Pause here! The far off world at last

Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast,

Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark!

Comes there from the pyramids,

And from Siberian wastes of snow,

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids

The world be awed to mourn him?—No!

The only, the perpetual dirge

That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry

The mournful murmur of the surge,

The clouds', deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

OCCASIONAL HYMN.

O THOU, to whom, in ancient time,

The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, Whom kings adored in song sublime,

And prophets praised with glowing tongue,

Not now, on Zion's height alone,

Thy favored worshipper may dwell, Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son

Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.

From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayerThe incense of the heart-may rise

To heaven, and find acceptance there.

In this Thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,

To Thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.

To Thee shall Age, with snowy hair,

And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee, And Childhood lisp, with reverent air, Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To Thee, at last, in every clime,

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

N. P. WILLIS.

SPRING.

THE Spring is here—the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours-
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods.
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meet— Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.

There's no contentment, in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
Bird-like, the poisoned soul will lift its eye
And sing-till it is hooded from the sky.

EXTRACT FROM A POEM

DELIVERED AT THE DEPARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE, IN 1826.

WE shall go forth together. There will come

Alike the day of trial unto all,

And the rude world will buffet us alike.
Temptation hath a music for all ears;

And mad ambition trumpeteth to all;
And the ungovernable thought within

Will be in every bosom eloquent ;—
But, when the silence and the calm come on,
And the high seal of character is set,
We shall not all be similar. The scale
Of being is a graduated thing;

And deeper than the vanities of power,

M

Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ
Gradation, in its hidden characters.

The pathway to the grave may be the same,
And the proud man shall tread it, and the low,
With his bowed head, shall bear him company.
Decay will make no difference, and death,
With his cold hand, shall make no difference;
And there will be no precedence of power,
In waking at the coming trump of God;
But in the temper of the invisible mind,
The godlike and undying intellect,

There are distinctions that will live in heaven,
When time is a forgotten circumstance!

The elevated brow of kings will lose
The impress of regalia, and the slave
Will wear his immortality as free,
Beside the crystal waters; but the depth
Of glory in the attributes of God,
Will measure the capacities of mind;
And as the angels differ, will the ken
Of gifted spirits glorify him more.
It is life's mystery. The soul of man
Createth its own destiny of power;

And, as the trial is intenser here,

His being hath a nobler strength in heaven.

What is its earthly victory? Press on!
For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought,
Ye shall look down on monarchs.
O, press on!