JWath. Tw8 full years Hath he abode in Jewr Tam. Prophet, thin How he was nurtured—in the faith of idols.That impious worship o since he abiured By his own native strength; and now he looks Abroad through nature's works, and yet must rise-JW'ath. Speaks he of Moses? Tam. Familiar as thyself. .N'ath. I think thou said'st he had surveyed the world? Tam. From Ethiopia to the farthest East, Cities, and tribes, and nations. He can speak Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon, And mightier Nineveh, vast Palibothra, Serendib anchored by the gates of morning, Renowned Benares, where the sages teach The mystery of the soul, and that famed seat Where fleets and warriors from Elishah’s Isles Besieged the Beauty, where great Memnon fell;Of temples, groves, and superstitious caves Filled with strange symbols of the Deity; Of wondrous mountains, desert-circled seas, Isles of the ocean, lovely Paradises, Set, like unfading emeralds, in the deep. JW'ath. Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. Tam. All this His thirst of knowledge has achieved; the wish To gather from the wise eternal truth. JVath. Not found where he has sought it, and has led Thy wandering fancy. Tam. O, might I relate— But I bethink me, father, of a thing Like that you asked. Sometimes, when I'm alone, Just ere his coming, I have heard a sound, A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound, Like music in the air. Anon he enters. JVath. Ha! is this oft 2 Tam. ”Tis not unfrequent. JVath. Only When thou’rt alone * Tam. I have not heard it else. JVath. A sound like what? Tam. Like wild, sad music, father; More moving than the Jute or viol touched

By skilful fingers. Wailing in the air,
It seems around me, and withdraws as when
One looks and lingers for a last adieu.
JW'ath. Just ere he enters?
Tam. At his step it dies.
JWath. Mark me.—Thou know'st 'tis held by righteous
That Heaven intrusts us all to watching spirits,
Who ward us from the tempter.—This I deem
Some intimation of an unseen danger.
Tam. But whence 2 -
JVath. Time may reveal: meanwhile, I warn thee,
Trust not thyself alone with Hadad.
Tam. Father,
JVath. I lay not to his charge; I know, in sooth,
Little of him, (though I have supplicated,)
And will not wound thee with a dark suspicion
But shun the peril thou art warned of; shun
What looks like danger, though we haply err:
Be not alone with him, I charge thee.
Tam. Seer,
I will avoid it.
JWath. All is ominous :
The oracles are mute, dreams warn no more,
Urim and Thummim keep their glory hid;
My days are dark, my nights are visionless;
Jehovah hath forsaken, or, in wrath,
Resigned us for a season. Times like these
Are jubilee in hell. Fiends walk the earth,
Misleading princes, tempting poor men's pillows.
Supplying moody hatred with the dagger,
Lust with occasions, treason with excuses,
Lifting man’s heart, like the rebellious waves,
Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble;
So may the Highest overshadow thee!
[Erit JVath.]
Tam. His awful accents freeze my blood.—Alas!
How desolate, how dark my prospect lowers'—
O Hadad, is it thus those sunny days,
Those sweet deceptive hopes, must terminate,
When, mixing in thy gentle looks, I saw
Love blend with reverence, as my lips described
The power, the patience, purity, and faith
Of our Almighty Father? Then, I thought
Thy spirit, softened by its earthly passion,

Meetly refined, and tempered, to receive
The impression of a love which never dies.
How art thou changed! All tenderness you seemed,
Gentle and social as a playful child;
But now, in lofty meditation wrapped,
As on an icy mountain-top thou sit'st
Lonely and unapproachable, or tossest

§. the surge of passion, like the wreck
Of some proud Tyrian in the stormy sea. -

-->Extract from “The Airs of Palestine.”—PIERPont

ON Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Wallombrosa throws, Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, Alone,—at night, the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night’s queen:—he sees her image, on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest Around his brow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering, dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rests her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen! How dark the mountain’s shades. How still the scene! Hushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir The valley’s willow, nor the mountain's fir, Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.

Hark!—’tis a convent’s bell:—its midnight chime : For music measures even the march of time:— O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise:–the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar;-a low and solemn swell, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. What melting song wakes the cold ear of night? A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white,

Chant round a sister’s dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell ! With raptured ear,
That uncaged spirit, hovering, lingers near:—
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss,
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this?

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THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from his “hollow hand,” And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed 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 2
0, what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering sides
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 drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker’s might.

JAt JMusing Hour.—THoMAs WELLs.

At musing hour of twilight gray,
When silence reigns around,

I love to walk the churchyard way:
To me ’tis holy ground.

To me, congenial is the place
Where yew and cypress grow;
I love the moss-grown stone to trace,
That tells who lies below.

And, as the lonely spot I pass
Where weary ones repose,

I think, like them, how soon, alas !
My pilgrimage will close.

Like them, I think, when I am gone,
And soundly sleep as they,

Alike unnoticed and unknown
Shall pass my name away.

Yet, ah —and let me lightly tread!—
She sleeps beneath this stone,

That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone !

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But when the tints of autumn have
Their sober reign asserted,

The landscape that cold shadow shows
Into a light converted.

Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth
Will smile upon our sorrow,
And many dark fears of to-day
May be bright hopes to-morrow.
The Flower Spirit.—ANoNYMous.

I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower;
Mine is the exquisite music that flies,

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