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And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously, to bite.

ou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired, Murmured thy adoration, and retired.

Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round-the pale-eyed sisters, in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman; and suck the blood
Enriched with generous wine and costly meat;
In well filled skins, soft as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and raise thy freckled feet.
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee; and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose,
Shall tempt thee as thou flittest round the brow
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God.-
LONGFELLOW.*

WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and Elysian song

His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.

* Most of Mr. Longfellow's poetry-indeed, we believe nearly all that has been published-appeared, during his college life, in the United States? Literary Gazette. It displays a very refined taste, and a very pure vein of poetical feeling. It possesses what has been a rare quality in the American poets-simplicity of expression, without any attempt to startle the reader, or to produce an effect by far-sought epithets. There is much sweetness in his imagery and language; and sometimes he is hardly excelled by any one for the quiet accuracy exhibited in his pictures of natural objects. His poetry will not easily be forgotten; some of it will be remembered with that of Dana and Bryant.-ED.

Devotion breathed aloud from every chord ;-
The voice of praise was heard in every tone,
And prayer, and thanks to Him, the Eternal One,-
To Him, that, with bright inspiration, touched
The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song,
And warmed the soul with new vitality.
A stirring energy through nature breathed;—
The voice of adoration from her broke,
Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard
Long in the sullen waterfall,-what time
Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth
Its bloom or blighting,-when the Summer smiled,
Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned.
The Deity was there!-a nameless spirit
Moved in the hearts of men to do him homage;
And when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale,
Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn,
They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees,
And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,
Where the pale vine clung round their simple altars,
And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard
The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees
Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty,
And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below,
The bright and widely-wandering rivulet
Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots,
That choked its reedy fountain—and dark rocks,
Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there

The listless wave, that stole, with mellow voice,
Where reeds grew rank upon the rushy brink,
And to the wandering wind the green sedge bent,
Sang a sweet song of fixed tranquillity.

Men felt the heavenly influence; and it stole
Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace;

And even the air they breathed,-the light they saw,-
Became religion;-for the ethereal spirit,

That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,
And mellows every thing to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there-for all was love.
The morning stars, that sweetly sang together-
The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky--
Dayspring-and eventide-and all the fair
And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice
Of eloquent worship. Ocean, with its tide,

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? Are there on earth
No pure reflections caught from heavenly love?
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.

The Blind Man's Lament.-JAMES WALLIS 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 valley 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.

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,

Thou 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.

Autumn.*-PEABODY.

THE dying year! the dying year!
The heaven is clear and mild;
And withering all the fields appear
Where once the verdure smiled.

The summer ends its short career;
The zephyr breathes farewell;
And now upon the closing year
The yellow glories dwell.

The radiant clouds float slow above
The lake's transparent breast;
In splendid foliage all the grove
Is fancifully dressed.

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.

Spring.-PEABODY.

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.-ED.

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