On the morn of the eighth, on a huge sable stone With a rock for his muller, he crushed every bone, Now reaching his palette, with masterly care The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, Then, stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, By a team of ten glow-worms upborne. Enthroned in the midst on an emerald bright, Her robe was a gleam of the first blush of light, In an accent that stole on the still charmed air ""Tis true," said the monster, " thou queen of my heart, Thy portrait I oft have essayed; Yet ne'er to the canvas could I with my art "Now I swear by the light of the Comet-King's tail,”And he towered with pride as he spoke, "If again with these magical colors I fail, The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. "But if I succeed, then, O fair Geraldine, The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine He spake; when, behold, the fair Geraldine's form His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem 'Twas the fairy herself! but, alas, her blue eyes Still a pupil did ruefully lack; And who shall describe the terrific surprise That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries Not a speck of his palette of black! "I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground, He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief "I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone; Then, rising, the fairy, in ire, With a touch of her finger, she loosened her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan,) And she swelled to a column of fire. Her spear now a thunder-bolt flashed in the air, Then over the picture thrice waving her spear, The murdered Traveller.-BRYANT. WHEN Spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, The fragrant birch, above him, hung And many a vernal blossom sprung, The red-bird warbled, as he wrought But there was weeping far away, With watching many an anxious day, They little knew, who loved him so, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Nor how, when, round the frosty pole, The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come. So long they looked-but never spied Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.-F. G. HALLECK. GREEN be the turf above thee, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts, whose truth was proven, And I, who woke each morrow It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. To H--CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. SWEET child, that wasted form, This world is not for thee. No! not for thee is woven That wreath of joy and wo, Soon shall thy bright young spirit Yes, thou art going home, O Father of our spirits, We can but look to thee; Teach us to say, with Jesus, 66 'Thy will, not ours, be done!" The dying Raven.-RICHARD H. DANA. alone? COME to these lonely woods to " It seems not many days since thou wast heard, From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, Calling unto thy mates-and their clear answers The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves |