TRENTON FALLS, NEAR UTICA.

BY ANTHONY BLEECKER.

Ob: 1827.

YE hills, who have for ages stood

Sublimely in your solitude,

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Listening the wild water's roar,

As thundering down, from steep to steep, Along your wave-worn sides they sweep, Dashing their foam from shore to shore.

Wild birds, that loved the deep recess,
Fell beast that roved the wilderness,

And savage men once hover'd round:
But startled at your bellowing waves,
Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves,
Affrighted fled the enchanted ground.

How changed the scene!-your lofty trees, Which bent but to the mountain breeze,

Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade; New sun-light through your forest pours, Paths wind along your sides and shores,

And footsteps all your haunts invade.

Now boor, and beau, and lady fair,

In gay costume each day repair,

Where thy proud rocks exposed stand,

While echo, from her old retreats,

With babbling tongue strange words repeats,

From babblers on your stony strand.

THE MINSTREL BOY.

And see-the torrent's rocky floor,

With names and dates all scribbled o'er,
Vile blurs on nature's heraldry;

O bid your river in its race,

These mean memorials soon efface,

And keep your own proud album free.

Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers,
But soon Autumnus with his showers,
Shall all thy wasted strength restore;
Then will these ramblers down thy steep,
With terror pale their distance keep,

Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.

But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage,
One name upon thy stony page;

"Tis hers-the fairest of the fair;

And when she comes these scenes to scan,
Then tell her, Echo, if you can,

His humble name who wrote it there.

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THE DUMB MINSTREL.

BY JAMES NACK.

AND am I doom'd to be denied for ever

The blessings that to all around are given?

And shall those links be re-united ever,

That bound me to mankind till they were riven In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever From social intercourse, the doom of heaven Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain, That the decree may be recall'd again.

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Amid a throng in deep attention bound,

To catch the accents that from others fall, The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound Breathed from the soul of melody, while all Instructed or delighted list around,

Vacant unconsciousness must me enthrall! I can but watch each animated face, And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.

Unheard, unheeded are the lips by me,

To others that unfold some heaven-born art, And melody-Oh, dearest melody!

How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart, Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,

Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!

How had my heart responsive to the strain, Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.

In vain-alas, in vain! thy numbers rollWithin my heart no echo they inspire; Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control, To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire, Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;

And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre, That can to animation kindle stone,

To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS.

BY R. C. SANDS.

THEY say that afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,
A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east ;
There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers :
'Tis the land of the sunbeam,—the green isle of lovers!

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover
On high with their shade the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile;
From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;
O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover,
The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!

THAT SILENT MOON.

BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,

Profaned her pure and holy light :
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,

To smile, in quiet loneliness,

And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.