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That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown'd
Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.
The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Houries in dance,
Led on th' eternal Spring.





The breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,

Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,

Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,

Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.

So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,

And radiant learning beckon’d thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear

Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
And they have wreck'd thee! - But there is a shore

Where storms are hush'd, where tempests never rage ; Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more

With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage.
By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod
Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.





VIRTUE, forever frail and fair below,
Her tender nature suffers in the crowd,
Nor touches on the world without a stain.
The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the morn.
Something we thought, is blotted; we resolved,
Is shaken; we renounced, returns again.
Each salutation may slide in a sin
Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.
Nor is it strange ; light, motion, concourse, noise,
All scatter us abroad. Thought, outward-bound,
Neglectful of our home-affairs, flies off
In fume and dissipation, quits her charge,
And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.

SYMBOL of peace! lo, there the ethereal bow!
And see, on flagging wing, the storm retreats
Far’mid the depths of space; and with him fleets
His lucid train — the while in beauty glow
Vale, hill, and sky, once more. How lustrous now
Earth’s verdant mantle! and the woods how bright!
Where grass, leaf, flower, are sparkling in the light -
Prompt ever with the slightest breeze to throw
The rain-drops to the ground. Within the grove
Music awakes; and from each little throat,
Silent so long, bursts the wild note of love ;
The hurried babblings of the rill denote
Its infant joy; and rushing swift along,
The torrent gives to air, its hoarse and louder song.

FORWARDNESS. Nothing, perhaps, is more unbecoming to young persons than the assumption of consequence before men of age, wisdom, and experience. The advice, therefore, of Parmenio, the Grecian General, to his son, was worthy of him to give, and worthy of every man of sense to adopt; “ My son,” says he,“ would you be great, you must be less."

The modest deportment of really wise men, when contrasted to the assuming air of the young and ignorant, may be compared to the different appearances of wheat, which, while its ear is empty, bolds up its head proudly, but as it is filled with grain, bends modestly down, and withdraws from observation.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,

Much musing on the track of terror past,

When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam

Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,

And yon forsaken tower that time has rent!
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch'd, and the bush'd billows seem to sleep.

Soothed by the scene e'en thus ou sorrow's breast

A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest ;
Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep,

Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre,
Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn expire.

THE EVENING CLOUD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest : While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wasted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
And by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys !
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest, where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.



A YEAR of changes has brought us to that epoch, which, as we mark it down in our tablets, emphatically reminds

" What shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue.” The “ happy new year season, as it is of pleasure and felicitation, celebrated with festival and song, is yet a striking and solemn memento; and he must be dull, indeed, who can write, for the first time, the number that designates it without a passing touch at least, of serious emotion. It reminds him how far he is gone up, on the scale of the dread century's progress; what a floating atom he is upon the tide of passing ages; and how soon the frail records of time, which he strews like leaves upon the dark wave, will be swallowed up forever. It is a memento of change, of instability, of uncertainty; of weary labors, of unsatisfying pursuits, of social bereavements, of a world whose fashion passeth away. Let it be true that it is a memento of other things; our present design and mood lead us to say, that it is a memento of these.

As we gather up the confused impressions of the past, as the great scene of worldly toil, and turmoil, and vicissitude passes in review before us; as we meditate

many things, the many events, which seem as if they revolved in eternal circles, tending to nothing and producing nothing, we are ready to exclaim with the ancient preacher, "all things are full of labor; man cannot utter it. The sun ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he rose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north ; it whirleth about continually :

upon the

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