THE WILDERNESS.

A gentleman called NEVAY, a name unknown to fame, is the author of the following original poem. It is a higher class of composition than the generality of those which have appeared of late years:- it is of almost classical purity in thought and style. It should be read twice to be thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed.

THE homeless wilderness!

How sweet, how beautiful, and O! how mild
Is nature in her summer dress

To me, thus wandering far alone!
Now be my thoughts as, when a little child,
I deem'd that God's eternal throne
Was in the sun-so glorious, so bright-
To bless the earth with loveliness and light.

Here breathes the peace I seek!
This healthy wild's a paradise to him

Who, musing, hears the voiceless speak-
Hears the calm eloquence of flowers,

And drinks sweet wisdom from their balmy hymn,
That charms with beauty's chastest powers
The vagrant winds their lips to kiss,

And tells that Nature's innocence is bliss.

Nor strife nor hatred here,

Nor envy, at a neighbour's good to writhe;
Each flower is to its sister dear-

This hates not that of fairer bloom,
And all are loved by pilgrim bee so blithe;
The prickly gorse, and gentler broom,
In peace dispread their gold together,
Nor scorn the lowlier blooming thyme and heather.

So live the good, and love-
For there is virtue yet upon the earth,
And by her seraph hand are wove
The feelings of ingenuous hearts
In happy friendship, sympathy and mirth;
And kindly each to each imparts

The sunny light that heaven bestows,
And summer pleasure in each bosom glows.

'T'he shafts of enmity

Can never wound my feelings, musing here!
In every little flower I see,

There breathes a balm, a holy charm;
And the glad song of every bird I hear
Tells me that envy cannot harm,

And sweetly teaches to forgive my foesMy simple song forgives them as it flows.

But I could love the foe

Whose censure stern, and praise, alike are just;
Whose lip can curl, whose soul can glow,
As faults appear, or beauties shine;
Who scorns to give the undeserved thrust-
Scans every word of every line,

As one in whom there is no ruth,

While native candour still decides with truth.

Yet why obtrude such theme,

Where nature spreads around her sacred page?
To read aright, my aim supreme,

And cultivate each germ of thought
That in me lives; and win the holy pledge
Which I, since boyhood gay, have sought,
To be among the laurell'd blest, above
Yon sun rejoicing high-a home of love.

Thou, who all sweetness art,

And pure as sweet, thou sunborn summer wreath, O, be the feelings of my heart,

Like thee, in moral beauty wove;

And as we muse, 'mid winter's gloom of death,
Of thy gay summer charms in love,

So, when beneath the sod I'm laid along,
Remember'd be the votary of song.

NIGHT SHOWETH KNOWLEDGE.

A fine composition by an old author claims a place in our selection. It is by WILLIAM HABINGDON, and bears date 1605. It is a perfect little gem in conception and execution.

WHEN I survey the bright
Celestial sphere,

So rich with jewels hung, that night,
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;

My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward flies,

The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.

For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame

So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator's name.

No unregarded star
Contracts its light

Into so small a character,
Remov'd far from our human sight;

But if we steadfast look

We shall discern

In it, as in some holy book,

How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conqueror,
That far-stretch'd power,

Which his proud dangers traffic for,
Is but the triumph of an hour.

That, from the farthest north,
Some nation may

Yet undiscover'd issue forth,
And o'er his new-got conquest sway.

Some nation, yet shut in
With hills of ice,

May be let out to scourge his sin,

Till they shall equal him in vice.

And then they likewise shall
Their ruin have;

For as yourselves your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,

The fallacy of our desires,
And all the pride of life, confute.

For they have watch'd since first
The world had birth;

And found sin in itself accurst,
And nothing permanent on earth.

AUTUMN.

From the Glasgow Courier we cut a few lines which are sufficiently above the average to justify us in placing them among these selections. They were published anonymously.

BRIGHT flowers are sinking,
Streamlets are shrinking,

Now the wide forest is wither'd and sear;

Light clouds are flying,

Soft winds are sighing:

We will be thoughtful, for autumn is near.

Blossoms we cherish'd

Have wither'd and perish'd,

Scenes which we smiled on are yellow and drear;
Feelings of sadness

O'ershadow our gladness,

And make the mind thoughtful, for autumn is near.

Thus all that is fairest,

And sweetest and rarest,

Must shortly be sever'd, and call for a tear:

Then let each emotion

Be warm with devotion,

And we will be thoughtful, for autumn is near.

DESCRIPTION OF A LAND STORM.

A scrap from SHELLEY, finely descriptive, is worth preserving as a specimen of his power of painting in words.

A CLOUD thickens the night.

Hark, how the tempest crashes through the forest!
The owls fly out in strange affright;

The columns of the evergreen palaces

Are split and shatter'd;

The roots creak, and stretch, and groan;
And ruinously overthrown,

The trunks are crush'd and batter'd

By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress.
Over each door crack and crash they all
In terrible and intertangled fall.

And through the ruins of the shaken mountain
The airs hiss and howl;

It is not the voice of the fountain,
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl.

THE INQUIRY.

By CHARLES MACKAY.

From a volume of poems, lately published by Mr. C. MACKAY, we take the following pretty little poem, which will please those who prefer elegant sentimentalisms to the finer creations of genius; and we suspect that so ill-cultivated is poetical taste among us, that they will include by far the larger portion of our readers.

TELL me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,

Do ye not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more?

Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?—

The loud wind dwindl'd to a whisper low,

And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd "No!

Tell me, thou mighty deep,
Whose billows round me play,
Know'st thou some favour'd spot,
Some island far away,