And still the summer vines are thrown, In annual wreaths, across her breast. The Revellers.-OHIO BACKWOODSMAN. THERE were sounds of mirth and joyousness And there was many a merry laugh, And the glass was freely passed around, A voice arose in that place of mirth, I have no fear-I have no fear- And he wars but with his breath. Cheer, comrades, cheer! We drink to Life, As of spirits sweeping by; And presently the latch flew up, And the door flew open wide; And a stranger strode within the hall, He spoke: "I join in your revelry, Bold sons of the Bacchan rite; And I drink the toast you have drank before, The pledge of yon dauntless knight. Fill high-fill high-we drink to Life, And we scorn the reaper Death; For he is a grim old gentleman, And he wars but with his breath. He's a noble soul, that champion knight, A muttered curse, and a vengeful oath- He struck-and the stranger's guise fell off, A grinning, and ghastly, and horrible thing, And they struggled awhile, till the stranger blew And the Bacchanal fell at the phantom's feet, "I would not live always.”—B. B. THATCHER. EARTH is the spirit's rayless cell; But then, as a bird soars home to the shade So will its weary wing Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done, O, not more sweet the tears Of the dewy eve on the violet shed, Nor dearer, mid the foam Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar, Wings, like a dove, to fly! The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;0, for its home in the upper Life! When, when will Death draw nigh! The Disimbodied Spirit.-PEABODY. O SACRED star of evening, tell In what unseen, celestial sphere, Too pure to rest in sadness here. Roam they the crystal fields of light, Soul of the just! and canst thou soar And canst thou join the sacred choir, Through heaven's high dome the song to raise, Oh! who would heed the chilling blast, The bright wave of eternity! And who the sorrows would not bear Lines on hearing of the Death of Garafilia Mohalbi.MRS. SIGOURNEY. SWEET bird of Ipsera! that fled Why was thy tarrying here so brief, Thou sheltered in affection's breast? Thy bright wing spread. Should aught detain When, echoing from the heavenly plain, No: where no archer's shaft can fly, No winter check the tuneful sphere, Rise, wanderer, to thy native sky, Crossing the Ford.-O. W. H. CLOUDS, forests, hills, and waters !—and they sleep And who are they that stir the slumbering stream? That, to my eyes of ignorance, they seem Like honest rustics on the homeward way; They are to us, like many a living form, ymn of the Cherokee Indian.-I. MCLELLAN, Jun. They waste us; ay, like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; Till they shall fill the land, and we Bryant. LIKE the shadows in the stream, Like the evanescent gleam Of the twilight's failing blaze, Like the fleeting years and days, Like all things that soon decay, Indian son, and Indian sire! Now the hunter's bow's unbent, Is the red man of the wild; To his day there'll dawn no morrow; |