He turned away and he covered his head,
For over him fell a visible dread.

While she gave her form to the breeze away,
That came from the vales of immortal day;
And sung her hymns far over the same,
And heavenly HOPE was the seraph's name :
The guide to a land of rest and bliss,
To a sinless world-how unlike this.

To earth's blest pilgrim, old and gray,
The gate dissolved like a cloud away ;
And the grim old Carle he veiled his face,
As she passed him by with a holy pace;
With a touch of his hand and a whisper mild,
He soothed her heart as one stills a child.

The song of faith she faintly sung,

And God's dread name was last on her tongue.
Now from the pall, bright and sublime,
That hangs o'er the uttermost skirts of time,
Came righteous souls and shapes more bright,
Clothed in glory and walking in light ;
Majestic beings of earthly frame,
And of heavenly radiance over the same,
To welcome the Pilgrim of this gross clime,

They had come from eternity back to time—

And they sung, while they wafted her on the road,

66

Come, righteous creature, and dwell with God."

THE BLACKBERRY BOY.

[William Hamilton was a member of our Academy, and a painter of historical and pastoral works of considerable beauty. His designs were simple, his proportions accurate, and his execution graceful. He excelled in expressing gentle emotion, and in embodying scenes of softness and tranquillity. His ladies have been praised for their academic grace and their natural modesty. His Mrs. Siddons, in the character of Isabella, was much admired; the great actress was in the pride of youth and in the full bloom of fame, and to fulfil the public expectation required no common talents. We confess, however, that we love his Blackberry Boy better than we do most of his other productions; it is true to nature, and to nature of a very sweet sort, and presents us with an image which we have all realized in our day. This beautiful child was his youngest son, the offspring of his affections as well as of his mind; and parental feeling has aided rather than impeded the pencil. In some it may awaken farther interest to be told that the painter died in 1802, in the fifty-second year of his age; and his son, whose image his genius has preserved, in his eighteenth year, after having given manifest proofs of skill and capacity in his father's profession. ED.]

PLUCK, pluck and eat, sweet Child! I see

The image of my youth in thee.

Less hath the painter done his part

Than nature has, thou living art.
For gladsome as the bees which sup
On honey, when the sun is up,
Was I; and pure as rose in June,
Or star which rises next the moon,
And restless as a running stream,
And joyous as the morning beam,
And light of heart and bright of face,
I started on life's oft-run race.

'I started on life's race; and now,

With sobered heart and saddened brow,
And tottering knees, I feebly creep,
Slow to my mother's lap to sleep.

Ah! different when, sweet Child, like thee,
I hunted wild the murmuring bee;
Or loitering o'er my school-boy task, -
In sunshine stretched me out to bask;
Chased speckled trouts from stone to bank,
Made whistles, swords of rushes rank.
To trees and streams as brethren spake,
And dyed my lips with berries black.
The wild fruit, on the wildest tree,
Might 'scape from birds, but not from me.
The ruined castle's topmost stone

Hung tottering-I made it my throne;
There, seated 'tween the cloud and earth,
Ten thousand phantasies had birth;
Bright visions, such as sometimes cheer
My dreams-too pure to linger here.

Glad Child, 'tis sweet to see thee stand With opening lip and answering hand, Among the ripe fruit feasting free,. Spread largely for the birds and thee. With thee I'd list, the live day long, The green grasshopper's churming song, Or, with light foot and wondering brow, Hunt hopeless the unseen cuckoo.