Nor calls alone

T'enjoy, but bids improve the fleeting hourBids all that ever heard love's witching tone, Or felt his power.

The poet too,

It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire; Yet ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few His song admire!

But thy sweet lay,

Thou darling of the spring! no ear disdains ; Thy sage instructress, Nature, says "Be gay!" And prompts thy strains.

O, if I knew

Like thee to sing, like thee the heart to fire,Youth should enchanted throng, and beauty sue To hear my lyre.

Oft as the year

In gloom is wrapp'd, thy exile I shall mournOft as the spring returns, shall hail sincere

Thy glad return.

RUFUS DAWES.

THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight:
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and around her flings
A shower of light from her purple wings,
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high
That silently fills it with ecstacy!

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,

Where bowering elms over waters meet;

She dimples the wave, where the green leaves dip,
That smiles, as it curls, like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.

At eve, she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy;

And round the skirts of each sweeping fold,
She paints a border of crimson and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has pass'd away.

She hovers around us at twilight hour,

When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream :-
Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air,
The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere!

MRS. HALE.

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam;

And thou must go; but never, when there,
Forget the light of home.

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,

It dazzles to lead astray:

Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night,
When thou treadest the lonely way.

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,

And pure as vestal fire:

'Twill burn, 'twill burn, for ever the same,

For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest tost,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam; But when sails are shiver'd and rudder lost, Then look to the light of home;

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,
Thou shalt see the beacon bright;

For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame, 'twill gild the name;
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;

And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim,
Are but beams of a wintry day.

And how cold and dim those beams must be,
Should life's wretched wanderer come!

But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of home.

ROSALIE.*

THERE sits a woman on the brow
Of yonder rocky height;
There, gazing o'er the waves below,
She sits from morn till night.

She heeds not how the mad waves leap

Along the rugged shore;
She looks for one upon the deep

She never may see more.

From Mrs. Hale's Magazine.