“ Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown-but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan, Upon thy Mount Lycean!”

A sprightly poem by LOWELL, the American poet.

Into the sunshine,

Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing

From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight

Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,

Happy by day!
Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary ;

Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best,
Upward or downward

Motion thy rest ;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,

Ever the same ;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine

Thy element;
Glorious fountain !

Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,

Upward, like thee!

A most poetical thought from one of THOMAS MOORE's later poems.

AND who can tell, as we're combined
Of various atoms--some refined,
Like those that scintillate and play
In the fix'd stars--some, gross as they
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay-
Who can be sure but 'tis the best

And brightest atoms of our frame,

Those most akin to stellar flame,
That shine out thus, when we're at rest;
Ev'n as their kindred stars, whose light
Comes out but in the silent night?
Or is it that there lurks, indeed,
Some truth in Man's prevailing creed,
And that our Guardians from on high

Come, in that pause from toil and sin,
To put the senses' curtain by,

And on the wakeful soul look in ?


Oh! 'tis merry when stars are bright

To sing, as you pace along,
Of the things that are dreamt by night,

To the motion of some old song:

For the fancy of mortals teems,

Whether they wake or sleep,
With figures, that shine like dreams,
Then, die in the darkness deep,

Oh! merry are Christmas times,
And merry the belfry chimes;
But the merriest things
That a man e'er sings,
Are his Midnight Rhymes.

'Tis night when the usurers feel

That their money is thrice repaid; 'Tis night when adorers kneel,

By scores, to the sleeping maid ; 'Tis night when the author deems

That his critics are all at bay, And the gamester regains in dreams The gold that he lost by day,

Oh! merry are Christmas times, &c.

At night, both the sick and the lame

Abandon their world of care ;
And the creature that droops with shame

Forgetteth her old despair !
The boy on the raging deep

Laughs loud that the skies are clear;
And the murderer turns, in sleep,
And dreams that a pardon's near !

Oh! merry are Christmas times, &c.

At night, all wrongs are right,

And all perils of life grow smooth;
Then why cometh the fierce day-light,

When fancy is bright as truth?
All hearts, 'tween the earth and the moon,

Recover their hopes again :
Ah,-'tis pity so sweet a tune
Should ever be jarr'd by pain !

Yet,--merry are Christmas times, &c. FLOWERS. This poem was cut from one of the newspapers many years ago. The author's name is not known.

OH! they look'd upward in every place

Through this beautiful world of ours,
And dear as a smile on an old friend's face

Is the smile of the bright, bright flowers !
They tell us of wand'rings by woods and streams;

They tell us of lanes and trees ;
But the children of showers and sunny beams
Have lovelier tales than these-

The bright, bright flowers !

They tell of a season when men were not,

When earth was by angels trod,
And leaves and flowers in every spot

Burst forth at the call of God,
When spirits, singing their hymns at even,

Wander'd by wood and glade,
And the Lord looked down from the highest heaven,
And bless'd what He had made-

The bright, bright flowers !

That blessing remaineth upon them still,

Though often the storm-cloud lowers,
And frequent tempests may soil and chill

The gayest of earth's fair flowers.
When Sin and Death, with their sister Grief,

Made a home in the hearts of men,
The blessing of God on each tender leaf
Preserved in their beauty then

The bright, bright flowers !

The lily is lovely as when it slept

On the waters of Eden's lake;
The woodbine breathes sweetly as when it crept

In Eden, from brake to brake.
They were left as a proof of the loveliness

Of Adam and Eve's first home :
They are here as a type of the joys that bless
The just in the world to come-

The bright, bright flowers !


By BRYANT, the American poet.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps

The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps

And perishes among the dust we tread ?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain

If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven ?

In meadows fann'd by heaven's life-breathing wind,

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfetter'd mind,

Wilt thou forget the love that join'd us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past,

And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,

Shall it expire with life, and be no more? A happier lot than mine, and larger light,

Await thee there; for thou hast bow'd thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell

Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,

Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,

Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

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