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Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay, Bright gleaining o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;

And downward, far, reflected in the clear
Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;
So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,
And silently obey the noiseless breeze;—
Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,
They part for distant ports. The gales benign,
Swift wasting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,
To its own harbor sure, where each divine
And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.

Muses of Helicon' melodious race
Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyne !
Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,
And drives each scowling form of grief away!
Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay
Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove;
Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way
Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove,

That soothed the Thunderer’s soul, and filled his courts above!

Bright choir with lips untempted, and with zone
Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane;
Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known
The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain;–
Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain,
On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,
Whose honored hand took not your gift in vain,
Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,
Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.

—oDawn.—N. P. WILLIs. * That line I learned not in the old sad song.”—-Charles Lamb. THRow up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air

Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind seems liquid—it o’ersteals

My bosom and my brow so bathingly.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God’s creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music; and the grass
Sends up its modest odor with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.
Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank
Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt
Its delicate touch; and ’tis a kindlier thing
Than music, or a feast, or medicine.

I had awoke from an unpleasant dream,
And light was welcome to me. I looked out
To feel the common air, and when the breath
Of the delicious morning met my brow,
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun
Shone on familiar objects, it was like
The feeling of the captive who comes forth
From darkness to the cheerful light of day.
Oh! could we wake from sorrow; were it all
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside
Like an untimely garment with the morn;
Could the long fever of the heart be cooled
By a sweet breath from nature; or the gloom
Of a bereaved affection pass away
With looking on the lively tint of flowers—
How lightly were the spirit reconciled
To make this beautiful, bright world its home!

-oThe Restoration of Israel.-JAMEs WALLIs EAs.TBURN.

MoUNTAINs of Israel, rear on high
Your summits, crowned with verdure new,

And spread your branches to the sky,
Refulgent with celestial dew.

O'er Jordan’s stream, of gentle flow,
And Judah’s peaceful valleys, smile,

And far reflect the lovely glow
Where ocean's waves incessant toil

See where the scattered tribes return;
Their slavery is burst at length,
And purer flames to Jesus burn,
And Zion girds on her new strength:
New cities bloom along the plain,
New temples to Jehovah rise,
The kindling voice of praise again
Pours its sweet anthems to the skies.

The fruitful fields again are blest,
And yellow harvests smile around;
Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest,
Where peace and innocence are found.
The bloody sacrifice no more
Shall smoke upon the altars high,
But ardent hearts, from hill to shore,
Send grateful incense to the sky!

The jubilee of man is near,
When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign;
He comes to wipe the mourner's tear,
And cleanse the heart from sin and pain.
Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise
The king that ransomed you from wo:
Nations, the hymn of triumph raise,
And bid the song of rapture flow !

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* I have often thought that flowers were the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious truths.”—The Rebels.

SHE sleeps the quiet sleep of death,
The maid who lies below,

And these are angel-missioned flowers,
That o'er the green turf grow.

And they are sent to warn the fair,
How transient is their bloom;
See, how they bend their tender forms,
And weep upon her tomb.

The blush upon her living cheek
Had shamed the morning skies;

And diamond light is not more bright
Than were her youthful eyes.

To see her on a summer's day,
Gave love a lighter wing;

And happy thoughts would crowd the heart,
And gush from many a spring.

I know the language of the flowers,
And love to hear them grieve,

When crimsoning to the eye of morn,
Or drooping to the eve.

I listened when the star of love
Shone through the blue serene,

When twilight held her silent wake,
Beneath the crested queen.

They told of her whose spirit come
To breathe upon their leaves;

And can I choose but love the breath
That once was Genevieve's 2

She’s gone where sorrows may not come,
Where pain may never be;

But she, who lives an angel still,
May sometimes think of me.

Though gone, alas! her blushing smile,
Who sleeps in sweet repose,

Ijoy to find its mimic grace
Still living in the rose.

Then when I love the modest flower,
And cherish it with tears,

It minds me of my fleeting time,
Yet chases all my fears.

And when my hour of rest shall be,
I will not weep my doom;

So angel-missioned flowers may come
And gather round my tomb!

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The JMissionary.—W. B. TAPPAN.

ONward, ye men of prayer!
Scatter, in rich exuberance, the seed,
Whose fruit is living bread, and all your need
Will God supply; his harvest ye shall share.

To him, child of the bow,
The wanderer of his native Oregon,
Tell of that Jesus, who, in dying, won
The peace-branch of the skies—salvation for His foe!

Unfurl the banneret
On other shores,-Messiah’s cross bid shine
O'er every lovely hill of Palestine;
Fair stars of glory that shall never set.

Seek ye the far-off isle;
The sullied jewel of the deep, -
O'er whose remembered beauty angels weep,
Restore its lustre, and to God give spoil.

Go, break the chain of caste;
Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more
The Indian river roll its waves of gore;
Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast.

To heal the bruised, speed;
Oh, pour on Africa the balm
Of Gilead, and, her agony to calm,
Whisper of fetters broken, and the spirit freed.

And thou, O Church, betake
Thyself to watching, labour—help these men:
God shall thee visit of a surety, when
Thou'rt faithful:-Church that Jesus bought, awake, awake!

-GoJMissions.—MRs. SIGouran Ey. LIGHT for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador 1
Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails,

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