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She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and
of mirth, And her thoughts were those wild, flowery ones, that linger
not on earth.
A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face,
I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my
view 'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue. And her smile came gently over me, like spring's first scented
airs, And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares.
I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sun
ny days, With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant
things, That have gone the way of all the earth on time's resistless
J. G. WHITTIER,
Editor of the American Manufacturer, a newspaper of Boston. He is one of the most youthful of our poets, but his verses show a more than common maturity of powers.
THE SICILIAN VESPERS.
SILENCE o'er sea and earth
With the veil of evening fell,
One moment and that solemn sound
Fell heavy on the ear;
And the boldest shook to hear.
The startled monks throng'd up,
In the torch-light cold and dim;
And the virgin hush'd her hymn;
And a summoning voice were heard,
To the fearful echo stirr'd.
The peasant heard the sound,
As he sat beside his hearth;
With the fireside tale of mirth.
As the sound of fear drew nigh;
As the gleam of spears went by.
Wo-wo_to the stranger then;
At the feast and flow of wine,
Or bow'd at the holy shrine;
Had burst its iron thrall;
Wo!-wo!—to the sons of Gaul !
Proud beings fell that hour,
young and passing fair,
The avenger's arm was there!
And clasped his beads in prayer,
The avenger found him there!
Wo!-wo! to the sons of Gaul;
To the serf and mailed lord ;
To the harvest of the sword;
And the morning sun, with a quiet smile,
Shone out o'er hill and glen,
And the ghastly forms of men.
Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled,
As its early glance came forth;
And terrible things of earth;
In a language freely given,
Became the calm of heaven.
F. S. ECKHARD,
OF Philadelphia. Souvenir.
The following is from the Atlantic
THE RUINED CITY.
The days of old, though time has reft
A thousand years have roll'd along,
The moss tuft, and the ivy wreath, For ages clad thy fallen mould, And gladden'd in the spring's soft breath; But they grew wan and old. Now, desolation hath denied That even these shall veil thy gloom: And nature's mantling beauty died In token of thy doom. Alas, for the far years, when clad With the bright vesture of thy prime, The proud towers made each wanderer glad, Who hail'd thy sunny climr. Alas, for the fond hope, and dream, And all that won thy children's trust, God cursed—and none may now redeem, Pale city of the dust! How the dim visions throng the soul, When twilight broods upon thy waste ; The clouds of wo from o'er thee roll, Thy glory seems replaced. The stir of life is brightening round, Thy structures swell upon the eye, And mirth and revelry resound In triumph to the sky. But a stern moral may be read, By those who view thy lonely gloom : Oblivion's pall alike is spread O'er slave, and lordly tomb. The sad, the gay, the old, and young, The warrior's strength, and beauty's glow, Resolved to that from which they sprung Compose the dust below.