Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine,
Bears a flower thus purely bright;
Thus, when sunny hours decline,
Friendship sheds her cheering light.
Religion, too, that heavenly flower,
That joy of never-fading worth,
Waits, like thee, the darkest hour,
Then puts all her glories forth.
Then thy beauties are surpassed,
Splendid flower, that bloom'st to die;
For Friendship and Religion last,
When the morning beams on high.
GOD is good! Each perfumed flower,
The smiling fields, the dark green wood,
The insect, fluttering for an hour,-
All things proclaim that God is good.
I hear it in the rushing wind;
Hills that have for ages stood,
And clouds, with gold and silver lined,
Are still repeating, God is good.
Each little rill, that, many a year,
Has the same verdant path pursued,
And every bird, in accents clear,
Joins in the song that God is good.
The restless main, with haughty roar,
Calms each wild wave and billow rude,
Retreats submissive from the shore,
And swells the chorus, God is good.
Countless hosts of burning stars
Sing his praise with light renewed;
The rising sun each day declares,
In rays of glory, God is good.
The moon that walks in brightness, says,
God is good and man, endued
With power to speak his Maker's praise,
Should still repeat that God is good.
Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles.-ANONYMOUS.
WHEN, on the midnight of the East,
At the dead moment of repose,
Like hope on misery's darkened breast,
The planet of salvation rose,-
The shepherd, leaning o'er his flock,
Started with broad and upward gaze,—
Kneel'd,-while the Star of Bethlehem broke
On music wakened into praise.
The Arabian sage, to hail our King,
With Persia's star-led magi comes;
And all, with reverent homage, bring
Their gifts of gold and odorous gums.
If heathen sages, from afar,
Followed, when darkness round them spread The kindling glories of that star,
And worshipped where its radiance led,—
Shall we, for whom that star was hung
In the dark vault of frowning heaven,—
Shall we,
for whom that strain was sung,
That song of peace and sin forgiven,—
Shall we, for whom the Savior bled,
Careless his banquet's blessings see,
Nor heed the parting word that said
"Do this in memory of me?"
The Dying Child.-CARLOS WILCOX.
THUS happily they lived,
Till, in their arms, a second pleasant babe,
With a faint smile, intelligent, began
To answer theirs, and with a brighter that
Of its fond sister, standing by their side,
With frequent kisses prattling in its face;
While in its features, with parental joy,
And love connubial, they began to mark
Theirs intermingled ;-when, with sudden stroke,
The blooming infant faded, and expired.
And soon its lonely sister, doubly dear
Now in their grief, was in like manner torn
From their united grasp. With patience far
Beyond her years, the little sufferer bore
Her sharp distemper, while she could behold
Both parents by her side; but, when from sleep,
Transient and troubled, waking, wept aloud,
As terrified, if either were not there.
To hear their voices singing of the love
Of her Redeemer, in her favorite hymn,
And praying for his mercy, oft she asked
With eagerness, and seemed the while at ease.
When came the final struggle, with the look
Of a grieved child, and with its mournful cry,
But still with something of her wonted tone
Of confidence in danger, as for help
She called on them, on both alternately,
As if by turns expecting that relief
From each the other had grown slow to yield;
At which their calmness, undisturbed till then,
Gave way to agitation past control.
A few heart-rending moments, and her voice.
Sunk to a weak and inarticulate moan,
Then in a whisper ended; and with that
Her features grew composed and fixed in death;
At sight of which their lost tranquillity
At once returned. 'Twas evening; and the lamp,
Set near, shone full upon her placid face,
Its snowy white illuming, while they stood
Gazing as on her loveliness in sleep,
The enfeebled mother on the father's arm
Heavily hanging, like the slender flower
On its firm prop, when loaded down with rain
Or morning dew.
To a Musquito.-NEW YORK REVIEW.
FAIR insect, that, with thread-like legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,
In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing,
And tell'st how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them freely to thy need;
I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth;
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, broad and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth.
At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway—
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist! And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.
O, these were sights to touch an anchorite!-
What, do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:
Thou art a wayward being--well, come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.
What say'st thou, slanderer? "Rouge makes thee sick,
And China bloom at best is sorry food;
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,
Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?"
Go, 'twas a just reward that met thy crime-
But shun the sacrilege another time.
That bloom was made to look at, not to touch,
To worship, not approach, that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously, to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired,
Murmured thy adoration, and retired.
Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round-the pale-eyed sisters, in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.
Try some plump alderman; and suck the blood
Enriched with generous wine and costly meat;
In well filled skins, soft as thy native mud,
Fix thy light pump, and raise thy freckled feet.
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.
There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee; and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose,
Shall tempt thee as thou flittest round the brow
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.
Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God.-
LONGFELLOW.
WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and Elysian song
His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.
* Most of Mr. Longfellow's poetry-indeed, we believe nearly all that has been published-appeared, during his college life, in the United States? Literary Gazette. It displays a very refined taste, and a very pure vein of poetical feeling. It possesses what has been a rare quality in the American poets-simplicity of expression, without any attempt to startle the reader, or to produce an effect by far-sought epithets. There is much sweetness in his imagery and language; and sometimes he is hardly excelled by any one for the quiet accuracy exhibited in his pictures of natural objects. His poetry will not easily be forgotten; some of it will be remembered with that of Dana and Bryant.-ED.
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