For here are eyes that shame the violet,
Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies;
And foreheads white as when, in clusters set,
The anemonies by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie
Locks that the lucky Wignardonne has curled—
Thrice happy man,whose trade it is to buy,
And bake, and braid those love-nets of the world !
Who curls of every glossy color keepest,
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest!

And well thou mayst; for Italy’s brown maids
Send the dark locks with which their brows are drest;
And Tuscan lasses from their jetty braids
Crop half to buy a ribbon for the rest;
But the fresh Norman girls their ringlets spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then henceforth let no maid or matron grieve
To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Frowzy or thin; for Vignardonne shall give
Such piles of curls as nature never knew :
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
Had blushed outdone, and owned herself a fright.

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street
Like notes of wood-birds, and where'er the eye
Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by;
The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space,
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,--
A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
To Singsing and the shores of Tappan bay.

Ye that dash by in chariots, who will care
For steeds and footmen now 2 Ye cannot show

Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
And last edition of the shapel Ah no;

These sights are for the earth and open sky,

And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

The Sabbath.-CARLos WIL.cox.

WHo scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. Emblem and earnest of eternal rest, A festival with fruits celestial crowned, A jubilee releasing him from earth, The day delights and animates the saint. It gives new vigor to the languid pulse Of life divine, restores the wandering feet, Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, Establishing them all upon a rock. Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim’s path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come. To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn Seems like the first, when every thing was new. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold. In every thing a smiling God is seen. On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines. In objects overlooked On other days he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell. While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now To bring him near; for Faith performs the work; In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, With such transparent vividness, she feels

Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd
To sudden vision. Such is oft her power
In God’s own house, which, in the absorbing act
Of adoration, or inspiring praise,
She with his glory fills, as once a cloud
Of radiance filled the temple's inner court.

—oIndustry and Prayer.—CARLos WIL.cox.

TIME well employed is Satan’s deadliest foe: It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend: Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer, Statues, without it in the form of guards.

The closet which the saint devotes to prayer Is not his temple only, but his tower, Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked; His armory, to which he soon retreats When danger warns, his weapons to select, And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead, When taken by surprise and half o'ercome, That, now, to venture near the hallowed place Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul Glad to impose on conscience with a show Of humble veneration, to secure Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed, It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.

The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near The upper world of purity and light. He loses sight of his intended prey, In that effulgence beaming from the throne Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails To succor and preserve the tempted soul, Whose time and talents rest or run to waste. Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse A salutary savor through the day, With charities and duties not well filled. These form the links of an electric chain That join the orisons of morn and eve, And propagate through all its several parts, While kept continuous, the ethereal fire; But if a break be found, the fire is spent.

Consolations of Religion to the Poor.—PERc1 v AL.

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken; She is a widow; she is old and poor; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night? She lives in her affections; for the grave Has closed upon her husband, children; all Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save Her treasured jewels; though her views are small, Though she has never mounted high, to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall Her unperverted palate, but will bring Ajoy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers, so softly pour The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more She muses on the griefs of former days; Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays. And faith can see a new world, and the eyes Of saints look pity on her: Death will come— A few short moments over, and the prize Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb Becomes her fondest pillow ; all its gloom Is scattered. What a meeting there will be To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee: Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

Extract from the Airs of Palestine.—PIERPont-

WHERE lies our path —Though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all.

Where lies our path?—A poet, and inquire
What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre 7
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow;
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow;
There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers;
Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers,
Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides
Through laurels, whispering on his j sides.
Your theme is Music;-Yonder rolls the wave,
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave,
Enchanted by his lyre :-Cithaeron's shade
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth,
Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth.
And fast by Haemus, Thracian Hebrus creeps
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps,
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along,
Was still melodious, and expired in song.
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell;
There be thy path—for there the muses dwell.
No, no—a lonelier, lovelier path be mine;
Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine.
There purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow.
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;
I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;
I love the promptings of Isaiah’s muse:
In Carmel's holy grots I’ll court repose,
And deck my mossy couch with Sharon’s deathless rose.
Here arching vines their leafy banner spread,
Shake their green shields, and purple odors shed,
At once repelling Syria’s burning ray,
And o; freshness on the sultry day.
Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing,
Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring;
And here, as musing cn my theme divine,—
I gather flowers to bloom along my line,
And hang my garlands in festoons around,
Inwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound;
And fondly, warmly, humbly hope the Power,
That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower,
Drew living water from this rocky shrine,
Purpled the clustering honors of the vine,
And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither,

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