Encounter; no fantastic carvings show

The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here-thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees
In music;-thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt :-the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship;-nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace,
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak-
By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated-not a prince,

In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare

the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, h scented breath, and look so like a smile, THE gs, as it issues from the shapeless mould, leananation of the indwelling Life,

To hew the token of the upholding Love,
And sprea the soul of this wide universe.
The lofty va

t is awed within me, when I think

SACRED HARMONY.

the meat miracle that still goes on,
der, round me-the perpetual work
acation, finished, yet renewed
e. Written on thy works, I read
Tale of thy own eternity.

La a grow old and die: but see, again,
the faltering footsteps of decay,
rever gay and beautiful youth
aleautiful forms. These lofty trees

Te but less proudly than their ancestors
Vader beneath them. 0, there is not lost
f earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
the fight of untold centuries,
The testness of her far beginning lies,
A yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

This arch enemy Death-yea, seats himself

the sepulebre, and blooms and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
We own nourishment. For he came forth
Fam thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men, who hid themselves
Dey in the woody wilderness, and gave
Tarres to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less and than the hoary trees and rocks
And them;-and there have been holy men,
The deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, re-assure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink,
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,

Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me-the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
For ever. Written on thy works, I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again,
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death-yea, seats himself
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment.
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the fort
Of thy fair works. But thou art here-the
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees
In music:-thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place
Comes, scarcely felt-the barky trunks, the grous
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with
Here is continual worship:-nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herk
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roo
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades.
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak-
By whose immoveable stem I stand, and se
Almost annihilated-not a prince,
In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his mus
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
broad sun. That delicate forest flower
scented breath, and look so like a smile.
-s, as it issues from the shapeless meait,
anation of the indwelling Life,
the token of the upholding Love,
real the soul of this wide universe.

t is awed within me, when I think

For he came forth

There have been holy men, who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;-and there have been holy men,
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes

Retire, and, in thy presence, re-assure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink,
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,

118

SACRED HARMONY.

With all the waters of the firmament,

The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities;-who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by!
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face,
Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And, to the beautiful order of thy works,
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

THE LOST PLEIAD

MRS. HEMANS.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed!
-Oh, void unmark'd !-thy sisters of the sky

Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath starte
Thou! that no more art seen of mortal eye!
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night!
-She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence!
No desert seems to part those urns of light.
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom inte
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning!
The shepherd greets them on his mountains
And from the silvery sea

WHAT IS THY HOPE?

ANON.

WHAT is thy hope ?-Oh! if to the earth
Like the grovelling vine it clings,
Nor shoots one aspiring tendril forth
In search after higher things,

In vain is it nurtur'd with ceaseless toil,
Confined to the cold world's ungenial soil;
Each prop that supports it must perish, and all
Its buds of fair promise unopened fall-
Alas! for the hopes that are nourished here
'Midst the storms of earth's changeful atmosphere.

Then what is thy hope? To what pitch of pride,
Would thy restless ambition tower?
Wouldst thou over fallen empires stride
To the summit of human power?