Leaping and rolling
From rock to cave,
A vast, impetuous,
Onward wave:

I have a fancy as I mark

Thy fall o'er the precipices dark;
As I behold thy power reveal'd,
And hear thy voice like thunder peal'd;
I have a fancy as I sit

Under the rocks where thy rainbows flit,
And listen to thy roar and swell,
Sonorous, irresistible:-

I deem thou leapest

Adown the rocks,

To show how little

Are fortune's shocks

To him reliant,

Who knows his strength,
And measures evil-

Breadth and length.

I deem thou flowest to teach us still,
That perseverance conquers ill;
That no obstruction, small or great,
Can daunt the soul that dares its fate;
That calm true hearts in peril's hour
Confront it with superior power.
Here at thy side, I sit and dream

These fancies twain, swept mountain stream.

THE BLESSED DEAD.

By T. B. READ, an American poet.

Оn, happy childhood! tender buds of spring
Touch'd in the Maytime by a wandering frost;
Ye have escaped the summer's sultry wing;

No drought hath parch'd you, and no wind hath toss'd,
Shaking the pearls of morning from your breast:
Ye have been gather'd ere your sweets were lost,

Ere wingéd passions stole into your rest
To rob the heart of all its dewy store.
Now in the endless Maytime overhead,
In starry gardens of the azure shore,
Ye bloom in light, and are for evermore
The blessed dead.

Ye youths and maidens, dear to joy and love, But fallen midway between morn and noonOr bird-like flown, as if some longing dove

Should seek a better clime while yet 'tis June,
Leaving our fields forlorn! oh, happy flight!
Gone while your hearts are full of summer tune,
And ignorant of the autumnal blight—

Ere yet a leaf hath wither'd on the bough,
Or innocent rose hath droop'd its dying head;
Gone with the virgin lilies on your brow,
Ye, singing in immortal youth, are now
The blessed dead.

And who in the harvest of your years

ye,

Were stricken when the sun was in mid air,
And left the earth bedew'd at noon with tears-
Ye have known all of life that is most fair,
The laugh of April and the summer bloom.
Ye with the orange-blossoms in your hair,
Who sleep in bridal chambers of the tomb;

Or ye, who with the sickle in the hand,
Have bow'd amid the sheaves the manly head,
And left the toil unto a mournful band-
Ye all are number'd in your resting land,
The blessed dead.

And ye, who like the stately upland oak
Breasted the full allotted storms of time,
And took new strength from every gusty stroke-
And ye, who like a vine long taught to climb
And weigh its native branches with ripe fruit-
Much have ye suffer'd 'neath the frosty rime
Which autumn brings and winter's loud dispute!
But now, transplanted in the fields afar,

Your age is like a wither'd foliage shed-
And where youth's fountain sparkles like a star,
This have ye learn'd, they only live who are
The blessed dead.

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever;-it may be a sound-
A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring-

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
Childe Harold.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailors for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken

From some bright former state, our own no more;
Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanish'd things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why!
Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by,
A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar-
A flower scent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;
Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear,

These are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus ?-'tis mystery all!

Darkly we move-we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made—
Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!

Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined?—
So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

VOL. V.

THE FLOWER OF MY BIRTHDAY.

By WILLIAM KENNEDY.

I WAS a wild, yet tender thing,
In childhood's early day;

I loved the free bird's merry wing,
The gentle tear of infant spring,
And the blithe look of May;
I loved our cottage in the glen—
"Tis ruin'd now-'twas smiling then.

No matter! once there was a flower,
My mother gave to me,
'Twas planted on my natal hour,
And was of all our summer-bower,
The favourite of the bee;

My mother oft in sport would say,
You're children of the self-same day!

I prized it well-it was, in faith,
A peerless little flower;

I sought to shield its fairy wreath
From the chill north wind's angry breath,
And the approaching shower;
Blooming beneath a sunny sky,
never dreamt to see it die.

At last, methought its roseate hue
Wax'd fainter every morrow;
I saw it fade-the morning dew
Fell cheerly-but the flow'ret grew
Into a thing of sorrow;

I watch'd it till, by slow decay,
Its fragrant spirit pass'd away.

Its spirit pass'd-I wept the fate
Of my poor garden brother!
It was so beautiful a mate,
That, when it left me desolate,
I might not find another
To rival the departed one-
My heart was in it-it was gone!

'Tis strange-Time hath sped far and fast
Since that ill-fated flower,
Yielding its bosom to the blast,

Sicken'd, and droop'd, and drunk at last
Within its native bower;

'Tis strange-how all of good, that I
Since found, hath shared its destiny.

I've mark'd it well-each morn hath led
To some new cherish'd treasure,
Some promise-bud, which flower'd and fled,
Ere the first evening sky grew red,
With all its plighted pleasure,-
Leaving the hope-sick heart in pain,
To seek-and be deceived again.

And this is life-and this is love-
And this is beauty's power!

And thus must fame and fortune prove,