We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, was hung, And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hair Was as the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath It was so like the gentle air of spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us-and her silver voice Was the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. Incomprehensibility of God.*-MISS ELIZABETH TOWNSEND. "I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him." WHERE art thon -THOU! Source and Support of all That is or seen or tot; Thyself unseen, Unfelt, unknown,-alas! unknowable! I look abroad among thy works-the sky, Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,- And speaking winds,-and ask if these are Thee! *To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth volume of the Unitarian Miscellany, would repay us for the toil of looking through whole libraries. It is equal in grandeur to the celebrated produc tion of Bryant-"Thanatopsis ;" nor will it suffer by a comparison with the most sublime pieces either of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. The latter (with a feeling akin to the elevated inspiration which animates these noble lines) has said, "For never guiltless may I speak of Him, I praise Him, and with Faith, that inly feels; ED. Though hailed as gods of old, and only less— (If such, perchance, were mine) did they behold Thee? And next interrogate futurity So fondly tenanted with better things Than e'er experience owned-but both are mute; And past and future, vocal on all else, So full of memories and phantasies, Are deaf and speechless here! Fatigued, I turn From all vain parley with the elements; And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward. From each material thing its anxious guest, If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, He may vouchsafe himself-Spirit to spirit! O Thou, at once most dreaded and desired, Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee? Which soon or late must come. For light like this Peace, my proud aim, Await his will, who hath appointed this, With every other trial. Be that will Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, On Him-the Unrevealed-learn hence, instead, E'en to the perfecting thyself-thy kind- Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau.J. NEAL. O SWITZERLAND, my country, 'tis to thee I strike my harp in agony. My country, nurse of Liberty, Home of the gallant, great, and free, Parents, and home, and friends: Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall; That nods above a people's tomb. Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake, In the swell of thy peaceable sky. They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, And their cymbals are mute; and the desert birds sing Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky, As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by: For deep, in that blue-bosomed water, is laid As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song, In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along. The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge That heaves, incessant, a tranquil dirge, That bright lake is still as a liquid sky; In morning's first light; and the snowy-winged plover, Where my loved ones sleep, No note of joy on this solitude flings, * * * * * * No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No warrior's arm on the hills was reared; No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown; No earthquake reeled; no Thunderer stormed; But the hour when the sun in his pride went down, An everlasting hill was torn From its primeval base, and borne, And the rude cliffs bowed; and the waters fled; The village sank, and the giant trees Leaned back from the encountering breeze, The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, And came down in his pomp; and his path is shown His ancient mysteries lay bare; Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell! The mountain-thy pall and thy prison-may keep thee; shall see thee no more; but till death I will weep thee; Of thy blue dwelling dream wherever I roam, And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam. Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying-ground at O, WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give, Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared; Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb? Of all that parted virtue felt and did! Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign; Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die; My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled. The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERPont. THE pilgrim fathers-where are they? Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, |