Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, And of a softer, more ethereal blue, A pyramid of polish'd sapphire built.
But now the twilight mingles into one The various mountains; levels to a plain This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, Where every object to my sight presents Its shaded side; while here upon these walls, And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks Under thick foliage, reflective shows Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line Of the horizon, parting heaven and earth!
BY CHARLES F. HOFFMAN.
THOU Vocal sprite! thou feather'd troubadour ! In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,
And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger? Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature; But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The schoolboy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee Bob-O'Linkum !
Say! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over, With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover? Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure,
And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?
THE BOB-O'LINKUM.
They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks; Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges; And even in a brace of wandering weeks,
They say, alike thy song and plumage changes: Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the north, When through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.
Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song
Caught from the brooks, where, mid its wild-flowers smiling,
The silent prairie listens all day long,
The only captive to such sweet beguiling;
Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls
And column'd aisles of western groves symphonious, Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals,
To make our flowering pastures here harmonious?
Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid,
Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing, Brushing the ears from off the burden'd blade,
Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing?
Or did the reeds of some savanna south
Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing,
To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth
The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?
Unthrifty prodigal! is no thought of ill
Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest forever? Yet now in wilder'd maze of concord floating,
"Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a doting, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!
BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
Он, pour upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain,
That seems from other worlds to plain; Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs
And dropp'd them from the skies.
No-never came from aught below This melody of woe,
That makes my heart to overflow As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before; that with it brings This nameless light-if light it be- That veils the world I see,
For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres ;
And something blent with smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. Oh, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, Can mould a sadness like to this- So like angelic bliss.
So, at that dreamy hour of day When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play- So thought the gentle Rosalie
As on her maiden revery
First fell the strain of him who stole
In music to her soul.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
BY HANNAH F. GOULD.
"I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone!— "Nor time nor seasons can alter me; I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail, and the drizzling rain, Have tried to soften me, long, in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or touch my heart; but it was not felt. There's none that can tell about my birth, For I'm as old as the big round earth. The children of men arise, and pass Out of the world like the blades of grass; And many a foot on me has trod, That's gone from sight, and under the sod. I am a Pebble! but who art thou, Rattling along from the restless bough ?"
The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abash'd and mute; She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low, But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort, At length she said in a gentle tone, "Since it has happen'd that I am thrown From the lighter element where I grew, Down to another so hard and new,
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel Has ever subdued, or made to feel!" And soon in the earth she sunk away,
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an infant oak! And, as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble look'd up, and, wondering, said, "A modest Acorn,-never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell! That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, Which proves that nothing could hide her worth! And, O! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree, Whose head is towering towards the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I! Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year. But never, from this, shall a vaunting word From the humbled Pebble again be heard, Till something without me or within, Shall show the purpose for which I've been !" The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapp'd in silence yet!
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