HEMAN S. CATHEDRAL HYMN. A DIM and mighty minster of old Time! Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love! And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved Of warriors on their tombs.-The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewelled crowns On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which, long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight depths away. Return, my soul! The cross recalls thee.-Lo! the blessed cross! And lo! the throng of beating human hearts, Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst !- Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy THE SONG OF NIGHT. COME to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts :—for every flower, sweet dew, The glory of its birth. Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills or forest-leaves, I come with every star: Making thy streams, that on their noonday track I come with peace; I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head. On my own heart I lay The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath I come with mightier things! Who calls me silent?—I have many tones: I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make the tone heard at last. I bring them from the tomb; O'er the sad couch of late repentant love, I come with all my train: Who calls me lonely?—Hosts around me tread, Looks from departed eyes, These are thy lightnings !—filled with anguish vain, They smite with agonies. I, that with soft control Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I am th' Avenging One !—the armed, the strong, The searcher of the soul! I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest birth Of memory, thought, remorse :-be holy, Earth! I am the solemn Night! THE HEBREW MOTHER. THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think To bring before her God! So passed they on, O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves And softly parting clusters of jet curls At last the fane was reached,— The earth's one sanctuary; and rapture hushed Her bosom, as before her, through the day It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers,-and, half in fear, Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung, even as ivy clings, the deep spring-tide Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song,-" Alas!" she cried, |