Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm
Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat
The pulses of the sea, sent forth a voice
Of awful adoration to the Spirit,
That, wrapped in darkness, moved upon its face.
And when the bow of evening arched the east,
Or, in the moonlight pale, the gentle wave
Kissed, with a sweet embrace, the sea-worn beach,
And the wild song of winds came o'er the waters,
The mingled melody of wind and wave
Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear;
For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship.
And have our hearts grown cold 2 Are there on earth
No pure reflections caught from heavenly love 2
Have our mute lips no hymn—our souls no song?
Let him, that, in the summer-day of youth,
Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling,
And him, that, in the nightfall of his years,
Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace
His weary eyes on life's short wayfaring,
Praise Him that rules the destiny of man.

—eThe Blind JMan's Lament.—JAMEs WALL1s EAstBURN.

O where are the visions of ecstasy bright,
That can burst o'er the darkness, and banish the night?
O where are the charms that the day can unfold
To the heart and the eye that their glories can hold?
Deep, deep in the silence of sorrow I mourn;
For no visions of beauty for me shall e'er burn!
They have told me of sweet purple hues of the west,
Of the rich tints that sparkle on Ocean's wide breast;
They have told me of stars that are burning on high,
When the night is careering along the vast sky;
But, alas! there remains, wheresoever I flee,
Nor beauty, nor lustre, nor brightness for me !

But yet, to my lone, gloomy couch there is given
A ray to my heart that is kindled in heaven;
It soothes the dark path through this walley of tears;
It enlivens my heart, and my sorrow it cheers;
For it tells of a morn when this night shall pass by,
And my spirit shall dwell where the days do not die.

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The Dying Girl. —MRs. HALE's MAGAZINE.

SIsTER, death's veil is gathering fast;
The chilly seal has marked my brow;

This young heart's mournful dream is past;
The golden cords are severing now.

The spirit of the tear-gemmed throne
Bounds o'er me with angelic light;

And Mercy, on Love's wings, hath flown
To guide my soul's mysterious flight.

I leave thee, sister, thee, the last,
A lone one, drooping 'mid the dead—

A bud, o'er whose pale leaf is cast
The blight, from Sorrow's pinion shed.

If from the blessed realms of light,
Love still may own its mortal birth,

May soften still Affliction's night,
#. shalt not, sister, pine on earth.

For where the young buds' dewy fold
Flings hallowed incense on the air,

Where they once met who now are cold,
This soul of mine shall meet thee there.

Kneel thou beside my lonely grave,
When summer breezes o'er it sweep,

When yon proud orb, that gilds the wave
Sinks glorious to his ocean sleep.

Kneel; and the vow thou breathest there,
At that lone hour, shall float on high,

Spirits of light shall bless thy prayer,
The dead, the crowned, shall greet thy sigh.

And now, farewell!, Strange music floats,
Like angel breathings, round my heart.

Are those the Avenger's awful notes ?
The signal tones, that life must part?

Yes, yes, the One, the God, who sways
Creation's depths, hath bid me come

To seek the realms that hymn His praise,
The franchised soul's eternal home.

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On many a tree the autumn throws
Its brilliant robes of red;

As sickness lights the cheeks of those
It hastens to the dead.

That tinge is flattering and bright,
But tells of death like this; ,

And they, that see its gathering light
Their lingering hopes dismiss.

O, thus serene, and free from fear,
Shall be our last repose;
Thus, like the sabbath of the year,
Our latest evening close.

WHEN brighter suns and milder skies Proclaim the opening year,

* This piece, and some others in this volume, are selected from a little Catechism in verse, prepared several years since by Mr. Peabody, for the use of children. It contains true poetry, besides being well adapted, by its simplicity, for the purpose which the author had in view.—Ep.

What various sounds of joy arise ! * What prospects bright appear !

Earth and her thousand voices give
Their thousand notes of praise;

And all, that by his mercy live,
To God their offering raise.

Forth walks the laborer to his toil,
And sees the fresh array

Of verdure clothe the flowery soil
Along his careless way.

The streams, all beautiful and bright,
Reflect the morning sky;

And there, with music in his flight,
The wild bird soars on high.

Thus, like the morning, calm and clear,
That saw the Savior rise,

The spring of heaven's eternal year
Shall dawn on earth and skies.

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The slender flower-bud dreads to swell
In that unclouded blue,

And treasures in its fading bell
The spark of morning dew.

The stream bounds lightly from the spring
To cool and shadowy caves;
And the bird dips his weary wing
Beneath its sparkling waves.

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THERE sits a woman on the brow
Ofyonder rocky height;
There, gazing o'er the waves below,
She sits from morn till night.

She heeds not how the mad waves leap
Along the rugged shore; ,

She looks for one upon the deep
She never may see more.

Far other once was Rosalie;
Her smile was glad; her voice,

Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart—Rejoice.

Nine years—though all have given him o'er,
Her spirit doth not fail;

And still she waits along the shore
The never-coming sail.

On that high rock, abrupt and bare,
Ever she sits as now ;

The dews have damped her flowing hair;
The sun has scorched her brow.

And every far-off sail she sees,
And every passing cloud, -

Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze,
She calls to it aloud.

The sea-bird answers to her cry,
The cloud, the sail float on ;

The hoarse wave mocks her misery,
Yet is her hope not gone.

When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds are in their nest,

And fiewer-buds folded up to sleep,
And ploughmen gone to rest,-

Down the rude track her feet have worn—
There scarce the goat may go—

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