And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view,
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;
O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover,
The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!

THAT SILENT MOON.

BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,

Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,

Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,

To smile, in quiet loneliness,

And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.

Dispersed along the world's wide way, When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love! Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon, And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes,
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,

On lonely eyes that wake to weep, In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:

Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,

On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray : What power is hers to soothe the heartWhat power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day :--
But oh! be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!

SWEET antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife,
Charm against discontent and wrinkled care.
Who knows thy power can never know despair;
Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:
When cares oppress, or when the busy day
Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff
Can drive even want and lassitude away,

And give a mourner happiness enough.
From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,
They hide each evil that in prospect lies;
But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,

Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother? If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,

Till I, departing taper, light another.

HOPE.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

SEE through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,
One little star benignant peep,

To light along their trackless path

The wanderers of the stormy deep.

And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form

In sorrow's gloomy night shall be

The sun that looks through cloud and storm Upon a dark and moonless sea.

When heaven is all serene and fair,
Full many a brighter gem we meet;
'Tis when the tempest hovers there,
Thy beam is most divinely sweet.

The rainbow, when the sun declines,
Like faithless friend will disappear;
Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines
When all is wail and weeping here.

And though Aurora's stealing beam
May wake a morning of delight,

"Tis only thy consoling gleam

Will smile amid affliction's night.

THE LAKE OF CAYOSTEA.

BY

ROBERT BARKER.

Ob: 1831, at. 27.

THY wave has ne'er by gondolier
Been dash'd aside with flashing oar,

Nor festive train to music's strain

Performed the dance upon thy shore.

But there, at night, beneath the light
Of silent moon and twinkling ray,
The Indian's boat is seen to float,
And track its lonely way.

The Indian maid, in forest glade,
Of flowers that earliest grow,
And fragrant leaves, a garland weaves
To deck her warrior's brow.
And when away, at break of day,
She hies her to her shieling dear,
She sings so gay a roundelay,
That echo stops to hear.

Would it were mine to join with thine, And dwell for ever here,

In forest wild with nature's child,

By the silent Cayostea.

My joy with thee would ever be
Along these banks to roam;
And fortune take beside the lake,
Whose clime is freedom's home.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

WHEN Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.