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النشر الإلكتروني

No sound goes up from the quivering trees,
When they spread their arms to the welcome breeze,
They wave in the zephyr, they bow to the blast,
But they breathe not a word of the power that pass’d;
And their leaves come down on the turf and the stream,
With as noiseless a fall as the step of a dream;
And the breath that is bending the grass and the flow ers
Moves o'er them as lightly as evening hours.


The merry bird lights down on that dell,
And hushing his breath, lest the song should swell,
Sits with folded wing, in the balmy shade,
Like a musical thought in the soul unsaid;
And they of strong pinion and loftier flight
Pass over that valley, like clouds in the night,
They move not a wing in that solemn sky,
But sail in a reverent silence by.

The deer in his flight has pass'd that way,
And felt the deep spell's mysterious sway-
He hears not the rush of the path he cleaves,
Nor his bounding step on the trampled leaves.
The hare goes up on that sunny hill-
And the footsteps of morning are not more still.
And the wild, and the fierce, and the mighty are there-
Unheard in the hush of that slumbering air.

The stream rolls down in that valley serene,
Content in its beautiful flow to be seen;
And its fresh, flowery banks, and its pebbly bed
Were never yet told of its fountain-head.
And it still rushes on—but they ask not why;
With its smile of light it is hurrying by ;
Still gliding or leaping, unwhisper'd, unsung,
Like the flow of bright fancies it flashes along.

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The wind sweeps by, and the leaves are stirr’d,
But never a whisper or sigh is heard;
And when its strong rush laid low the oak,
Not a murmur the eloquent stillness broke;
And the gay young echoes, those mockers that lie
In the dark mountain sides, make no reply ;
But husb’d in their caves, they are listening still
For the songs of that valley to burst o'er the hill.

I love society; I am o'erblest to hear
The mingling voices of a world ; mine ear
Drinks in their music with a spiritual taste;
I love companionship on life's gray waste,
And might not live unheard ;-yet that still vale-
It had no fearful mystery in its tale-
Its hush was grand, notawful—as if there
The voice of nature were a breathing prayer.
'T was like a holy temple, where the pure
Might join in their hush'd worship, and be sure
No sound of earth could come—a soul kept still,
In faith’s unanswering meekness, for Heaven's will-
Its eloquent thoughts sent upward and abroad,
But all its deep, hush'd voices kept for God !


OF Boston.



The earth it was gay,
And the air was bland
With the summer ray
Of a sunny land;
And the evening hour
Of soul-witching power,
With her radiant train,

Lit the earth and main;
When a beautiful barque was seen to glide,
Like a fairy sylph on the silver tide;
Not a zephyr breathed in her snow-white sails,
What cared she for the prospering gales ?
Full many a rower was plying the oar,
And she was flying away from the shore,
To wander alone on the trackless deep,
While the world was hush'd in a breathless sleep.
All that the hand of taste could do,
Banners floating of every hue,
Flowery wreath and sparkling gem,
Girdled her round from stern to stem;
The fairest of the land was there,
With snowy

robe and raven hair,
Bright eyes that beam'd expression's fire,
Beauty, all that hearts desire;
The flower of youthful chivalry,
With the young love's idolatry,
Offer'd homage at the shrine
Of woman's loveliness divine ;
While the sweet and blithesome song,
Uprose from the joyous throng;
And the barque moved on in light,
Graceful as the queen of night,
Beautiful isles sprinkled the bay,
Silver'd o'er with the moonbeam's ray ;
Verdure-clad isles, where shrubs and flowers,

The foliage of trees and bowers,
With fanciful dwellings woven between,
An air of enchantment breathed o'er the scene ;
The beauties of nature blended with art,
Delight the most soothing gave to the heart;
The air around them was freighted with balm;
The harp's soft notes added grace to the charm;
As it broke from the covert of a flowery grove,
With woman's sweet voice—the tones that we love !

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They passed the island-alone on the sea
Broke the sound of their mirth and minstrelsy;
The barque glided on to the music's swell,
The silvery foam from the oar-blade fell,
When suddenly broke on the ravish'd ear,
Sounds that seem'd borne from a happier sphere ;

The oarsmen plied no more their task,
Hush'd was the jest and jocund song ;
And one more bold was heard to ask,
To whom do all these notes belong ?
No answer came—they look'd and saw
What made them wonder and adore ;
Seraphic forms in radiant white,
Sparkling in the moonbeam's light;
Circling round in the ocean's breast,
They lulld every care to rest;
With golden harps they woke a strain,

No mortal hand can e'er attain,
Then mingling voices thrilld the frame,
With rapture's most ecstatic flame-
The vision fled I woke to see
Thy duller scenes-reality!


How fades the world before me now!

As lonely here I stand;
The dews of evening on my brow,

And silver on the land !

It seems to me a floating speck,

The fragment of a cloud ;-
Are all my hopes upon that wreck,

Oblivion soon will shroud ?

Oh no! I have a hope afar,

Among those orbs of light;
It twinkleth yet, the Bethlehem star,

As on its natal night.

Spring up, my soul ! and catch the ray,

And nurse it to a flame;
'T will burn in life's expiring day,

For ever—and the same.

LOUISA P. SMITH, Of Providence, (formerly Miss Hickman.) Her volume of poems was published the present year.


Fly on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,

Too near our shaded earth,

*" A bird peculiar to the east. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground"

Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard

May lose its note of nirth.
Fly on-nor seek a place of rest,

În the home of " care-worn things,'
"T would dim the light of thy shining crest,

And thy brightly burnish'd wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,

Thy place where stars shine free,
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,

Above life's stormy sea.
I would never wander–bird, like thee,

So near this place again,
With wing and spirit once light and free-

They should wear no more, the chain
With which they are bound and fetter'd here,
For ever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird,

Hopes as thy plumage gay,
Our air is with them for ever stirr'd,

But still in air they stay.
And happiness, like thce, fair one!

Is ever hovering o’er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,

On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of “ living waters" springs.


from care,

I've pleasant thoughts that memory brings, in moments free Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair; Her smile was like the star-light of summer's softest skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone, from out her witching


Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell Of sudden music, notes of mirth, that of wild gladness tell;

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