Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun

The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.

Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers,

And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last

The storm; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past; Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly, And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

A Winter Scene.-IDLE MAN.

BUT Winter has yet brighter scenes;-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows, Or Autumn, with his many fruits and woods

All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains
Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice.
When the slant sun of February pours

Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad, arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. Look, the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal; branch and twig
Shine in the lucid covering; each light rod,
Nodding and twinkling in the stirring breeze,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
Still streaming, as they move, with colored light.
But round the parent stem the long, low boughs
Bend in a glittering ring, and arbors hide
The glassy floor. O! you might deem the spot
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,

Deep in the womb of Earth, where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud
With amethyst and topaz, and the place

Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam
That dwells in them; or, haply, the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun;

Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches, and fantastic aisles

Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye :—
Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;
There the blue sky, and the white drifting cloud
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams
Of sporting fountains, frozen as they rose,
And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light,
Light without shade. But all shall pass away
With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,
Loosened, the crashing ice chall make a sound
Like the far roar of rivers; and the eve

Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.

Description of the Quiet Island, From the Poem of "The Buccaneer."-RICHARD H. DANA.

THE island lies nine leagues away.
Along its solitary shore,

Of craggy rock and sandy bay,

No sound but ocean's roar,

Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy, heaving sea,
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently,

How beautiful! No ripples break the reach,
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell
Rings cheerful, far and wide,

Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks,
That feed about the vale amongst the rocks.

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,
In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;

A quiet look is in each face,

Subdued and holy fear :

Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done-
Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won.

The religious Cottage.-D. HUNTINGTON.

SEEST thou yon lonely cottage in the grove,
With little garden neatly planned before,
Its roof deep shaded by the elms above,

Moss-grown, and decked with velvet verdure o'er?
Go lift the willing latch-the scene explore-
Sweet peace, and love, and joy, thou there shalt find;
For there Religion dwells; whose sacred lore
Leaves the proud wisdom of the world behind,
And pours a heavenly ray on every humble mind.

When the bright morning gilds the eastern skies,
Up springs the peasant from his calm repose;
Forth to his honest toil he cheerful hies,

And tastes the sweets of nature as he goes--
But first, of Sharon's fairest, sweetest rose,

He breathes the fragrance, and pours forth the praise;
Looks to the source whence every blessing flows,
Ponders the page which heavenly truth conveys,
And to its Author's hand commits his future ways.

Nor yet in solitude his prayers ascend;

His faithful partner and their blooming train,
The precious word, with reverent minds, attend,
The heaven-directed path of life to gain.
Their voices mingle in the grateful strain-
The lay of love and joy together sing,

To Him whose bounty clothes the smiling plain,
Who spreads the beauties of the blooming spring,

And tunes the warbling throats that make the valleys ring.

The two Homes.-ANONYMOUS.

SEEST thou my home? 'Tis where yon woods are waving, In their dark richness, to the sunny air;

Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving,
Leads down the hill a vein of light-'tis there.

'Mid these green haunts how many a spring lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, colored by the skies!-
My boyhood's haunts, through days of summer, dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies.

My home-the spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track;

From its white walls, the very tendrils, wreathing,
Seem, with soft links, to draw the wanderer back.

There am I loved! There prayed for! There my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye!
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother-
Soon their glad footsteps down the path would fly!
There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home voices meet at day's decline;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending.-
There laughs my home-Sad stranger, where is thine?
Ask thou of mine? In solemn peace 'tis lying,
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away;

"Tis where I, too, am loved with love undying,

And fond hearts wait my step. But where are they?

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling,
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air;

I know it not, yet trust the whisper telling

My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there.

And what is home? and where but with the living?
Happy thou art, and so canst gaze on thine :
My spirit feels, but in its weary roving,

That with the dead-where'er they be-is mine.

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother;
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene:
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother,

I will believe-but dark seas roll between.

To a Sister.-EDWARD EVERETT.

YES, dear one, to the envied train
Of those around thy homage pay;
But wilt thou never kindly deign
To think of him that's far away?
Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile,
For many years I may not see;
But wilt thou not sometimes the while,
My sister dear, remember me?

But not in Fashion's brilliant hall,
Surrounded by the gay and fair,
And thou the fairest of them all,—

O, think not, think not of me there.
But when the thoughtless crowd is gone,
And hushed the voice of senseless glee,
And all is silent, still and lone,

And thou art sad, remember me.

Remember me-but, loveliest, ne'er,
When, in his orbit fair and high,
The morning's glowing charioteer
Rides proudly up the blushing sky;
But when the waning moon-beam sleeps
At moon-light on that lonely lea,
And nature's pensive spirit weeps
In all her dews, remember me.

Remember me, I pray-but not

In Flora's gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note, And sunshine smiles in every flower: But when the falling leaf is sear, And withers sadly from the tree, And o'er the ruins of the year

Cold Autumn weeps, remember me.

Remember me-but choose not, dear,
The hour when, on the gentle lake,
The sportive wavelets, blue and clear,
Soft rippling, to the margin break;
But when the deaf'ning billows foam
In madness o'er the pathless sea,