But ye, who worship in sin and shame Your idol gods, whate'er they be,- Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams, There's one who drank at a purer fountain, He shall worship a holier Lord. But the sinner shall utterly fail and die, Icarus.* FROM THE PORT-FOLIO. HEARD'ST thou that dying moan of gasping breath, Long o'er the azure air he winged his way, Would sweep his daring frame to earth too soon, The melting wax proclaims his sad defeat; He fades before the intolerable heat. *This piece, which was first published in the Port-Folio, was written, we believe, by Rev. J. W. Eastburn.-ED. G The heaving surge received him as he fell, Wide o'er the sparkling deep the sound was heard, Gave-to commemorate the deed-his name! Sunset in September.*-CARLOS WILCOX. THE SUN now rests upon the mountain tops- * Every person, who has witnessed the splendor of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the land. scape; the situation of the hill, on the broad level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot,-these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, 'fading, still fading,' till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.-ED. Sweet to the pensive is departing day, Or when the whole consolidated mass, As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, Upon a nearer still, a single tree, With shapely form, looks beautiful alone; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass Scooped in the hither range, a single mount But now the twilight mingles into one From "The Buccaneer."-Dana. A SOUND is in the Pyrenees! Sweeping both cowl and crown. On field and vineyard thick and red it stood. And wrath and terror shake the land; Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain! Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride: Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound- He fell for Spain-her Spain no more; And wait, amidst her sorrows, till the day Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low. 'Twould joy his heart could he but aid So good a lady in her wo, He meekly, smoothly said. With wealth and servants, she is soon aboard, The sun goes down upon the sea; My home, how like a tomb! O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head. And now the stars are burning bright; Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow, Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea! He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. Sonnet.-BRYANT. A POWER 13 on the earth and in the air From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth: her thousand plants Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze: The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den; The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town: As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent Its deadly breath into the firmament. * |