When silence and moonlight reign over each bower,
That blooms in the glory of tropical skies.

I woo the bird with his melody glowing
To leap in the sunshine, and warble its strain,

And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing,
The songster is paid for his music again.

There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding;
Care is a stranger, and troubles us not;
And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding,
I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot.
They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces,
They drink our warm breath, rich with odor and song,
Then hurry away to their desolate places,
And look for us hourly, and think of us long.

Who of the dull earth that’s moving around us,
Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose,
At the opening of spring, our destiny found us
A prisoner until the first bud should unclose;
Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air,
And leap off in joy to the music that won us,
And made us the tenants of climates so fair'

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“.Mangweth up the Ghost, and where is he?”—

I stand among the dark-gray stones;
No living thing is near;

Beneath me are the mouldering bones
Of those who once were here.

And here, perhaps, they mused like me,
And heard the grave declare,

On every side, its victory,
And saw how frail they were.

Like me, they felt that sense is nought,
That passion is a dream, ..
That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught,
Must sink beneath the stream.


Yet sense and passion held them slaves,
And lashed them to the oar,

Till they were wrecked upon their graves,
And then they rose no more

Perhaps, like them, I, too, shall go,
Nor heed my coming doom,

And every trace of me below
Be swept into the tomb.

And yet I would not live in vain,
By earthly pleasures cloyed,

Or render back to God again
My talent unemployed.

O God of mercy, make me know
The gift which thou hast given,

Nor let me idly spend it so,
But make it fit for heaven!

—oWoods in Winter.—Long FELLow.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the white-thorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That over-brows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away -
Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

On the gray maple's crusted bark
Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips;

Whilst in the frozen fountain—hark!—
His piercing beak the bittern dips.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke, -
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs:
Pour out the river’s gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay;

And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; $

And gathered winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year—
I listen, and it cheers me long.

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WHEN breath and sense have left this clay,
In yon damp vault, O, lay me not
But kindly bear my bones away
To some lone, green, and sunny spot; -
Where few shall be the feet that tread,
With reckless haste, upon my grave;
And gently, o'er my last, still bed,
To whispering winds, the grass shall wave.
The wild flowers, too, I loved so well,
Shall blow, and breathe their sweetness there,
And all around my grave shall tell,
“She felt that nature’s face was fair.”
And those that come because they loved
The mouldering frame that lies below,
Shall find their anguish half removed,
While that sweet spot shall soothe their wo.
The notes of happy birds alone
Shall there disturb the silent air;
And when the cheerful sun goes down,
His beams shall linger longest there.
And if, when soft night breezes wake,

Roving among the sleeping flowers,
When dews their airy home forsake,
To rest till morn in earthly bowers,
If, then, some dearer friend than all
Steal to my grave to weep awhile,
And happier hours awhile recall,
And bid fond memory beguile
The tediousness of cherished grief—
Faintly descried—a fading ray—
My passing ghost shall breathe relief,
And whisper—“Lingerer, come away!”

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GAY, guiltless pair,
What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,
Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,
Where mortals to their Maker bend ?
Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew
The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing
In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay,
To note the consecrated hour,
Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,
On upward wings could I but fly,
I’d bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

*Twere heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature’s charms to feed,
And nature’s own great God adore.

Death of an Infant.—MRs. SIGourney.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip;-he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow, Death gazed, and left it there;—he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.

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THE memory of Burns—a name -
That calls, when brimmed her festal cup,

A nation’s glory, and her shame,
In silent sadness up.

A nation’s glory—be the rest
Forgot—she’s canonized his mind:

And it is joy to speak the best
We may of human kind.

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