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Vanish'd that tempest of the soul,
Which then resumed its self-control,
Struggling each outward sign to hide
Of softness that might shame his pride,
And stain his lofty, warrior fame
With weakness of unmanly name.
''Tis well,” he said and paused,—the tone
Firm and majestic was his own;
His tearless eye was calm and bright,
His dark lip show'd no tinge of white,
And his whole mien was self possess'd
As if no passion stirr'd his breast.

LEVI FRISBIE

Was born at Ipswich, Massachusetts, in 1784. He was the son of a clegyman of that place. He was graduated at Cambridge in 1802, and began the study of law, but was obliged to desist by a disorder of his eyes. In 1805, he was appointed Latin Tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he became Professor of Latin, and in 1817, Professor of Moral Philosophy. This last office he retained till his death, July 9th, 1822. He never recovered his sight, and in the latter part of his life, wrote by means of a machine. A collection of his miscellaneous works, with a biographical sketch by Professor Norton, was published in Boston the year after his death. It contains a few pieces in verse.

MORNING HYMN.

WHILE nature welcomes in the day,
My heart its earliest vows would pay
To Him whose care hath kindly kept
My life from danger while I slept.

His genial rays the sun renews;
How bright the scene with glittering dews!

The blushing flowers more beauteous bloom,
And breathe more rich their sweet perfume.

So may the Sun of righteousness
With kindliest beams my bosom bless,
Warm into life each heavenly seed,
To bud and bear some generous deed.

So may the dews of grace distil
And gently soften all my will,
So may my morning sacrifice
To heaven a grateful incense rise.

Wilt Thou this day my footsteps guide,
And kindly all I need provide,
With strength divine my bosom arm
Against temptation's powerful charm..
Where'er I am, oh may I feel
That God is all around me still,
That all I say, or do, or mean;
By his all-searching eye is seen.

Oh may each day my heart improve,
Increase my faith, my hope, my love,
And thus its shades around me close
More wise and holy than I rose.

1

EVENING HYMN.

My soul, a hymn of evening praise
To God, thy kind preserver, raise,
Whose hand this day hath guarded, fed,
And thousand blessings round me shed.
Forgive my sins this day, Oh Lord,
In thought or feeling, deed or word;
And if in aught thy law I've kept,
My feeble efforts Lord accept.

While nature round is hush'd to rest,
Let no vain thought disturb my breast;
Shed o'er my soul religion's power,
Serenely solemn as the hour.

Oh bid thy angels o'er me keep
Their watch to shield me while I sleep,
Till the fresh morn shall round me break,
Then with new vigor may I wake.

Yet think, my soul, another day
Of thy short course has rollid away;
Ah think how soon in deepening shade
Thy day of life itself shall fade.

How soon death's sleep my eyes must close
Lock every sense in dread repose,
And lay me 'mid the awful gloom
And solemn silence of the tomb.

This very night, Lord, should it be,
Oh may my soul repose in thee,
Till the glad morn in heaven shall rise,
Then wake to triumph in the skies.

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Stay, stay, sweet vision, do not leave me

Soft sleep, still o'er my senses reign; Stay, loveliest phantom, still deceive me ;

Ah! let me dream that dream again.

Thy head was on my shoulder leaning;

Thy hand in mine was gently prest; Thine eyes so soft and full of meaning,

Were bent on me and I was blest.

No word was spoken, all was feeling,

The silent transport of the heart; The tear that o'er my cheek was stealing ;

Told what words could ne'er impart..

And could this be but mere illusion?

Could fancy all so real seem ?
Here fancy's scenes are wild confusion-

And can it be I did but dream. VOL. III.

14*

I'm sure I felt thy forehead' pressing,

Thy very breath stole o'er my cheek,
I'm sure I saw those eyes confessing,

What the tongue could never speak.

Ah! no,

't is
gone,

't is
gone,

and never
Mine such waking bliss can be ;
Oh I would sleep, would sleep for ever,

Could I thus but dream of thee.

MRS LITTLE,

Or Boston. She is the daughter of the Hon. Ashur Robbins, of Massachusetts. She has made her writings acceptable to the public under the signature of Rowena. The piece we have selected possesses great merit, and shows both taste and talent.

THANKSGIVING.

IT is thanksgiving morn—'t is cold and clear;
The bells for church ring forth a merry sound;
The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear,
Rival the many-tinted woods around;
The rosy children skip along the ground,
Save where the matron reins their eager pacě,
Pointing to him who with a look profound
Moves with his people’ toward the sacred place
Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of grace.
Of the deep learning in the schools of yore
The reverend pastor hath a golden stock:
Yet, with a vain display of useless lore,
Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock
The better cravings of his simple flock;
But faithfully their humble shepherd guides
Where streams eternal gush from Calvary's rock;
For well he knows, not learning's purest tides
Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul abides.

The anthem swells; the heart's high thanks are given :
Then, mildly as the dews on Hermon fall,
Begins the holy minister of heaven.
And though not his the burning zeal of Paul,
Yet a persuasive power is in his call;
So earnest, the so kindly, is his mood,
So tenderly he longs to save them all,
No bird more fondly Autters o'er her brood,
When the dark vulture screams above their native wood.
“ For all his bounties, dearest charge,” he cries,
“ Your hearts are the best thanks; no more refrain ;
Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice.
Almighty Lover! shalt thou love in vain;
And vainly woo thy wand'rers home again?
How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads!
Behold! thy harvest loads the ample plain ;
And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds,
From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus bleeds."
Much more he spake, with growing ardor fired:
Oh that my lay were worthy to record
The moving eloquence his theme inspired !
For like a free and copious stream outpour'd
His love to man and man's indulgent Lord.
All were subdued; the stoutest, sternest men,
Heart-melted, hung on every precious word:
And as he utter'd forth his full amen,
A thousand mingling sobs re-echoed it again.
Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn,
Close by whose rustic porch an elm is seen:
Lo! now has past the service of the morn;
A joyous group are hastening o'er the green,
Led by an aged sire of gracious mien,
Whose gay descendants are all met to hold
Their glad thanksgiving in that sylvan scene,
That once enclosed then in one happy fold,
Ere waves of time and change had o'er them roll'da

The hospitable doors are open thrown;
The bright wood-fire burns cheerly in the hall;
And, gathering in, a busy hum makes known
The spirit of free mirth that moves them all.
There, a youth hears a lovely cousin's call,
And flies alertly to unclasp the cloak;

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