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Though never yet bath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,
But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
From Syria's thousand minarets!
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
From Purity's own cherub mouth,
And hope, and feeling, which had slept
Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept !
By Mrs. HEMANS.
“O FATHER, Lord ! The All-beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers, Linking our hearts to nature! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into her deep recesses are beguiled, Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower, Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, Amidst the low religious whisperings, The shivery leaf sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams, That sing of Thee back to free childhood's heart, Fresh with the dews of tenderness !—Thou bidd'st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of Thine ! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet hearts, touched by their fervent dreams With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age Thou lend'st the vernal bliss :-the old man's eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto Thee, who call'st earth's buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power, And fill'd with immortality. Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that gavest us flowers !”
By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Our host hath spread beneath our tread A broider'd velvet woof; Curtains of blue peep richly through Our fretted palace-roof; Well spent, say I, in forestry Each summer day like this, Till glow-worms light owl watchmen's flight Through our green metropolis !
Like those that made in Arden shade
We've band and quire that never tire,
Oh, wood and stream, how fair a dream-
Man must not spare to spell with care
The hermit wise (my friend replies),
THE GIFTED. From the Poetical Remains, of Mrs. GREY, better known as Mary ANNE BROWNE.
Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes
Must rest within the bosom's fold ;
Unheeded by the coarse and cold.
To nothing in this earthly sphere;
Where nothing mortal may appear-
Such his perplexing woe who seeks
A refuge upon stranger shores ;
In vain their sympathy implores ;
Laden with gold, or princely store,
And an unmeasured deep before.
AN ENIGMA. Another of W. M. PRAED's graceful Enigmas will be welcome to the reader. The solution is left to his own sagacity.
UNCOUTH was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight,
By famine or by fight;
Not a pilot steer'd the ship,
To my dripping brow or lip.
Within my second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt;
My rude adorers knelt;
And ever the red blood ran;
Forging my first for man.
My shrine is silent now,
No crown upon my brow;
Of all that was divine; .
Is call'd by mortals mine !
SUN, MOON, AND STARS. ERNST MORITZ ARNDT, now in his seventy-seventh year, is a Pomeranian, a patriot, a poet, and a professor of philosophy. He has read much, written much, seen much, and suffered much; and no man enjoys a higher character among his countrymen for all the qualities that adorn human nature. His works are very voluminous; but as an author he is chiefly known to the great body of German readers by his songs, most of which are characterized by peculiar fire, energy, and