From that pure lake, The Smile of Heaven,'
Tributes from vale and mountain side-
With ocean's dark, eternal tide!

On yonder rocky cape which braves
The stormy challenge of the waves,
Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,
The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,
Planting upon the topmost crag
The staff of England's battle-flag;
And, while from out its heavy fold
St. GEORGE's crimson cross unroll'd.
Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,
And weapons brandishing in air,

Не

gave to that lone promontory The sweetest name in all his story;

Of her-the flower of Islam's daughters,
Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters-
Who, when the chance of war had bound
The Moslem chain his limbs around,
Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain,
Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain,
And fondly to her youthful slave
A dearer gift than freedom gave.

But look! the yellow light no more
Streams down on wave and verdant shore;
And clearly on the calm air swells
The distant voice of twilight bells.
From ocean's bosom, white and thin
The mist comes slowly rolling in;
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,
Amidst the sea-like vapour swim,
While yonder lonely coast-light set
Within its wave-wash'd minaret,
Half-quench'd, a beamless star and pale,
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!
Vale of my fathers!-I have stood
Where Hudson roll'd his lordly flood;
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade
Along his frowning palisade;
Look'd down the Appalachian peak
On Juniata's silver streak;
Have seen along his valley gleam
The Mohawk's softly winding stream;
The setting sun, his axle red
Quench darkly in Potomac's bed;
The autumn's rainbow-tinted banner
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;
Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be,
Thy wandering child look'd back to thee!
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound
Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,
The unforgotten swell and roar
Of waves on thy familiar shore;
And seen amidst the curtain'd gloom
And quiet of my lonely room,
Thy sunset scenes before me pass;
As, in AGRIPPA's magic glass,
The loved and lost arose to view,
Remember'd groves in greenness grew;
And while the gazer lean'd to trace,
More near, some old familiar face,
He wept to find the vision flown-
A phantom and a dream alone!

GONE.

ANOTHER hand is beckoning us,
Another call is given;

And glows once more with angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.

Our young and gentle friend whose smile
Made brighter summer hours,
Amid the frosts of autumn time
Has left us, with the flowers.
No paling of the check of bloom
Forewarned us of decay,

No shadow from the silent land

Fell around our sister's way.
The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill

The glory of a setting star

Clear, suddenly, and still.

As pure and sweet her fair brow seemed-
Eternal as the sky;

And like the brook's low song, her voice-
A sound which could not die.
And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
To give to heaven a shining one,
Who walked an angel here.
The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;

And good thoughts, where her footsteps press'd,
Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look;

We read her face, as one who reads
A true and holy book:
The measure of a blessed hymn,

To which our hearts could move;
The breathing of an inward psalm-
A canticle of love.

We miss her in the place of prayer,

And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear

Once more her sweet "Good night!"
There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,

Like eyes that look through tears.
Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled-
That He whose love exceedeth ours
Hath taken home his child.
Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and thee.
Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,
And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in goodness strong.

And grant that she who, trembling, here
Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home
The well belov'd of ours.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND.

Ox page of thine I cannot trace
The cold and heartless commonplace-
A statue's fix'd and marble grace.

For ever as these lines are penn'd,
Still with the thought of thee will blend
That of some loved and common friend,
Who, in life's desert track has made
His pilgrim tent with mine, or laid
Beneath the same remember'd shade.

And hence my pen unfetter'd moves
In freedom which the heart approves―
The negligence which friendship loves.

And wilt thou prize my poor gift less
For simple air and rustic dress,
And sign of haste and carelessness?-

O! more than specious counterfeit
Of sentiment, or studied wit,

A heart like thine should value it.

Yet half I fear my gift will be
Unto thy book, if not to thee,
Of more than doubtful courtesy.

A banish'd name from fashion's sphere-
A lay unheard of Beauty's ear,
Forbid, disown'd,-what do they here?
Upon my ear not all in vain

Came the sad captive's clanking chain-
The groaning from his bed of pain.
And sadder still, I saw the wo
Which only wounded spirits know
When pride's strong footsteps o'er them go.

66

Spurn'd not alone in walks abroad,
But in the temples of the Lord,"
Thrust out apart like things abhorr'd.

Deep as I felt, and stern and strong
In words which prudence smother'd long
My soul spoke out against the wrong.

Not mine alone the task to speak
Of comfort to the poor and weak,
And dry the tear on sorrow's cheek;

But, mingled in the conflict warm,
To pour the fiery breath of storm
Through the harsh trumpet of reform;

To brave opinion's settled frown,
From ermined robe and saintly gown,
While wrestling hoary error down.

Founts gush'd beside my pilgrim way,
Cool shadows on the green sward lay,
Flowers swung upon the bending spray,
And, broad and bright on either hand
Stretch'd the green slopes of fairy land,
With hope's eternal sunbow spann'd;

Whence voices call'd me like the flow,
Which on the listener's ear will grow,
Of forest streamlets soft and low.

And gentle eyes, which still retain
Their picture on the heart and brain,
Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain.
In vain!-nor dream, nor rest, nor pause,
Remain for him who round him draws
The batter'd mail of freedom's cause.
From youthful hopes-from each green spot
Of young romance, and gentle thought,
Where storm and tumult enter not.

From each fair altar, where belong
The offerings love requires of song
In homage to her bright-eyed throng,
With soul and strength, with heart and hand,
I turn'd to freedom's struggling band-
To the sad helots of our land.

What marvel then that Fame should turn
Her notes of praise to those of scorn-
Her gifts reclaim'd-her smiles withdrawn.
What matters it!-a few years more,
Life's surge so restless heretofore
Shall break upon the unknown shore!

In that far land shall disappear
The shadows which we follow here-
The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere!
Before no work of mortal hand
Of human will or strength expand
The pearl gates of the "better land;"

Alone in that pure love which gave
Life to the sleeper of the grave,
Resteth the power to "seek and save."

Yet, if the spirit gazing through
The vista of the past can view

One deed to heaven and virtue true;

If through the wreck of wasted powers,
Of garlands wreathed from folly's bowers,
Of idle aims and misspent hours,

The eye can note one sacred spot
By pride and self profaned not-
A green place in the waste of thought,
Where deed or word hath render'd less
"The sum of human wretchedness,”
And gratitude looks forth to bless-
The simple burst of tenderest feeling
From sad hearts won by evil-dealing,
For blessing on the hand of healing,-
Better than glory's pomp will be
That green and blessed spot to me-
A landmark in eternity!—

Something of time which may invite
The purified and spiritual sight
To rest on with a calm delight.