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Niagara.-U. STATES REVIEW AND LITERARY Gazette. From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredia.

TREMENDOUS TORRENT! for an instant hush

The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside
Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes
May see the fearful beauty of thy face.

I am not all unworthy of thy sight;

For, from my very boyhood, have I loved,—
Shunning the meaner track of common minds,—
To look on Nature in her loftier moods.

At the fierce rushing of the hurricane,

At the near bursting of the thunderbolt,

I have been touched with joy; and, when the sea,
Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed
Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved

Its dangers and the wrath of elements.

But never yet the madness of the sea

Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now.
Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves

Grow broken 'midst the rocks; thy current, then,
Shoots onward, like the irresistible course

Of destiny. Ah! terribly they rage

The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there! My brain
Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze
Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge
Sweeps the wide torrent: waves innumerable
Meet there and madden; waves innumerable

Urge on, and overtake the waves before,
And disappear in thunder and in foam.

They reach-they leap the barrier: the abyss
Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves.

A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock
Shatters to vapor the descending sheets:

A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves
The mighty pyramid of circling mist
To heaven. The solitary hunter, near,

Pauses with terror in the forest shades.

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God of all truth! in other lands I've seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw

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Their fellows deep into impiety;

And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face
In earth's majestic solitudes.

Even here

My heart doth open all itself to thee.

In this immensity of loneliness,

I feel thy hand upon me.

To my ear

The eternal thunder of the cataract brings

Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear.

Dread torrent! that, with wonder and with fear, Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks

Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself,

Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who supplies,
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs?

What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weigh
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth?

The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand,
Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice
To thy down-rushing waters; he hath girt
Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow.
I see thy never-resting waters run,
And I bethink me how the tide of time
Sweeps to eternity. So pass, of man,-

Pass, like a noon-day dream,-the blossoming days, And he awakes to sorrow. *

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Hear, dread Niagara! my latest voice.

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Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close
Over the bones of him who sings thee now

Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse,
Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile,

Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest,

Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds

To listen to the echoes of my fame.

Absalom.-N. P. WILLIS.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery-how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom-

For his estranged, misguided Absalom

The proud, bright being, who had burst away

In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him-for him he poured,

In agony that would not be controlled,

Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

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The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls.

His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled

With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him: and the jewelled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of wo:-

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee.
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet" my father" from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:-
And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home
My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

Hymn of Nature.-W. O. B. PEABODY.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky:

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands!

Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;

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