Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea: and I would have Thy father, any thing to thee! Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Our memory,-feel that she hath eyes; Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, THE CITY OF JERUSALEM. BY JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. How beautiful is Zion!-Like a queen, Arm'd with a helm, in virgin loveliness Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Waved their dark beauty round the tower of David. Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, Hail'd by the pilgrims of the desert, bound Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, D TO A SLEEPING CHILD. BY WILSON. ART thou a thing of mortal birth, Or, art thou, what thy form would seem A human shape I feel thou art, I feel it at my beating heart, Those tremors both of soul and sense |