In such a bright late quiet, would that I Might wear out life, like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Hymn for the Massachusetts Charitable Association. PIERPONT. LOUD o'er thy savage child, As to the sky Thine inspiration comes! And music swells, To honor thee, dread Power, Our SKILL and STRENGTH combine; And temple, tomb and tower Attest these gifts of thine; A swelling dome For Pride they gild, By these our fathers' host When on our guardless coast Through storm and spray, Their thundering way. Great Source of every art! Its glittering spires, . These, and the breathing forms In countless ways, The little Beach Bird.-RICHARD H. DANA. THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, O'er the waves dost thou fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail What does it bring to me? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord With motion, and with roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge The Mystery-the Word. Of thousands thou, both sepulchre and pall, A tale of mourning tells Tells of man's wo and fall, Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Address of the Sylph of Autumn to the Bard.— WASHINGTON ALLSTON. AND now, in accents deep and low, Though I may not of raptures sing, Yet still may I in hope aspire For I, with vision high and holy, And spell of quick'ning melancholy, First raised to worlds above. What though be mine the treasures fair And harvests rich of golden grain, With these I may not urge my suit, For mortal purpose given; Nor may it fit my sober mood That mock the bow of heaven. But, know, 'twas mine the secret power And led thee, when the storm was o'er, By dreadful calm oppressed; Which still, though not a breeze was there, That strove in vain for rest. 'Twas I, when thou, subdued by wo, And, as they moved, in mournful train, And then, upraised thy streaming eye, In pomp of evening cloud, That, while with varying form it rolled, And last, as sunk the setting sun, To yonder orbs on high, And think how wondrous, how sublime Omnipresence.-ANONYMOUS. THERE is an unseen Power around, Where treadeth man, where space is found, And not when bright and busy day Is round us with its crowds and cares, And not when night, with solem sway, Bids awe-hushed souls breathe forth in prayers Not when, on sickness' weary couch, He writhes with pain's deep, long-drawn groan, In proud Belshazzar's gilded hall, When sinks the pious Christian's soul, The Power that watches, guides, defends, Till earth is nought,-nought, earthly friends,-- |