What various sounds of joy arise! Forth walks the laborer to his toil, Of verdure clothe the flowery soil The streams, all beautiful and bright, And there, with music in his flight, Thus, like the morning, calm and clear, The spring of heaven's eternal year No winter there, no shades of night, Summer.-PEABODY. How fast the rapid hours retire! 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. Rosalie.-MRS. HALE'S MAGAZINE. THERE sits a woman on the brow She heeds not how the mad waves leap She looks for one upon the deep Far other once was Rosalie; Her smile was glad; her voice, Like music o'er a summer sea, Nine years-though all have given him o'er, 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, The sea-bird answers to her cry, The hoarse wave mocks her misery, When falling dews the clover steep, Down the rude track her feet have worn- Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn, But when the gray morn tints the sky, Again she goes, untired, to sit, And watch, the live-long day; Nor, till the star of eve is lit, To a young Invalid, condemned, by accidental Lameness, to perpetual Confinement.-HENRY PICKERING. THINE is the spring of life, dear boy, And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue, Not so! What means this foolish heart, And verse as idly vain ? Each hath his own allotted part Of pleasure and of pain: And while thou canst the hours beguile, I would not quench that languid smile, Some are condemned to roam the earth, Scarce destined, from their very birth. To thee, sweet one, repose was given, That thou might'st early think of heaven, That thou might'st know what love supreme Flame quenchless as the heavenly beam, William, that love which shadows thee, O that my riper life could be Deserving it as thine! The Sage of Caucasus.-HILLHOUSE. Hadad. NONE knows his lineage, age, or name: his locks Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes Beam with the wisdom of collected ages. In green, unbroken years, he sees, 'tis said, The generations pass, like autumn fruits, Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life, Again to perish, while he views the sun, The seasons roll, in rapt serenity, And high communion with celestial powers. Some say 'tis Shem, our father; some say Enoch, Tamar. I've heard a tale Like this, but ne'er believed it. Had. I have proved it.— Through perils dire, dangers most imminent, Seven days and nights midst rocks and wildernesses, Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing, Save the far-soaring vulture, comes, I dared My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish. Had. On the highest peak Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot, On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers Tam. Had. But did'st thou see him? Never did I view Such awful majesty: his reverend locks The Resolution of Ruth.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER, FAREWELL? O no! it may not be; I will not breathe farewell to thee, I know not that I now could bear I did not love in former years, To leave thee solitary: now, When sorrow dims thine eyes with tears, I'll share the trial and the pain; And strong the furnace fires must be, I will not boast a martyr's might The weak are strong, the timid brave, And faith grows mightier than the grave. It was not so, ere he we loved, And vainly strove with Heaven to save, |