With trees wide waving Paradisian bow'rs And all the gaudy multitude of flow'rs. That on Spring's lap the liberal Flora show'rs. This stream, dividing, roll'd its branches twain, In circling sweep around a flow'ry plain, Thro' vocal groves, then fondly met again. The Islet fair, so form'd, arose between, With dome-like swell, array'd in richest green; So fair it was, so smooth, so heav'nly sweet, It seem'd made only for angelic feet. On this green Isle the Palace stood,
And rain-bow bridges arch'd the pearly flood- A fairer bow fair Juno ne'er display'd In vernal-skies, tho' not like Juno's made. Of subtile sun-beams, but of solid gems, Such as adorn imperial diadems.
Its blue was solid sapphire. Its gay green Was massy emerald. The ruby sheen Form'd its bright curve of rich and rosy red; Its yellow hue the golden Topaz shed."
Seem'd either end on snow-white clouds to lie- They were not clouds, but sculptur'd ivory! And now a bugle breath'd a silver sound, Whose notes with soft reverberations, round Rang sweet and long; now silently unfold The diamond gates on hinge of polish'd gold; And now rode out a fairy cavalcade,
In order'd march, with banners bright display'd, With diamond lances and with golden helms, And shields of gold emboss'd with sparkling gems, Advanc'd the pageant; proud beneath each knight O'er grassy levels pranc'd their steeds milk-white, Whose ivory hoofs in glitt'ring silver shod, With nimble grace on blusing flow'rets trod, Prancing they came, and as the trumpets blow, They neigh'd for pride and arch'd their necks of snow; Toss'd their proud heads indignant of the rein,
Champ'd their foam'd bits and pawed the trembling plain. Warrior and steed array'd for battle shone, Whose burnish'd mail and bright caparison Illum'd, far round, the flow'r enwoven field,
And restless splendors flash'd from shield to shield. Loud in the van the wreathed bugle spoke, 'Till woods and floods with martial clamors shook
High in the midst, enring'd by many a knight, And thron'd conspicuous on his chariot bright, Rode Oberon forth, in proud, imperial state, And, by his side, his queen Titania sate. In proud procession the refulgent host O'er the gay bridge, the pearly River cross'd; The rain-bow arch beneath the measur'd tread Of prancing steed, harmonious clangor made.
Lines, addressed to a very interesting and intelligent little Girl, deprived of the faculties of speech and hearing: In consequence of reading this question, proposed to one of Abbe Sicard's pupils: "Are the deaf and dumb unhappy?"
By Miss LYDIA HUNTLEY, of Connecticut. Oн, could the kind enquirer gaze Upon thy brow with feeling fraught, Its smile, like inspiration's rays, Would give the answer to his thought.
And could he see thy sportive grace Soft blending with submission due, And note thy bosom's tenderness, To every just emotion true;
And when the new idea glows On the pure altar of thy mind, Observe th' exulting tear that flows, In silent ectacy refin'd;
Thy active life; thy look of bliss; The sparkling of thy magic eye; He would his sceptic doubts dismiss, And lay his useless pity by;
And bless the ear that ne'er has known The voice of censure, pride, or art;
Or trembling at that sterner tone, That, while it tortures, chills the heart
And bless the lip that ne'er can tell Of human woes the vast amount, Nor pour those idle words that swell The terror of our last account.
For sure the stream of silent course May flow as deep, as pure, as blest, As that which rolls in torrents hoarse, Or murmurs o'er the mountain's breast.
As sweet a scene, as fair a shore, As rich a soil, its tide may lave; Then joyful and accepted pour Its tribute to the mighty wave.
THERE is a wilderness more dark Than groves of fir on Huron's shore; And in that cheerless region, hark
What serpents hiss, what monsters roar
It is not in the untrodden isles
Of vast Superior's stormy lake, Where social comfort never smiles,
Nor sun-beams pierce the tangled brake;
Nor is it in the deepest shade
Of India's tiger-haunted wood;
Nor western forests unsurvey'd,
Where crouching panthers lurk for blood:
"Tis in the dark uncultur'd soul, By education unrefin'd- Where hissing malice, vices foul, And all the hateful passions prowl-. The frightful wilderness of mind,
HOARSE howls the chilling northern blast, The sun's obscur'd-the sky's o'ercast- The lightning glares o'er depths profound, While pealing thunders roll around- The ocean heaves with furious roar- And tempests whirl from shore to shore. Those murmuring sounds ye heard afar, Precede old winter's icy car,
Proclaim his bellowing whirlwinds high, His elemental warfare nigh;
While thron'd on clouds his awful form, Expels the furious midnight storm.
Marked ye-yon vessel's fainting band, Strive hard to gain their native strand ? Saw ye the shiv'ring hapless few, The sport of every wind that blew ? Now o'er the liquid mountains tost, With desperate hand, in vain they guide Their shatter'd bark along the tide. That dreadful shriek-that dismal yell, Rings out the seaman's funeral knell; All hopes are gone-no power can save,. They perish in the briny wave
Ah! never more their hearts shall burn With friendship's joys, or love's return; No partner's fond embrace shall meet; No humble home-no blest retreat. That lengthen'd groan-that piercing sigh; That little infant's plaintive ery; That frantic burst, and maniac look, That frame by pangs convulsive shook, Too truly speak the sad reverse— Too plain the woful tale rehearse-
Their prospects, dim'd by horror's gloom, Lie buried in the watery tomb!
Yet think not scenes of woe and pain Alone distinguish winter's reign, Though desolation's hand is high- What social pleasures hover nigh!
The comforts of the blazing hearth, The kindling smile of harmless mirth, The soft expressive look of love That e'en the rudest heart would move, The Inspired Volume's sacred lore, The historic page-instruction pour, While genuine wit will brightly flow, And every face with rapture glow!
Then hail, stern winter! monarch hoar! And all thy rushing torrents pour More dear to me their echoes shrill, Than summer's softly tinkling rill, Thy mountain gale and piercing air, Than zephyrs breath'd through gardens fair, Yon wild heath clad in spotless snow, Yon giant cliff's imperious brow, Around whose summit lightnings flash, At whose dark base the surges dash, Than all the summer's gaudy scene, Oppressive heat-and verdure green.
Night View of the Field of Raising after the Battis.
THE battle's o'er, the din is past, Night's shadow on the field is cast; The moon, with pale and sickly beam, Looks pensive on the bloody stream; The Indian yell is heard no more, And silence reigns on Erie's shore.
Now is the time, my friend, to tread The field on which our warriors bled; To raise the wounded Chieftain's crest, And warm with tears his clay cold breast; To treasure up his last command, And bear it to his native land- It may one ray of joy impart To a fond parents bleeding heart, Or, for a moment, it may dry The tear drops in the widow's eye;
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