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When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,

Between let Ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the Sun:
Yet, still, from either beach,

The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
"We are One!"*

The Night-flowering Cereus.—UNITARIAN MISCELLANY.

Now departs day's gairish light-
Beauteous flower, lift thy head!

Rise upon the brow of night!
Haste, thy transient lustre shed!

Night has dropped her dusky veil-
All vain thoughts be distant far,
While, with silent awe, we hail
Flora's radiant evening star.

See to life her beauties start;

Hail! thou glorious, matchless flower'
Much thou sayest to the heart,

In the solemn, fleeting hour.

This alludes merely to the moral union of the two countries. The author would not have it supposed that the tribute of respect, offered in these stanzas o the land of his ancestors, would be paid by him, if at the expense of the independence of that which gave him birth.

The night-flowering Cereus, or Cactus grandiflorus, is one of our most spiendid hot-house plants, and is a native of Jamaica and some other of the West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly set with spines. The flower is white, and very large, sometimes nearly a foot in diameter. The most remarkable circumstance with regard to the flower, is the short time which it takes to expand, and the rapidity with which it decays. It begins to open late in the evening, flourishes for an hour or two, then begins to droop, and before morning is completely dead.

Ere we have our homage paid,

Thou wilt bow thine head and die;
Thus our sweetest pleasures fade,
Thus our brightest blessings fly.

Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine,
Bears a flower thus purely bright;
Thus, when sunny hours decline,
Friendship sheds her cheering light.

Religion, too, that heavenly flower,
That joy of never-fading worth,
Waits, like thee, the darkest hour,
Then puts all her glories forth.

Then thy beauties are surpassed,
Splendid flower, that bloom'st to die;
For Friendship and Religion last,
When the morning beams on hign.

God is Good.-ANONYMOUS.

GOD is good! Each perfumed flower,
The smiling fields, the dark green wood,

The insect, fluttering for an hour,-
All things proclaim that God is good.

I hear it in the rushing wind;
Hills that have for ages stood,
And clouds, with gold and silver lined,
Are still repeating, God is good.

Each little rill, that, many a year,
Has the same verdant path pursued,
And every bird, in accents clear,

Joins in the song that God is good.

The restless main, with haughty roar,
Calms each wild wave and billow rude,
Retreats submissive from the shore,
And swells the chorus, God is good.

Countless hosts of burning stars

Sing his praise with light renewed ;
The rising sun each day declares,
In rays of glory, God is good.

The moon that walks in brightness, says,
God is good!-and man, endued
With power to speak his Maker's praise,
Should still repeat that God is good.

Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles.-ANONYMOUS.

WHEN, on the midnight of the East,
At the dead moment of repose,
Like hope on misery's darkened breast,
The planet of salvation rose,—

The shepherd, leaning o'er his flock,
Started with broad and upward gaze,-
Kneel'd, while the Star of Bethlehem broke
On music wakened into praise.

The Arabian sage, to hail our King,
With Persia's star-led magi comes;
And all, with reverent homage, bring
Their gifts of gold and odorous gums.

If heathen sages, from afar,

Followed, when darkness round them spreaɑ
The kindling glories of that star,

And worshipped where its radiance led,

Shall we, for whom that star was hung
In the dark vault of frowning heaven,-
Shall we, for whom that strain was sung,
of peace and sin forgiven,—

That song

Shall we, for whom the Savior bled,
Careless his banquet's blessings see,
Nor heed the parting word that said
"Do this in memory of me?"

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The Dying Child.-CARLOS WILCOX. THUS happily they lived, Till, in their arms, a second pleasant babe, With a faint smile, intelligent, began To answer theirs, and with a brighter that Of its fond sister, standing by their side, With frequent kisses prattling in its face; While in its features, with parental joy, And love connubial, they began to mark Theirs intermingled ;-when, with sudden stroke, The blooming infant faded, and expired. And soon its lonely sister, doubly dear Now in their grief, was in like manner torn From their united grasp. With patience far Beyond her years, the little sufferer bore Her sharp distemper, while she could behold Both parents by her side; but, when from sleep, Transient and troubled, waking, wept aloud, As terrified, if either were not there. To hear their voices singing of the love

Of her Redeemer, in her favorite hymn,

And praying for his mercy, oft she asked
With eagerness, and seemed the while at ease
When came the final struggle, with the look
Of a grieved child, and with its mournful cry,
But still with something of her wonted tone
Of confidence in danger, as for help
She called on them, on both alternately,
As if by turns expecting that relief
From each the other had grown slow to yield;
At which their calmness, undisturbed till then,
Gave way to agitation past control.

A few heart-rending moments, and her voice
Sunk to a weak and inarticulate moan,
Then in a whisper ended; and with that
Her features grew composed and fixed in death;
At sight of which their lost tranquillity

At once returned. 'Twas evening; and the lamp,
Set near, shone full upon her placid face,
Its snowy white illuming, while they stood
Gazing as on her loveliness in sleep,

The enfeebled mother on the father's arm

Heavily hanging, like the slender flower
On its firm prop, when loaded down with rain
Or morning dew.

Tc a Musquito.-NEW YORK REVIEW.

FAIR insect, that, with thread-like legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing,
And tell'st how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them freely to thy need;

*

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth;

Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, broad and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth.

*

*

*

*

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway-
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist: And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

O, these were sights to touch an anchorite!—
What, do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:

Thou art a wayward being-well, come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer? "Rouge makes thee sick,
And China bloom at best is sorry food;

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?"
Go, 'twas a just reward that met thy crime-
But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch,

To worship, not approach, that radiant white;

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