ground, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot ;—these features constitute, at all times, a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the
whole scene the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight," fading, still fading," till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the northwestern blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow-banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.
A happier Clime.-EASTBURN.
WHEN sailing on this troubled sea
Yet we must suffer, here below,
In weakness and in pain made known,
And earth shall vex the soul no more!