Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate,
And the town records, is the Albert now

Of Wyoming; like him, in church and state,
Her Doric column; and upon his brow

The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow,
Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain
To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow,
That stands full-uniformed upon the plain,

To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain.

For he would look particularly droll

In his " Iberian boot" and "Spanish plume,"
And be the wonder of each Christian soul,
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom.
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom,
Hath many a model here, for woman's eye,
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home,
Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high
To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper-Poesy.

There's one in the next field-of sweet sixteen-
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born
In heaven with her jacket of light green,
"Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn,"
Without a shoe or stocking,-hoeing corn.
Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there,
With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne,
I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player

The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire.

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old,

Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped
Upon their day of massacre.

She told

Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept,

Whereon her father and five brothers slept

Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave,

When all the land a funeral mourning kept.

And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave,

By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave.

And on the margin of yon orchard hill

Are marks where time-worn battlements have been; And in the tall grass traces linger still

Of" arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin."

Five hundred of her brave that Valley green

Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay;

But twenty lived to tell the noon-day scene-
And where are now the twenty? Passed away.
Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day?

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,

Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power,
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief

Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently to one of gentle mould like thee,

As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom,
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.

Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.

Daybreak.-RICHARD H. DANA.

"The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang.

The Pilgrim's Progress.

Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long,

In fiery armor, up the heavens high

Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song.
Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh.
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.

Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why

My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;

Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.

"Canst thou grow sad," thou say'st," as earth grows bright? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse

In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light

Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source?
With creatures innocent thou must, perforce,

A sharer bc, if that thine heart be pure.
And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,
Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,

And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure."

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue
Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;

And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still-save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth
With discord strange, and all that man calls life.
With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife ;

And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies:-
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;

Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties:

He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies.

And 'tis because man useth so amiss

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;

Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this,

Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,

From her fair face?-It is that man is mad!

Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine,

When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.

Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are thine While I to earth am bound:-When will the heavens be mine

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense

Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence:

But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad-I'm lonely in the crowd.

But not for this alone, the silent tear
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn hour:-fresh life is near,-
But all my joys!—they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye,
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm-my spirit's torn;
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high!-
Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh.

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be

That I-whom Nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea-
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit;—who, as mine own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur

A beauty see-that I this mother mild

Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild!

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth!-in crown of living fire
Up comes the Day!-as if they conscious quaffed
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire
Laugh in the wakening light.-Go, vain Desire!
The dusky lights have gone; go thou thy way!
And pining Discontent, like them, expire!

Be called my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day;

And let me with the dawn, like PILGRIM, sing and pray!

Sonnet.-BRYANT.

AY, thou art welcome-heaven's delicious breath!-
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny South!-O, long delay

In the gay woods and in the golden air,-
Like to a good old age, released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life, like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh;

And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

Hymn for the Massachusetts Charitable Association.

PIERPONT.

LOUD o'er thy savage child,
O God, the night wind roars,

As, houseless, in the wild
He bows him, and adores.
Thou seest him there,
As to the sky
He lifts his eye
Alone in prayer.

Thine inspiration comes!
In skill the blessing falls!
The field around him blooms,
The temple rears its walls,
And saints adore,

And music swells,
Where savage yells
Were heard before.

To honor thee, dread Power,

Our SKILL and STRENGTH combine;

And temple, tomb and tower

Attest these gifts of thine;

A swelling dome

For Pride they gild,
For Peace they build
An humbler home.

By these our fathers' host
Was led to victory first,

When on our guardless coast
The cloud of battle burst.