That wets the parching earth, has come
A cheerful thought, and made its home
With me awhile; I'd have you share,
Who feel for me in ills I bear.

Lines occasioned by hearing a little Boy mock the Old South Clock, as it rung the Hour of Twelve.-MRS. CHII D

Ay, ring thy shout to the merry hours:
Well may ye part in glee;

From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,
And, laughing, look on thee.

Thy thrilling voice has started tears:

It brings to mind the day

When I chased butterflies and years,-
And both flew fast away.

Then my glad thoughts were few and free;
They came but to depart,

And did not ask where heaven could be-
'Twas in my little heart.

I since have sought the meteor crown,
Which fame bestows on men:

How gladly would I throw it down,
To be so gay again!

But youthful joy has gone away;
In vain 'tis now pursued;
Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simply good.

I know too much, to be as blessed
As when I was like thee;

My spirit, reasoned into rest,
Has lost its buoyancy.

Yet still I love the winged hours:

We often part in glee

And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers
Their farewell gifts to me.

Hymn to the North Star.-Bryant.

THE sad and solemn Night

Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires;
The glorious host of light

Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;
All through her silent watches, gliding slow,
Her constellations come, and round the heavens, and go.

Day, too, hath many a star

To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they :
Through the blue fields afar,

Unseen, they follow in his flaming way.
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,
Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.

And thou dost see them rise,

Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.
Alone, in thy cold skies,

Thou keep'st thy old, unmoving station yet,
Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,
Nor dip'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.

There, at Morn's rosy birth,

Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air;
And Eve, that round the earth

Chases the Day, beholds thee watching there;

There Noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.

Alike, beneath thine eye,

The deeds of darkness and of light are done;

High towards the star-lit sky

Towns blaze-the smoke of battle blots the sun

The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud—

And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.

On thy unaltering blaze

The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost,

Fixes his steady gaze,

And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;

And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,

Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.

And, therefore, bards of old,
Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood,

Did in thy beams behold

A beauteous type of that unchanging good,
That bright, eternal beacon, by whose ray
The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.

Connecticut.-F. G. HALLECK.

From an unpublished Poem.

AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea
That murmurs at their feet, a conquered wave;
'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,

Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands, are bold and free,
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;

And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray, Nor even then, unless in their own way.

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,

A" fierce democracie," where all are true

To what themselves have voted-right or wrong-
And to their laws, denominated blue;

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong;)

A vestal state, which power could not subdue,
Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest,
Sacred-the San Marino of the west.

A justice of the peace, for the time being,
They bow to, but may turn him out next year:
They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing

In price or creed, dismiss him without fear;
They have a natural talent for foreseeing

And knowing all things;—and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-We know.

They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty;

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die:

All-but a few apostates, who are meddling

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ;

Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching
The A B C from Webster's spelling-book;

Gallant and Godly, making love and preaching,
And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook,"
And what the moralists call overreaching,

A decent living. The Virginians look

Upon them with as favorable eyes
As Gabriel on the devil in paradise.

But these are but their outcasts.

View them near

At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear,

And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere,

Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste,

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave,
Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave.

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control
Is felt even in their nation's destiny;

Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul,
And looked on armies with a leader's eye;

Names that adorn and dignify the scroll

Whose leaves contain their country's history.

Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales

Of Florence and the Arno-yet the wing

Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales

Through sun and snow-and, in the autumn time,
Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.

Her clear, warm heaven at noon,-the mist that shrouds
Her twilight hills,-her cool and starry eves,

The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds,
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves,
Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds,
Where'er his web of song her poet weaves;

And his mind's brightest vision but displays
The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.

And when you dream of woman, and her love;
Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power;
The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove;
The mother, smiling in her infant's bower;
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move,
Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour,
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air

To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find them there.

The Rising Moon.-W. O. B. PEABODY.

THE moon is up! How calm and slow
She wheels above the hill!

The weary winds forget to blow,
And all the world lies still.

The way-worn travellers, with delight,
The rising brightness see,
Revealing all the paths and plains,
And gilding every tree.

It glistens where the hurrying stream
Its little ripple leaves;

It falls upon the forest shade,
And sparkles on the leaves.

So once, on Judah's evening hills,
The heavenly lustre spread;
The gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.

And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendor throws:
Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.

The waning moon, in time, shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;

But God hath kindled this bright light
With fire that never dies.