There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flauntGaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, [ing

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn,

[som : The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare boSweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds ex

celling, [ing. Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwell

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude? Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy

WILLIAM LEGGETT.

A SACRED MELODY.

Ir yon bright stars which gem the night
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,

Where kindred spirits reunite,

Whom death has torn asunder here;

How sweet it were at once to die,

And leave this blighted orb afar-
Mixed soul with soul, to cleave the sky,
And soar away from star to star.

But oh! how dark, how drear, how lone
Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If, wandering through each radiant one,
We failed to find the loved of this!
If there no more the ties should twine,

Which death's cold hand alone can sever,
Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful as they shine for ever.

It cannot be! each hope and fear

That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now!
There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears: The pure in heart shall meet again!"

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

Labitur et labetur.

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God pour'd thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front;

And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,

And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to HIM, Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far Above its loftiest mountains? a light wave That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

MR. MERRY'S LAMENT FOR "LONG TOM."

"Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore."

THY cruise is over now,

Thou art anchor'd by the shore,

And never more shalt thou

Hear the storm around thee roar;

Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.
Now around thee sports the whale,
And the porpoise snuffs the gale,
And the night-winds wake their wail,
As they pass.

The sea-grass round thy bier
Shall bend beneath the tide,
Nor tell the breakers near

Where thy manly limbs abide;

But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be.
Though the edges of thy grave

Are the combings of the wave,
Yet unheeded they shall rave

Over thee.

At the piping of all hands,

When the judgment signal's spread→→→
When the islands, and the lands,
And the seas give up their dead,
And the south and the north shall come;
When the sinner is betray'd,

And the just man is afraid,
Then Heaven be thy aid,
Poor Tom.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

WHAT is there sadd'ning in the Autumn leaves? Have they that "green and yellow melancholy" That the sweet poet spake of? Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charmsWhen the dread fever quits us-when the storms Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest tops-he had not sigh'd.

The moon stays longest for the Hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, "What is there sadd'ning in the Autumn leaves?"

"The dead leaves strow the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dewdrops fall in frozen showers.

Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers, Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,

And Autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree.
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perch'd and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
The northern breeze that rustles by,
Finds leaves too green and buds too fair;
No forest-tree stands stripp'd and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain-top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there with all the birds, and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight,
Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
I'll gaze upon the cold north light,
And mark where all its glories shone-
See!-that it all is fair and bright,
Feel-that it all is cold and gone."