Those voices which are silent, THE LAND OF THE WEST. By LOVER. Он, come to the West, love—oh, come there with me, The South has its roses and bright skies of blue, The North has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array, The sun in the gorgeous East chases the night, THE ANGELS OF THE HOUSE. By J. E. CARPENTER. 'Tis said that ever round our path That give us blissful dreams by night, 'Tis said that angels walk the earth- When round our path, scarce seen by us, Such bright things come and go. Are there not beings by our side As fair as angels are, As pure, as stainless, as the forms That dwell beyond the star? Yes! there are angels of the earth, Pure, innocent and mild, The angels of our hearts and homes, THE WORLD'S AGE. From Andromeda and other Poems, by CHARLES KINGSLEY. WHO will say the world is dying! Still the race of Hero-spirits แ Pass the lamp from hand to hand; While a slave bewails his fetters; RESURGAM. From a recently published volume of poems by Mr. WATSON. It is the noon of night; The firmament is overflowed with stars; The moon is up; and Light Peers out, like a sad captive through his bars, Deep silence broodeth over field and wood; Throbbing asleep in lap of Solitude. Yet, but a little space, This sleep of Nature will be overworn ; Returning Day mount up the gates of Morn; To men; with novel thought and purpose rife; Of things; and quickening Nature into life. There is a midnight, yet, That bears a deeper silence in its breath, To throb with hope and fear, the Night of Death. A vague and solemn hour, When Darkness gathers up the skirts of gloom, And bears it withered to the lap of Doom. Odour and blossom in a brighter The spirit still survive, day? When outward leaves of life are blown away? Nor deem the spirit's golden visions vain! Though dark the night of Death, Bright is the morrow-morn, and thou shalt rise again! ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, 1796. By S. T. COLERIDGE. SWEET flower! that peeping from thy russet stem This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month Tremble along my frame and harmonize The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument. THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. By CHARLES SWAIN. OH! the old, old clock of the household stock Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold, 'Twas a monitor, too, though its words were few, Yet they lived though nations altered: And its voice, still strong, warn'd old and young When the voice of friendship faltered! "Tick, tick," it said—" quick, quick to bed— For ten I've given warning: Up, up, and go, or else you know, You'll never rise soon in the morning." A friendly voice was that old, old clock, As it stood in the corner smiling, And bless'd the time with a merry chime The wintry hours beguiling: But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, As it call'd at daybreak boldly, When the dawn look'd gray o'er the misty way, And the early air blew coldly: Tick, tick," it said—“quick, out of bed, For five I've given warning: You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth, Unless you're up soon in the morning.' Still hourly the sound goes round and round, While tears are shed for the bright days fled, |