Upon the paths of nature, and, when all
Its voices whisper, and its silent things
Are breathing the deep beauty of the world,
Kneel at its simple altar, and the God
Who hath the living waters shall be there !

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I love by faith to take a view
Of brighter scenes in heaven:

Such prospects oft my strength renew,
While here by tempests driven.

Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er,
May its departing ray

Be calm as this impressive hour,
And lead to endless day.

To the River Arve.—TALIsm. AN.

Nor from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve, thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within its bosom, locks
Thy dark, unfathomed wells below.
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream
Begins to move and murmur first
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,
Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.

Born where the thunder, and the blast,
And morning's earliest light are born,
Thou rushest, swoln, and loud, and fast,
By these low homes, as if in scorn:
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves,
And brighter, glassier streams than thine,
Sent up from earth’s unlighted caves,
With heaven’s own beam and image shine

Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;
Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees:
Here linger till thy waves are clear.
Thou heedest not; thou hastest on;
From steep to steep thy torrent falls,
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,
It rests beneath Geneva’s walls.

Rush on; but were there one with me That loved me, I would light my hearth Here, where with God’s own majesty Are touched the features of the earth. By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, Still rising as the tempests beat, Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, Among the blossoms at their feet.

The Burial.—ANoNYMoUs.

“We therefore commit his body to the ground.”—Burial Service

THE earth has fallen cold and deep
Above his narrow bier;

No wintry winds can break his sleep,
No thunders reach his ear.

The mourner's parting steps are gone,
Gone the last echoing sound;

And night's dark shadows, stealing on,
Spread solemn gloom around.

And he whose heart was wont to glow
With joy, when hastening home,

Here must he lie, cold, silent, now,
And mouldering in the tomb,<

Till time itself, and days, and years,
Shall all have passed away;

In that cold heart, no hopes nor fears
Shall hold their dubious sway.

+ + + + + + + *

Though deep the slumbers of the tomb,
Though dark that bed of clay,

Yet shall he wake, and leave that gloom,
For everlasting day.

-oOn the Loss of a pious Friend.—BRAINARn. Imitated from the 57th chapter of Isaiah.

WHo shall weep when the righteous die
Who shall mourn when the good depart 2

When the soul of the godly away shall fly,
Who shall lay the loss to heart?

He has gone into peace; he has laid him down
To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day;

And he shall wake on that holy morn,
When sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

But ye, who worship in sin and shame
Your idol gods, whate'er they be,

Who scoffin your pride at your Maker's name,
By the pebbly stream and the shady tree,_

Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams,
Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray;

Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams,
But the wind shall carry them all away.

There’s one who drank at a purer fountain,
One who was washed in a purer flood:

He shall inherit a holier mountain,
He shall worship a holier Lord.

But the sinner shall utterly fail and die,
Whelmed in the waves of a troubled sea;

And God, from his throne of light on high,
Shall say, “There is no peace for thee.”

-oIcarus.”—FRom THE Port-Folio.

IIEARD'st thou that dying moan of gasping breath,
The shriek of agony, despair and death?
Prone from § station in the skies,
The lost adventurer falls, no more to rise;
Wain boast of earthly nature, that hath striven
To rival, in his flight, the lords of heaven!

Long o'er the azure air he winged his way,
And tracked the pure ethereal light of day,
On floating clouds of amber radiance hung,
And on the fragrant breeze his pinions flung;
But ah! forgetful that the blaze of noon
Would sweep his daring frame to earth too soon,
Spurning his sire, he rose sublime on high,
Lost in the radiance of the solar sky:—
The melting wax proclaims his sad defeat;
He fades before the intolerable heat.

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The heaving surge received him as he fell,
While sadder moaned the unaccustomed swell;
The Nereids caught him on the trembling waves,
And bore his body to their coral caves;
His funeral song they sung, and every surge
Murmured along his melancholy dirge: o
Wide o'er the sparkling deep the sound was heard,
Mixed with the wailing of the ocean bird,
Then passed away, and all was still again
Upon the wide, unfathomable main;
But to that roaring sea immortal fame
Gave—to commemorate the deed—his name!

—o- Sunset in September.”—CARLos WILcox.

THE sun now rests upon the mountain tops—
Begins to sink behind—is half concealed—
And now is gone: the last faint twinkling beam
Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge.

* Every person, who has witnessed the splendor of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer’s evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the land: scape; the situation of the hill, on the broad level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells ...}. into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot, -these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, *fading, still fading,” till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless qight reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost everything to charm and elevate the feelings of the student . In winter, the north-western blasts. that sweep fresh from the snow banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.—Ed.

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