Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,

To bring again the vanish'd scenes,

The happy eves of days gone by; Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep,
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep : Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,

On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendor may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray : What power is her's to soothe the heartWhat power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm,

From dawning light to dying day :But oh! be mine a fairer boon

That silent moon, that silent moon!

R

SPIRIT OF SPRING.

SPIRIT, that from the breathing south,
Art wafted hither on dewy wing,

By the soften'd light of that sunny eye,
And that voice of wild-wood melody,

And those golden tresses wantoning,

And the perfumed breath of that balmy mouth.
We know thee, Spirit of Spring-

Spirit of beauty, these thy charms, Spirit of Spring!

Spirit of Spring! thou com'st to wake

The slumbering energies of earth;
The zephyr's breath, to thee we owe,
Thine is the streamlet's silver flow,
And thine, the gentle flowerets' birth,

And their silence, hark! the wild birds break,

For thy welcome, Spirit of Spring !—

Spirit of life, thy triumphs these, Spirit of Spring!

Spirit of Spring! when the cheek is pale,

There is health in thy balmy air,

And peace in that brow of beaming bright,

And joy in that eye of sunny light,

And golden hope in that flowing hair: Oh! that such influence e'er should fail,

For a moment, Spirit of Spring—

Spirit of health, peace, joy and hope, Spirit of Spring!

Yet fail it must-for it comes of earth,
And it may not shame its place of birth,
Where the best can bloom but a single day,
And the fairest is first to fade away.

But oh! there's a changeless world above,
A world of peace, and joy, and love,
Where, gather'd from the tomb,

The holy hopes that earth has cross'd,

And the pious friends that we loved and lost,
Immortally shall bloom.

Who will not watch, and strive, and pray,
That his longing soul may soar away,
On faith's untiring wing,

To join the throng of the saints in light,
In that world, for ever fair and bright,
Of endless, cloudless SPRING!

THE CLOUD BRIDGE:

A REMEMBERED VISION,

SAW ye that cloud, which arose in the west,
As the burning sun sank down to his rest,
How it spread so wide, and tower'd so high,
O'er the molten gold of that glowing sky,

That it seem'd-oh! it seemed like some arched way,
As it beam'd and gleam'd, in that glorious ray,

Where the spirit, freed
From its earthly weed,

And robed in the white

Of the saints in light,

Might pass from the waves of sin and wo,
To that world where ceaseless pleasures flow!

Ye saw that cloud, how it tower'd alone,
Like an arched path o'er the billows thrown,
How its pillars of azure and purple stood,

And mock'd at the dash of the angry flood,

While it beamed-oh! it beamed from its battlements high, As it gleam'd, and stream'd, in that western sky,

Such a flood of mellow and golden light,

As chain'd and fix'd the ravish'd sight,
And pour'd, along our dark'ning way,
The peace and joy of celestial day.

Such, as we haste to our heavenly home,
SAVIOUR! Such be the sights that come-
Thus, while the visions of time flit by,

And the fashion of earth grows dim to our eye,
Thus, let the light-oh! the light of thy love,
Beam bright on our sight from the mansions above-
Rending the gloom

Which enwraps the tomb,

And guiding our eye

To that world on high,

Where the people who love thee, for ever shall share

The rest thou hast purchased, and gone to prepare.

JOHN NEAL.

THE EAGLE.

THERE'S a fierce gray bird-with a sharpen'd beak;
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek :

That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow,
On the precipice-top-in perpetual snow—
Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow-
That sits where the air is shrill and bleak,
On the splinter'd point of a shiver'd peak-
Where the weeds lie close-and the grass sings sharp,
To a comfortless tune-like a wintry harp-
Bald-headed and stripp'd !—like a vulture torn
In wind and strife !with her feathers worn,
And ruffled and stain'd-while scattering-bright,
Round her serpent neck-that is writhing, bare-
Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair! —

Like the crest of a warrior thinn'd in the fight,
And shorn-and bristling-see her! where

She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air!
With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding-
And kindling eye-as if her prey

Had-suddenly-been snatch'd away—
While she was tearing it, and feeding!