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,
And all she said and did, was with its own instinctive grace;
She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and pleasant
one,

And her light spirit saw no ill, in all beneath the sun.

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 wings.

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,

Till the convent tower sent deeply forth
The chime of its vesper bell.

One moment-and that solemn sound
Fell heavy on the ear;

But a sterner echo pass'd around ;
And the boldest shook to hear.

The startled monks throng'd up,
In the torch-light cold and dim;
And the priest let fall his incense-cup,
And the virgin hush'd her hymn;
For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp,
And a summoning voice were heard,
And fretted wall, and tombstone damp,
To the fearful echo stirr’d.

The peasant heard the sound,

As he sat beside his hearth;

And the song and the dance were hush'd around, With the fireside tale of mirth.

The chieftain shook in his banner'd hall,

As the sound of fear drew nigh;

And the warder shrank from the castle wall,
As the gleam of spears went by.

Wo-wo-to the stranger then;

At the feast and flow of wine,
In the red array of mailed men,
Or bow'd at the holy shrine;

For the waken'd pride of an injured land
Had burst its iron thrall;

From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band;
Wo!-wo!-to the sons of Gaul!

Proud beings fell that hour,

With the young and passing fair,

And the flame went up from dome and tower;
The avenger's arm was there!

The stranger priest at the altar stood,
And clasped his beads in prayer,

But the holy shrine grew dim with blood;
The avenger found him there!

Wo!-wo! to the sons of Gaul;
To the serf and mailed lord;

They were gather'd darkly, one and all,
To the harvest of the sword;

And the morning sun, with a quiet smile,
Shone out o'er hill and glen,
On ruin'd temple and mouldering pile,
And the ghastly forms of men.

Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled,
As its early glance came forth;
It had no sympathy with the wild
And terrible things of earth;
And the man of blood that day might read,
In a language freely given,
How ill his dark and midnight deed

Became the calm of heaven.

Or Philadelphia.

F. S. ECKHARD,

The following is from the Atlantic

Souvenir.

THE RUINED CITY.

The days of old, though time has reft
The dazzling splendor which they cast;
Yet many a remnant still is left

To shadow forth the past.

The warlike deed, the classic page,
The lyric torrent strong and free,
Are lingering o'er the gloom of age,
Like moonlight on the sea.

A thousand years have roll'd along,
And blasted empires in their pride;
And witness'd scenes of crime and wrong,
Till men by nations died.

A thousand summer suns have shone

Till earth grew bright beneath their sway,
Since thou, untenanted, and lone,
Wert render'd to decay.

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 clim.

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.

CATALOGUE

OF

AMERICAN POETRY.

VOL. III.

32*