I see thee like a new-born star
Move up thy pathway in the sky:

The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfailing and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy-that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin;
And only breathed life's morning airs
Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;
But no, that look is not the last,
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
Where love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word-farewell.

T. W. STONE.

THE following is the only specimen we have seen of the writings of this author.

1

THE BAY OF NAPLES.

SEE how the peaceful ripple breaks
In calmness on the verdant shore,
While zephyr, gently breathing, wakes
The slumbering spirit of each flower,
Which glows in beauteous brilliancy,
Along the margin of the tide,

And oft arrests the wandering eye,
As o'er the waves we gently glide.

Let us unfold the swelling sail,
Beneath the silent, silvery moon;
And catch the softly murmuring gale,
Which breathes in midnight's solemn noon.
And thou, my friend, shalt guide us now
Along the bosom of the bay,

While seated on the lofty prow,

We mark the ripple, that our way
Leaves on the waters, like the streak
Of morning, on an Alpine height,
When Sol's first radiant daybeams break,
In all the glow of infant light.

What sounds resound along the shores!
What echoes wake from off the seas!
While music from Italian bowers

Comes mingled with the evening breeze ;
The careless sailor floats along,
Slow wafted by the ebbing flood,
And swells the chorus of the song,
Which joyous peals from hill and wood.
And laughing bands of youth are there,
Who deftly dance to lightest measure,
And sea, and shore, and earth, and air,
Resound to mellow notes of pleasure.

But, ah! 't is past; a deeper brown
Has tinged the foliage of the wood,
Vesuvius' mighty shadows frown
Majestically o'er the flood;

The moon has set, and shadowy sleep
Now holds dominion o'er mankind,

Binding in slumber's vision deep,

The force of thought and power of mind.

Marking the wreck of temples vast,
The ruin'd shrine and altar stone.

Fair land! where oft, in days of yore,
The hymns of liberty were sung;
Thy boasted empire 's now no more,
Thy lyre of freedom all unstrung.
But, still the spirit loves to tread
Where sleep the great of ages ended,
For, musing on thy mighty dead,
They seem with all thy scenery blended.
They seem to whisper in thy trees,
They seem to flit along thy mountains,
They seem to float in evening's breeze,
They seem to haunt thy limpid fountains.

I. M'LELLAN,

Or Boston; he was graduated at Bowdoin College, in 1826, and is now a student at law. His poetry has appeared in various periodicals.

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.

THIS grassy hillock, with its rustic urn,
And its light hedge of snowy roses, train'd
By some sweet hand, is the abiding place
Of one most beautiful. A sweeter child
Than this frail tenant of the churchyard cell,
You would not meet through all the village round.
She perish'd in the heyday of her life,

Ere yet the frosts of trouble or of care

Had chill'd the gentle freshness of her youth.

She was of all the rural feasts the queen

The merriest when the dance wheel'd round the tree

At summer eventide, or when it swept

The hearth-stone of the jocund husbandman,

In winter's chilly and tempestuous night.
Oh! there is not a happy bird that fills
The open valley with her sylvan song,
When night is darkening all the golden woods,

That might surpass the compass of her voice
In its deep, delicate richness! In the grave
She sleepeth now, where everything is mute!
Long shall the poor man, and the aged dame,
And orphan child, remember her sweet smile
And her benignant acts; for well she loved
To minister unto the broken heart,

And help the poor blind beggar on his way,
And succor him with travel sore athirst,
And shelter, from the rain and wintry hail,
The man that had not where to lay his head;
And ever there the grateful traveller bless'd
That sweet, young face, that smiled his gloom away,
And woke the song of gladness in his heart.
And here her lover rests!

Beneath yon ridge,

Whereon the weeds grow rank, is hid the dust,
The plume, the bloody sword, the spur, and scarf
Of one who fought for fame, and found it not.
He was a wild and reckless, wayward boy,
The leader of the noisy village troop

In all their careless sports-one stout of heart
And strong of hand, and foremost in the rush
Of boyish battle. Yet his fiery soul

Would melt when Sorrow told her wretched tale,
Or Pain the gloomy history of her grief,

Or Age her melancholy words.

The youth

Had pledged his honest love to that meek girl,
And in the innocent fondness of her heart,
She bless'd him with her love.

But time wore on,

And he had heard the savage trump of war
Sound in the peaceful vale, and heard the tramp
And neighing of the charger, and the clang
Of martial arms, and shouts of armed men,
And saw the gairish flag of battle float
Beside the cottage of his infancy.

He clothed him in the garb of strife, and placed
Its sword upon his thigh, and search'd for fame
"E'en at the cannon's mouth."

And he came back

A bruised, and sick, and broken-hearted man,
To linger out his few sad days on earth
And die, and be at rest;-and by his side
They placed that bruised reed that leant on him.
"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well."

J. B. VAN SCHAICK,

A NATIVE of Albany, where he now resides. He was educated at Union College, Schenectady. He is known as a writer chiefly by some contributions to The Token for 1829, which are executed with much grace and refinement of taste.

JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND

STILL.

THE day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers
Flash'd the red sunbeams gloriously back,
And the wind-driven banners, and the steel
Of her ten thousand spears caught dazzlingly
The sun, and on the fortresses of rock
Play'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'd
To the stern men who girded by its light.
Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breath
Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon,
Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet
Wild spices, and the trees of gum were shook
By the rude armor on their branches hung.
Suddenly in the camp without the walls
Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war
Gather'd around their kings, and "Joshua!
From Gilgal, Joshua! was whisper'd low,
As with a secret fear, and then, at once,
With the abruptness of a dream, he stood
Upon the roc kbefore them. Calmly then
Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare
And hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;-
"God of this people, hear! and let the sun
Stand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moon
Rest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased-
And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earth
Stands on her axis indolent. The sun
Pours the unmoving column of his rays
In undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still;
The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face;
The clouds and vapors that at night are wont
To gather and enshroud the lower earth,

Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up,