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We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

And when it wears the blue of May, was hung,

And on her lip the rich red rose.

Her hair

Was as the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushed all the richness of an autumn sky,

With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath

It was so like the gentle air of spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it was a joy

To have it round us-and her silver voice

Was the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

Incomprehensibility of God.*-MISS ELIZABETH TOWNSEND.

"I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him."

WHERE art thou?-THOU! Source and Support of all That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,

Unfelt, unknown,-alas! unknowable!

I look abroad among thy works-the sky,

Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,

Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,

And speaking winds, and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air—

*To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth volame of the Unitarian Miscellany, would repay us for the toil of looking through whole libraries. It is equal in grandeur to the celebrated production of Bryant-"Thanatopsis;" nor will it suffer by a comparison with the most sublime pieces either of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. The latter (with a feeling akin to the elevated inspiration which animates these noble lines) has said,

"For never guiltless may I speak of Him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

I praise Him, and with Faith, that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,*
A sinful and most miserable man."

ED.

Though hailed as gods of old, and only less-
Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not Thee!
I ask Thee from the past; if in the years,
Since first intelligence could search its source,
Or in some former unremembered being,

(If such, perchance, were mine) did they behold Thee? And next interrogate futurity

So fondly tenanted with better things

Than e'er experience owned-but both are mute;

And past and future, vocal on all else,

So full of memories and phantasies,

Are deaf and speechless here! Fatigued, I turn

From all vain parley with the elements;

And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward. From each material thing its anxious guest,

If, in the stillness of the waiting soul,

He may vouchsafe himself-Spirit to spirit!

O Thou, at once most dreaded and desired,

Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee?
What though the rash request be fraught with fate,
Nor human eye may look on thine and live?
Welcome the penalty! let that come now,

Which soon or late must come.

Who would not dare to die?

For light like this

Peace, my proud aim,

And hush the wish that knows not what it asks.

Await his will, who hath appointed this,

With every other trial. Be that will

Done now, as ever. For thy curious search,
And unprepared solicitude to gaze

On Him-the Unrevealed-learn hence, instead,
To temper highest hope with humbleness.
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts,
Till rent the veil, no longer separating
The Holiest of all-as erst, disclosing
A brighter dispensation; whose results
Ineffable, interminable, tend

E'en to the perfecting thyself-thy kind—
Till meet for that sublime beatitude,

By the firm promise of a voice from heaven
Pledged to the pure in heart!

Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau.J. NEAL.

O SWITZERLAND, my country, 'tis to thee

I strike my harp in agony.

My country, nurse of Liberty,

Home of the gallant, great, and free,
My sullen harp I strike to thee.
O! I have lost you all!
Parents, and home, and friends:

Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall;
A mountain's plumage o'er you bends.
The cliff-yew of funereal gloom
Is now the only mourning plume
That nods above a people's tomb.

Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake,
And, deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake,
And repeat the young huntsman's cry-
That clatter and laugh when the goatherds take
Their browzing flocks, at the morning's break,
Far over the hills,-not one is awake

In the swell of thy peaceable sky.

They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, And their cymbals are mute; and the desert birds sing Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky, As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by: For deep, in that blue-bosomed water, is laid

As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid

As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song,

In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along.

The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge
Is frothily laved by a whispering surge,

That heaves, incessant, a tranquil dirge,
To lull the pale forms that sleep below-
Forms that rock as the waters flow.

That bright lake is still as a liquid sky;
And when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly,
They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye.
The fringe of thin foam that their sepulchre binds
Is as light as the clouds that are borne by the winds.
Soft over its bosom the dim vapors hover

In morning's first light; and the snowy-winged plover,
That skims o'er the deep,

Where my loved ones sleep,

No note of joy on this solitude flings,

Nor shakes the mist from his drooping wings.

*

*

*

*

*

*

No chariots of fire on the clouds careered;

No warrior's arm on the hills was reared;

No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown;
No mantle of wrath over heaven was thrown;
No armies of light, with their banners of flame,
On neighing steeds, through the sunset came,
Or leaping from space appeared;

No earthquake reeled; no Thunderer stormed;
No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed;
No voices in heaven were heard.

But the hour when the sun in his pride went down,
While his parting hung rich o'er the world,
While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown,
And his streamers of gold were unfurled,

An everlasting hill was torn

From its primeval base, and borne,
In gold and crimson vapors dressed,
To where a people are at rest.
Slowly it came in its mountain wrath;
And the forest vanished before its path;

And the rude cliffs bowed; and the waters fled;
And the living were buried, while, over their head,
They heard the full march of their foe as he sped;-
And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead-
The mountain sepulchre of all I loved!

The village sank, and the giant trees

Leaned back from the encountering breeze,
As this tremendous pageant moved.

The mountain forsook his perpetual throne,

And came down in his pomp; and his path is shown
In barrenness and ruin :-there

His ancient mysteries lay bare;
His rocks in nakedness arise;
His desolations mock the skies.

Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell!
An Alpine monument may dwell
Upon thy bosom, O my home!

The mountain-thy pall and thy prison-may keep thee,
I shall see thee no more; but till death I will weep thee;
Of thy blue dwelling dream wherever I roam,

And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam.

Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying-ground at New Haven.-CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE.

O, WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give,
Beneath these senseless marbles disappeared?
Where even they who taught these stones to grieve-
The hands that hewed them, and the hearts that reared?
Such the poor bounds of all that's hoped or feared,
Within the griefs and smiles of this short day!
Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared;
This the last tribute love to love could pay-

An idle, pageant pile to graces passed away.

Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb?
Why, victims, garland thus the spoiler's fane?
Hope ye by these to avert oblivion's doom,
In grief ambitious, and in ashes vain?
Go, rather, bid the sand the trace retain,

Of all that parted virtue felt and did!

Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign; Hence blazoned flattery mocks pride's coffin lid; Hence towered on Egypt's plains the giant pyramid.

Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die;
Be lowly as the relics ye o'erspread;
Nor lift your funeral forms so gorgeously,
To tell who slumbers in each narrow bed:
I would not honor thus the sainted dead,
Nor to each stranger's careless ear declare

My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled.
O, let me hide the names of those that were
Deep in my stricken heart, and shrine them only there!

The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERPONT

THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the May-Flower moored below,

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