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The vales are thine:–and when the touch of sprin Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy #. They glitter, as the glancing swallow’s wing Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore;— The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore.

The hills are thine:—they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream,
That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood
Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food
Of nations in its waters; so thy rays
Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud,
When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze
Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays.

Thine are the mountains,—where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky
Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by ;-
Aloft, in thy eternal smile, they lie,
Dazzling, but cold;—thy farewell glance looks there,
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear,
Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair.

The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues
Are pencilled by thee; when thou bendest low,

Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues
Their waving folds with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw

Shame on the proudest art; + +:

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These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march;
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form, with perfect curve, a lifted line
Striding the earth and air;-man looks and tells
How peace and mercy in its beauty shine,

And how the heavenly messenger impels
Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells.

The ocean is thy vassal:—thou dost sway His waves to thy dominion, and they go Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Rising and falling in eternal flow; Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And take them wings and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

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In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell.
O, with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,
I hurry o’er the waters when the sail -
Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well
Over the curling billow, and the gale
Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

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“I thought it slept.”—HENRY Picker ING.
From Recollections of Childhood.

I saw the infant cherub—soft it lay, As it was wont, within its cradle, now Decked with sweet o: flowers. A sight so strange Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept— And yet its little bosom did not move I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand, But mine it would not clasp. What should I do? “Wake, brother, wake!” I then, impatient, cried; “Open thine eyes, and look on me again!” He would not hear my voice. All pale beside My weeping mother sat, “ and gazed and looked Unutterable things.” “Will he not wake * I eager asked. She answered but with tears.

Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look,
Were cast—now on the babe once more were fixed–
And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh
And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,
And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said—
“My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he’s dead; he never will awake.”
He’s dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad—
“He never will awake”—sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before; and tears,
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.”

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THE cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night,
A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifted snows she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,
And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow—
Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone—
“O God,” she cried, in accents wild,
“If I must perish, save my child!”

She stripped her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm, -
And round the child she wrapped the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by: She lay beneath a snowy veil; * From this little tale of unaffected, childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an estl

mable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture. it was exhibited at the National Academy in that city.

The frost of death was in her eye;
Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale;—

He moved the robe from off the child;

The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

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“I went and washed, and I received sight.”—NEw York Even ING Post.

*
WHEN the great Master spoke,
He touched his withered eyes,
And, at one gleam, upon him broke
The glad earth and the skies.

And he saw the city's walls,
And king's and prophet's tomb,

And arches proud, and vaulted halls,
And the temple's lofty dome.

He looked on the river's flood,
And the flash of mountain rills,
And the gentle wave of the palms, that stood
Upon Judea's hills. -

He saw, on heights and plains,
Creatures of every race;

But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face.

And his virgin sight beheld
The ruddy glow of even,

And the thousand shining orbs that filled
The azure depths of heaven.

And woman’s voice before
Had cheered his gloomy night,

But to see the angel form she wore
Made deeper the delight.

And his heart, at daylight's close,
For the bright world where he trod,

And when the yellow morning rose,
Gave speechless thanks to God.

FAIR Ellen was long the delight of the young;

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FLY on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on, nor seek a place of rest
n the home of “care-worn things:”
'Twould dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnished wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free;

I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life’s stormy sea.

I would never wander, bird, like thee,
So near this place again;

With wing and spirit once light and free,
They should wear no more the chain

With which they are bound and fettered here,

For ever struggling for skies more clear

There are many things like thee, bright bird;
Hopes as thy plumage gay;
Our air is with them for ever stirred,
But still in air they stay.
And Happiness, like thee, fair one,
Is ever hovering o'er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,
On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of “living waters” springs.

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No damsel could with her compare;

* “A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground.”

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