'God's Omnipresent Agency.-CARLOS WILCOX.
How desolate were nature, and how void
Of every charm, how like a naked waste
Of Africa, were not a present God
Beheld employing, in its various scenes,
His active might to animate and adorn!
What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes,
Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work!-
When it is viewed unfolding every bud,
Each blossom tinging, shaping every leaf,
Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky,
Rolling each billow, moving every wing
That fans the air, and every warbling throat
Heard in the tuneful woodlands! In the least,
As well as in the greatest of his works,
Is ever manifest his presence kind;
As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen
Quick to and fro, within a foot of air,
Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more,
As in the systems of resplendent worlds,
Through time revolving in unbounded space.
His eye, while comprehending in one view
The whole creation, fixes full on me;
As on me shines the sun with his full blaze,
While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same.
His hand, while holding oceans in its palm,
And compassing the skies, surrounds my life,
Guards the poor rush-light from the blast of death.
"Mea patria, vale!"
"My native land, good night !”—
My native land, adieu, adieu !
My course is o'er the sea:
I sail upon the waters blue,
Far, far away from thee:
Those scenes, to youth and hope so dear,
Which active childhood know,
Demand my last, my parting tear;
My native land, adieu!-
My native land, adieu, adieu!
My course is o'er the sea:
And yet a heart more fond, more true,
Sure never beat for thee!
O, I have joyed to see thy power,
Have wept thy crimes to view;
Affection claims my parting hour:
My native land, adieu!
My native land, adieu, adieu!
My course is o'er the sea:
Though distant climes I sail to view,
Still memory turns to thee :-
There, crowned with health, with peace and love
My early moments flew ;
Sure these my fond affection prove:
My native land, adieu!
My native land, adieu, adieu!
My course is o'er the sea:
O, would that Heaven would guide me through,
And lead me back to thee!
But no,-a warning voice declares
My years my days are few:
I go-be thine my ardent prayers:
My native land, adieu!
Sunrise on the Hills.-ANONYMOUS.
I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,
They gathered midway round the wooded height,
And in their fading glory shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,
And, rocking on the cliff, was left
The dark pine, blasted, bare and cleft.
The veil of cloud was lifted; and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade,
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash;
I heard the current whirl and flash;
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,
The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills,
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,
Was ringing to the merry shout
That, faint and far, the glen sent out;
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke
Through thick-leaved branches from the dingle broke.
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget-
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep-
Go to the woods and hills!-no tears
Din the sweet look that Nature wears.
Lines on passing the Grave of my Sister.-
MICAH P. FLINT.
ON yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. A brother weeps.
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.
In sounds that seem like Sorrow's own,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then, deep'ning to an organ tone,
In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.
She came, and passed. Can I forget,
How we, whose hearts had hailed her birth, Ere three autumnal suns had set,
Consigned her to her mother Earth! Joys and their memories pass away; But griefs are deeper traced than they.
We laid her in her narrow cell,
We heaped the soft mould on her breast,
And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell
Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it ;-may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,
Its rolling waters onward glide.
There is no marble monument,
There is no stone, with graven lie,
To tell of love and virtue blent
In one almost too good to die.
We needed no such useless trace
To point us to her resting place.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
But, midst the tears of April showers,
The genius of the wild hath strown
His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers,
And cast his robe of vernal bloom,
In guardian fondness, o'er her tomb.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
But yearly is her grave-turf dressed,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast. And still the sighing autumn grieves, And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
The Revellers.-OHIO BACKWOODSMAN.
THERE were sounds of mirth and joyousness
Broke forth in the lighted hall,
And there was many a merry laugh,
And many a merry call;
And the glass was freely passed around,
And the nectar freely quaffed;
And many a heart felt light with glee
And the joy of the thrilling draught.
A voice arose in that place of mirth,
And a glass was flourished high;
"I drink to Life," said a son of earth,
"And I do not fear to die;
I have no fear-I have no fear-
Talk not of the vagrant Death;
For he is a grim old gentleman,
And he wars but with his breath.
Cheer, comrades, cheer! We drink to Life,
And we do not fear to die !"
Just then a rushing sound was heard,
As of spirits sweeping by;
And presently the latch flew up,
And the door flew open wide;
And a stranger strode within the hall,
With an air of martial pride.
He spoke : "I join in your revelry,
Bold sons of the Bacchan rite;
And I drink the toast you have drank before, The pledge of yon dauntless knight.
Fill high-fill high-we drink to Life,
And we scorn the reaper Death;
For he is a grim old gentleman,
And he wars but with his breath.
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