The summer's sun is bright, Sall,
The skies are pure in hue;

But clouds will sometimes sadden them,
And dim their lovely blue;
And clouds may come to us, Sall,

But sure they will not stay;
For there's a spell in fond hearts
To chase their gloom away.

In sickness and in sorrow

Thine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill.

And were they absent now, Sall,

I'd seek my bed of pain,

And bless each pang that gave me back Those looks of love again.

Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss,
When day's dull round is o'er,
And sweet the music of the step
That meets me at the door.
Though worldly cares may visit us,
I reck not when they fall,
While I have thy kind lips, my Sall,
To smile away them all.

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild flow'ret blossomed, the elm proudly
waved,

And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm;

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encountered the children of flame,
While the noise of the warwhoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:

With a glance of disgust he the landscape surveyed, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade ;Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of

time

Cultivation has softened those features sublime;
The axe of the white man has lightened the shade,
And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosomed in foam.

THE FADED ONE.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

GONE to the slumber which may know no waking
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell;
Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,
In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;
Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom
Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,

A bond of loneliness-a spell of death!

Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.

How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.
On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,
Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,

Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.

WHEN ON THY BOSOM I RECLINE.

BY LINDLEY MURRAY.

WHEN on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptured still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life,

I glory in the sacred ties,

Which modern wits and fools despise,
Of Husband and of Wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
The tender look, the melting kiss,

Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloyed.

Have I a wish ?-'tis all for thee;
Hast thou a wish ?-'tis all for me;
So soft our moments move,

That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleased to see our happy days,
And bid us live-and love.

If cares arise-and cares will come-
Thy bosom is my softest home,
I'll lull me there to rest;

And is there aught disturbs my fair?
I'll bid her sigh out every care,
And lose in my breast.

Have I a wish ?-'tis all her own;

All hers and mine are rolled in one

Our hearts are so entwined,

That, like the ivy round the tree,
Bound up in closest amity,

'Tis death to be disjoined.