That seemed to pour in torrents from her stern. Scarce reared their green tops o'er them. One white point, On which a light-house blazed, alone stood out In the broad sea; and there he fixed his eye, Taking his last look of his native shore. Night wore away, and still the wind blew strong, And the ship ploughed the waves, which now were heaved They meet his eye; the sinking rocks were bright, Into the common darkness, on his eyes Sleep fell, and, with his looks turned to his home, He closed them, and his thoughts were lost in dreams Calmly he slept, and lived on happy dreams, Now spreading far and wide without a shore, The cloudless sun arose, and he awoke. A Thanksgiving Hymn.-HENRY WARE, JR. FATHER of earth and heaven, To thee we raise the voice of praise, Life is from thee, blessed Father; With bliss are crowned, with joy abound, Though trial and affliction May cast their dark shade o'er us, Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow Öf light on all before us. That love has smiled from heaven To cheer our path of sadness, And lead the way, through earth's dull day, To realms of endless gladness. That light of love and glory Has shone through Christ, the Savior, The holy Guide, who lived and died That we might live forever: And since thy great compassion Thus brings thy children near thee, May we to praise devote our days, And when Death's final summons From earth's dear scenes shall move us,From friends, from foes, from joys, from woes, From all that know and love us, O, then, let hope attend us! Thy peace to us be given! That we may rise above the skies, And sing thy praise in heaven! The Temple of Theseus.*-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN UNCRUMBLED yet, the sacred fane uprears As once the boast of those delightful lands, Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down, Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore, The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear; The pensive poet views its columns proud, The inner shrine no more protects the slave, To holier uses rise those walls on high, No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane, To purer thoughts and holier prayers 'tis given. *The temple of Theseus at Athens-one of the most beautiful and entire remains of ancient art-was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who needed protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and is revered by the Athenians as much, perhaps, as it ever was. On the Death of a beautiful young Girl.- 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus; when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust." 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings, 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this: One moment round about us their angel lightnings play; Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away. 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their birth: The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with all that's best below: 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear: A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love; Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above. Lines to a Lady of great musica. Talent.-MRS CHILD. THANKS, Orphea, thanks: thy magic spell Has waked my soul to sound, And, deep within a sealed well, My ear was like the wayward strings, Has my spirit been before. But something in my inmost heart Yes, all I've dreamed of bright or fair, Music is floating on the air, All Nature hath of breezy grace, Well might thy witchery inspire But vainly would the haunted king For chained had been each demon's wing, By thy rich minstrelsy. Priestess of a mighty power, My spirit worships thee; Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlemen of Charlestown.-PIERPONT.* Two hundred years!-two hundred years!- There is uncommon grandeur, both of thought and expression, in several of Mr. Pierpont's occasional odes. This piece, Napoleon at Rest, and the Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in their general character, and all truly sublime.-ED. |