And who can dare

To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn?-Even Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild waves
Retire abash'd.-For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Doth rest not night or day.

The morning stars,

When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem,-and those wrecking fires
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
On thine unfathom'd page.-Each leafy bough
That lifts itself within thy proud domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
And tremble at the baptism.-Lo! yon birds
Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing
Amid thy foam and mist.-Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem,—or lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,-
Who sport unharm'd upon the fleecy cloud,
And listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof.-But as for us,-it seems
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak
Familiarly of thee.-Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation.

Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty;

And while it rushes with delirious joy
To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And check its rapture with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand

In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.

A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE.

A butterfly bask'd on a baby's grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow:
"Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,
When she of the blue and sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low?"

Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:

"I was a worm till I won my wings,

And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings: Wouldst thou call the blest one back?"

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Death found strange beauty on that polish'd brow,

And dash'd it out.

On cheek and lip.
And the rose faded.

There was a tint of rose

He touch'd the veins with ice,
Forth from those blue eyes

There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
The seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile,
So fix'd, so holy, from that cherub brow,

Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.

ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white-wing'd messenger On mercy's missions trust your timid germ

To the cold cradle of eternal snows?

Or, breathing on the callous icicles,

Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?—

-Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils

O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness,—
Fearless, yet frail,-and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencill'd beauty. 'Mid the pomp
Of mountain-summits rushing on the sky,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale
And freer dreams of heaven.

CONTENTMENT.

Think'st thou the steed that restless roves
O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,

With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee,
On thymy bank or vernal tree,
Intent to store her industry

Within her waxen round?

Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Through marble vase or sculptured urn
Affords a sweeter draught

Than that which, in its native sphere,
Perennial, undisturb'd and clear,
Flows the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,
And wake his grateful thought?

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pomp and miser's gold
Obtains a richer prize
Than he who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?

THE CORAL-INSECT.

Toil on toil on! ye ephemeral train,
Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;
Toil on-for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock:
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,

And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;
The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men,

And the mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup;
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath;
And why need ye sow the floods with death?

With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,

And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build-ye build-but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;
As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid,

Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,

Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

THE GAIN OF ADVERSITY.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity."

A Lily said to a threatening Cloud
That in sternest garb array'd him,

"You have taken my lord, the Sun, away,
And I know not where you have laid him."

It folded its leaves, and trembled sore

As the hours of darkness press'd it,
But at morn, like a bride, in beauty shone,
For with pearls the dews had dress'd it.

Then it felt ashamed of its fretful thought,
And fain in the dust would hide it,

For the night of weeping had jewels brought,
Which the pride of day denied it.

THE PRIVILEGES OF AGE.

The aged, especially if their conquest of self is imperfect, are prone to underrate the advantages that remain. Their minds linger among depressing subjects, repining for what "time's effacing fingers" will never restore. Far better would it be to muse on their remaining privileges, to recount them, and to rejoice in them. Many instances have I witnessed, both of this spirit, and the want of it, which left enduring impressions.

I well remember an ancient dwelling, sheltered by lofty, umbrageous trees, and with all the appendages of rural comfort. A fair prospect of hill and dale, and broad river, and distant spire, cheered the vine-covered piazzas, through whose loop-holes, with the subdued cry of the steam-borne cars, the world's great Babel made a dash at the picture without coming too near. Traits of agricultural life, divested of its rude and sordid toils, were pleasantly visible. A smooth-coated and symmetrical cow ruminated over her clover-meal. A faithful horse, submissive to the gentlest

rein, protruded his honest face through the barn window. A few brooding mothers were busy with the nurture of their chickens, while the proud father of the flock told, with a clarion-voice, his happiness. There were trees, whose summer fruits were richly swelling, and bushes of ripening berries, and gardens of choice vegetables. Those who, from the hot and dusty city, came to breathe the pure air of this sylvan retreat, took note of these "creature-comforts," and thought they added beauty to the landscape.

Within the abode, fair pictures and books of no mean literature adorned the parlors; in the carpeted kitchen, ticked the stately old family clock, while the bright dishes stood in orderly array upon the speckless shelves. Visitants could not but admire that union of taste and education which makes rural life beautiful. It might seem almost as an Elysium, where care would delight to repose, or philosophy to pursue her researches without interruption. But to any such remark, the excellent owner was wont mournfully to reply,

"Here are only two old people together. Our children are married and gone. Some of them are dead. We cannot be expected to have much enjoyment."

Oh, dear friends, but it is expected that you should. Your very statement of the premises is an admission of peculiar sources of comfort.

"Two old people together." Whose sympathies can be so perfect? And is not sympathy a source of happiness? Side by side ye have journeyed through joys and sorrows. You have stood by the grave's brink when it swallowed up your idols, and the iron that entered into your souls was fused as a living link, that time might never destroy. Under the cloud, and through the sea, you have walked hand in hand, heart to heart. What subjects of communion must you have, with which no other human being could intermeddle!

"Two old people." Would your experience be so rich and profound, if you were not old? or your congeniality so entire, if one was old, and the other young? What a blessing that you can say, There are two of us. Can you realize the loneliness of soul that must gather around the words "left alone!" How many of memory's cherished pictures must then be viewed through blinding tears! how feelingly the expression of the poet must be adopted-"'tis the survivor dies"!

"Our children are married and gone." Would you have it otherwise? Was it not fitting for them to comply with the institution of their Creator? Is it not better than if they were all at home, without congenial employment, pining in disappointed hope, or solitude of the heart?

Married and gone! To teach in other