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In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)

Who've felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find short solace there, as I have found.


With pleasure not unmix'd with pain,

They find their passage o'er,
with the Sabbath’s dawn they gain

That islet's rocky shore.
Behind them is the sweltry main,

The torrid land before.

No sound was in the silence heard

To break the air of balm,
Save when the screaming tropic bird

Wheel'd seaward in the calm:
The faint and heated breeze scarce stirr'd

The streamers of the palm.

The shipman in the distance sees

Across the glowing bay,
The crowded, strawbuilt cottages,

Like sunburnt ricks of hay,
Beneath the tall banana trees,

Bask in the morning ray.
And as that self-devoted band

Of christian hearts drew near,
No cool and bracing current fann'd

The lifeless atmosphere;-
Why should they seek that savage land

So desolate and drear?

In faith, those far-off shores they trod,

This humble six or seven,
And through those huts of matted sod

Shall spread the gospel leaven,
Till each becomes a house of God,

A mercy gate of Heaven.


THE thickly woven boughs they wreathe

Through every hallow'd fane,
A soft reviving odor breathe

Of Summer's gentle reign;
And rich the ray of mild green light

Which like an emerald's glow,
Comes struggling through the latticed height,

Upon the crowds below.

O let the streams of solemn thought

Which in those temples rise
From deeper sources spring than aught

Dependant on the skies.
Then though the summer's glow departs,

And winter's withering chill
Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts

Shall be unchanging still.


Editor of the Western Souvenir.


'T was far beyond yon mountains, dear, we plighted vows of

love, The ocean wave was at our feet, the autumn sky above, The pebbly shore was covered o'er with many a varied shell, And on the billows' curling spray, the sunbeams glittering fell. The storm has vexed that billow oft, and oft that sun hath set, But plighted love remains with us, in peace and lustre yet. I wiled

thee to a lonely haunt, that bashful love might speak, Where none could hear what love revealed, or see the crimson

cheek; The shore was all deserted, and we wandered there alone,

And not a human step impress'd the sand beach but our own; The footsteps all have vanish'd from the billow beaten strandThe vows we breathed remain with us—they were not traced

in sand. Far, far, we left the sea-girt shore, endear'd by childhood's

dream, To seek the humble cot, that smiled by fair Ohio's stream. In vain the mountain cliff opposed, the mountain torrent roard, For love unfurl'd her silken wing, and o'er each barrier soar'd; And many a wide domain we passed, and many an ample dome, But none so bless'd, so dear to us, as wedded love's first home. Beyond these mountains, now are all, that e'er we loved or knew, The long remembered many, and the dearly cherished few; The home of her we value, and the grave of him we mourn, Are there; and there is all the part to which the heart can turn; But dearer scenes surround us here, and lovelier joys we trace, For here is wedded love's first home—its hallowed resting place.


MRS WELLS is the wife of Thomas Wells, of Boston, noticed in the second volume. She writes with sweetness and simplicity.


THERE sits a woman on the brow

Of yonder rocky height;
There, gazing o'er the waves below,

She sits from morn till night.

She heeds not how the mad waves leap

Along the rugged shore;
She looks for one upon the deep

She never may see more.

As morning twilight faintly gleams,

Her shadowy form I trace;
Wrapt in the silvery mist, she seems

The Genius of the place!

Far other once was Rosalie;

Her smile was glad; her voice,
Like music o'er a summer sea,

Said to the heart-rejoice.

O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling

Perchance a shade, 't would pass,
Lightly as glides the breath of Spring

Along the bending grass.

A sailor's bride 't was hers to be :

Wo to the faithless main!
Nine summers since he went to sea,

And ne'er returned again.

But long, where all is wrecked beside,

And every joy is chased,
Long, long will lingering Hope abide

Amid the dreary waste!

Nine years—though all have given him o'er,

Her spirit doth not fail ;
And still she waits along the shore

The never coming sail.

On that high rock, abrupt and bare,

Ever she sits, as now;
The dews have damped her flowing hair,

The sun has scorched her brow.


far-off sail she sees,
And every passing cloud,
Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze,

She calls to it aloud.

The sea-bird answers to her cry;

The cloud, the sail float on.-
The hoarse wave mocks her misery,

Yet is her hope not gone :

It cannot go :-with that to part,

So long, so fondly nursed,
So mingled with her faithful heart,
That heart itself would burst.



When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds

are in their nest,
And flower-buds folded up to sleep,

And ploughmen gone to rest,

Down the rude track her feet have worn,

-There scarce the goat may go ;Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,

Is seen descending slow.

But when the gray morn tints the sky,

And lights that lofty peakWith a strange lustre in her eye,

A fever in her cheek,

Again she goes, unţired, to sit

And watch, the live-long day;
Nor till the star of eye is lit,

E'er turns her steps away.

Hidden, and deep, and never dry,

Or flowing, or at rest,
A living spring of hope doth lie

In every human breast.

All else may fail, that soothes the heart,

All, save that fount alone;
With that and life at once we part,

For life and hope are one.


He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew

At my approach ;

But as I nearer drew,
Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach,

And sadness too:

And something still his native pride proclaim'd,

Despite his wo;

Which, when I marked,-ashamed To see a noble creature brought so low,

My heart exclaim'd,

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