PURITY.

To be the ice upon the wave,

While the hush'd current flows beneath,
Dark, mournful, powerless as the grave,
Which only to itself may breathe
Sounds that no more to earth belong,-
Such is their lot who live too long.

And they have lived too long, who find
Their treasury of hope is spent ;
They gaze upon the human kind

Like letters on a monument,

Repeating to the vacant air,

That dust and hollowness are there!

Round that chaste light but hover'd to expire;
Her angel nature found its own defense,
Ev'n in the instincts of its innocence;

As that sweet flow'r which opens every hue

Of its frank heart to eyes content to view,

But folds its leaves and shrinks in sweet disdain
From the least touch that would the bloom profane.
That meekest temper, which all proof defied,
But flowed in calm above a heart of pride,
A pride like that the antique knighthood own'd,
In spotless thought, yet humble mind enthron'd.
O'er all the Woman did the Virgin reign,

And love the heart might break-it could not stain.

25

At midnight, on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night winds sweep From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,

Is first and passionate love-it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall.

STANZAS.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, soul can not resist.

That my

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor,
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As show'rs from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Then read from the treasur'd volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

THE SHUNAMMITE.

N. P. WILLIS.

Ir was a sultry day of summer-time.
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat.

"Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said,
"Thy father is athirst"-and, from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,
She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
Stone vessel, and his little naked feet
Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills,