O, glorious is the rising sun, Ör shrined amid the western gold, The elysium of the skies. Yet far surpassing the bright dawn Affection seeks, in thy calm sphere, The bright stars shine around the throne, My native Land—My native Place.-ANONYMOUS. My thoughts are in my native land, Where sunny shrubs disperse their scent, For brilliant hues and virtues given. My thoughts are with my youthful days, And pleasure with the day-light came. I bent the rushes to my feet, And sought the water's silent flow, I moved along the thin ice fleet, I culled the violet in the dell, Whose wild-rose gave a chequered shade, So sweet by answering echo made. In God's own house, on God's own day, Thus Memory, from her treasured urn, Shakes o'er the mind her spring like rain: And still my soul shall these command, "Awake, Psaltery and Harp; I myself will awake early." Psalms.-ANONYMOUS. WAKE, when the mists of the blue mountains sleeping, When breathing from the south, o'er young buds sweeping, Rise like the glory of an Eden dream. Wake while unfettered thoughts, like treasures springing, As birds and brooks through the pure air are flinging Then, Psaltery, and Harp, a tone awaken, Wake then, too, man, when, from refreshing slumber, And thy luxurious couch, thou dost arise, Thanks for life's golden gifts-a countless number— Calm dreams, and soaring hopes, and summer skies; Wake!-let thy heart's fine chords be touched in praise, For the free spirit of undying Grace! Isaiah xxxv.-BRAINARD. A ROSE shall bloom in the lonely place, And Lebanon's cedars shall rustle their boughs, O say to the fearful, Be strong of heart; To the trembling hand and the feeble knee. The blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, The dumb shall raise their notes for Him, And the parched ground shall become a pool, The harmless of His fold shall feed. There is a way, and a holy way, Where the unclean foot shall never tread, But from it the lowly shall not stray, No lion shall rouse him from his lair, The ransomed of God shall return to him On listening to a Cricket.-ANDREWS NORTON. I LOVE, thou little chirping thing, To hear thy melancholy noise; Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers, But, through the winter's weary hours, And when my lamp's decaying beam Then will I listen to thy sound, And, musing o'er the embers pale, With whitening ashes strewed around The forms of memory unveil ; Recall the many colored dreams, Perchance, observe the fitful light, And its faint flashes round the room, And think some pleasures, feebly bright, I love the quiet midnight hour, When Care, and Hope, and Passion sleep, I love the night: and sooth to say, Prefer the cricket's grating wing. But, see! pale Autumn strews her leaves, Her withered leaves, o'er Nature's grave, While giant Winter she perceives, Dark rushing from his icy cave; And in his train the sleety showers, Thou, cricket, through these weary hours, March.-BRYANT. THE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah! passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou to northern lands again, And, in thy reign of blast and storm, |