CHANSONETTE.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

THEY are mockery all, those skies! those skies!

Their untroubled depths of blue

They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes!

Which seem so warm and true;

Each quiet star in the one that lies,

Each meteor glance that at random flies
The other's lashes through.

They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring,
Which her airs so softly woo;

And the love to which we would madly cling,

Ay! it is mockery too.

For the winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the lips deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre ;
Which flowers spring to strew.

THE CLOUDS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

THE clouds have their own language unto me
They have told many a tale in by-gone days,
At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie

Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays
With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass,
And leave their storied circles where they pass.

THE CLOUDS.

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So, even so, to me the embracing clouds,

With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here;
And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds

The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear,
And sunny brightness of yon arching sky,
They have their language and their melody.

Have you not felt it when the dropping rain

From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when

The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth

In misty radiance, until cloud and spot

Were blended in one brightness? Can you not

Look out and love when the departing sun
Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical
In his last splendour, and reflects upon

Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall
Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams
Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"

Or giving back those tints indefinite,

Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch
Whereon the angel-spirits of the light

Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march,
When sank the whelming waters, and again
Left the green islands to the sons of men?

Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw

Its growing shadow on the sinking tide,
How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue,
As its new lustre told that wrath had died,
Till the blue waves within their limits curled,
And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.

Gaze yet again, and you may see on high

The opposing hosts that mutter as they form Their stern battalions, ere the artillery

Bids the destroying angel guide its storm; If you have heard on battle's eve the low Defiance quickly uttered to the foe,

When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow,

Pulsations which perchance may be their last, Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud ; If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.

How from the bosom of its blackness springs
The cleaving lightning kindling on its way,
Flinging such blinding glory from its wings,

That he who looks grows drunk with its array
Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim,
And dazzling darkness overshadows him.

Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known The wondrous workings of thy firmament, Thine untold majesty, around whose throne They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent In light or darkness on their destined path, Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.

Then here, in this thy lower temple, here

We kneel to thee in worship; what to these
Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear
Are painted domes or priestly palaces ;
On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere,
We call on thee to commune and to bless,
And see in holy fancy each pure sigh
Ascend like incense to thy throne on high.

THE ISLE OF REST.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Some of the islands where the fancied paradise of the Indians was situated, were believed to be in Lake Superior.

THAT blessed isle lies far away

"Tis many a weary league from land,
Where billows in their golden play
Dash on its sparkling sand.

No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar,
Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.

There the light breezes lie at rest,
Soft pillowed on the glassy deep;
Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast,

And watch their silent sleep.

There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing
Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.

And far within, in murmurs heard,

Comes, with the wind's low whispers there,
The music of the mounting bird,

Skimming the clear bright air.

The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide,
Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.

The sun there sheds his noontide beam
On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers;
And gaily by the shaded stream

Spring forth the forest flowers.

The fountain flings aloft its showery spray,

With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.

And when the dewy morning breaks,
A thousand tones of rapture swell;
A thrill of life and motion wakes

Through hill, and plain, and dell.

The wild bird trills his song-and from the wood
The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.

There, when the sun sets on the sea,
And gilds the forest's waving crown,
Strains of immortal harmony

To those sweet shades come down.

Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.

E'en on this cold and cheerless shore,

While all is dark and quiet near,

The huntsman, when his toils are o'er,
That melody may hear.

And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam,
The glories of that isle, his future home.

INDIAN SUMMER-1828.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

LIGHT as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;