Oh lives there one cold breast can view

That wealth of charms, the unconscious light
Of that full soul, whose thoughts beam through,

And heavenward take their viewless flight,
Yet give one wish a fleeting birth
On this world's pride, the toys of earth!

Thou art to me the loveliest glow,

That mantles o'er life's chequered sky,
A living spring whose stream shall flow

Along the track of years gone by,
And with far murmurings deep and clear,
Make music still on memory's ear.
Farewell—I go to foreign skies,

To distant lands, to scenes afar,
Yet there, that one dear form shall rise

Unfading as the morning star,
And smile upon that desert still,
The same as on my native hill.

SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD.

AUThor of The Sisters of St Clara, The Lay of Melpomene, Mina, and The Cities of The Plain. He is a native of Massachusetts, and now a resident of Philadelphia. Mr Fairfield has been the subject of considerable notice in many of the newspapers, but with the particulars of his life we are not acquainted. He is a poet of talent.

HOUSEHOLD HOURS.

Howe'er the sceptic scoffs, the poet sighs,
Hope oft reveals her dimly shadow'd dreams,
And seraph joy descends from pale blue skies,
And, like sweet sunset on wood-skirted streams,
Peace breathes around her stilling harmonies,
Her whisper'd music,—while her soft eye beams
And the deep bliss, that crowns the household hearth,
From all its woes redeems the bleeding earth.

Like woods that shadow the blue mountain sky, The troubled heart still seeks its home in heaven, In those affections which can never die, In hallowed love and human wrongs forgiven! From the fair gardens of the blest on high The fruit of life is yet to lost marr given, And ’mid the quiet of his still abode Spirits attend him from the throne of God. The mild deep gentleness, the smile that throws Light from the bosom o'er the high pale brow, And cheek that flushes like the May-morn rose; The all-reposing sympathies, that glow, Like violets in the heart, and o'er our woes The'silent breathing of their beauty throwOh! every deed of daily life doth prove The depth, the strength, the truth of woman's love ! When harvest days are pass'd, and autumn skies The giant forests tinge with glorious hues, How o’er the twilight of our thought sweet eyes The fairy beauty of the soul diffuse ! The inspiring air like spirit voices sighs 'Mid the close pines and solitary yews, Though the broad leaves on forest boughs look sere, And naked woodlands wail the dying year. Yet the late season brings no hours of gloom, Though thoughtful sadness sighs her evening hymn, For hearth-fires now light up the curtain'd room, And love's wings float amid the twilight dim; Lost loved ones gather round us from the tomb, And blest revealments o'er our spirits swim, And Hopes, that droop'd in trials, soar on high, And link'd affections bear into the sky. Then, side by side, hearts, wedded in their youth, In their meek blessedness expand and glow, And, though the world be faithless, still their truth No pause, no change, no soil of time may know ! They hold communion with the world, in sooth, Beyond the stain of sin, the waste of wo, And the deep sanctities of well-spent hours Crown their fair fame with Eden's deathless flowers. Frail as the moth's fair wing is common fame, Brief as the sunlight of an April morn; But love perpetuates the sacred name

Devoted to his shrine ; in glory born, The boy-god gladly to the lone earth came To vanquish victors and to smile at scorn, And he will rise, when all is finish'd here, The holiest seraph of the highest sphere. As fell the prophet's mantle, in old time, On the meek heir of Israel's sainted sage, Woman! so falls thy unseen power sublime On the lone desert of man's pilgrimage; Thy sweet thoughts breathe, from love's delicious clime, Beauty in youth, and faith in fading age; Through all earth's years of travail, strife and toil, His parch'd affections linger round thy smile. In the young beauty of thy womanhood Thou livest in the being yet to be, Yearning for blessedness ill understood, And known, young mother! only unto thee. Love is her life; and to the wise and good Her heart is heaven-'tis even unto me, Though oft misguided and betrayed and grieved, The only bliss of which I'm not bereaved. Draw near, ye whom my bosom hath enshrined ! O Thou! whose life breathes in my heart! and Thou Whose gentle spirit dwelleth in my mind, Whose love, like sunlight, rests upon thy brow ! Draw near the hearth! the cold and moaning wind Scatters the ruins of the forest now, But blessings crown us in our own still homeHail, holy image of the life to come! Hail, ye fair charities! the mellow showers Of the earth's springtime! from your rosy breath The way-worn pilgrim, though the tempest lowers, Breathes a new being in the realm of death, And bears the burden of life's darker hours With cheerlier aspect o'er the lonely heath, That spreads between us and the unfading clime Where true Love triumphs o'er the death of Timne.

JAMES NACK,

Of New York, is the author of “ The Legend of Rocks, and other poems,” published in 1827. His poetry is quite respectable, but the most remarkable fact concerning it, is that the author is deaf and dumb. He lost the faculty of speech and hearing, by disease at an early age. His writings show that he has as nice a perception of the harmonies of verse, as those in whom the senses are perfect. This we apprehend must be owing to a knowledge of sound, accent, and quantity in language, which he has retained by memory. The deaf and dumb by birth have never, we think, in any instance, arrived at any distinct notion of these qualities of speech. This author is still very young. On the peculiarities of his situation, he may be expected to write with a full degree of feeling and earnestness. For this reason we have selected the passage which follows, as the most interesting.

THE MINSTREL BOY.

And am I doom'd to be denied for ever

The blessings that to all around are given ?
And shall those links be reunited never,

That bound me to mankind till they were riven
In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever

From social intercourse, the doom of heaven
Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain,
That the decree may be recall'd again.

Amid a throng in deep attention bound,

To catch the accents that from others fall,
The flow of eloquence, the heavenly sound

Breathed from the soul of melody, while all
Instructed or delighted list around,

Vacant unconsciousness must me enthrall !
I can but watch each animated face,
And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.

Unheard, unheeded are the lips by me,

To others that unfold some heaven-borni art, And melody-Oh, dearest melody!

How had thine accents thrilling to my heart.
Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy,

Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!
How had my heart responsive to the strain,
Throbb’d in love's wild delight or soothing pain

In vain-alas, in vain! thy numbers roll

Within my heart no echo they inspire; Though form’d by nature in thy sweet control,

To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,
Misfortune closed the portals of the soul ;

And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,
That can to animation kindle stone,
To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

And none are more exquisitely awake

To nature's loveliness than those who feel The inspiration of the muse—who take

From her the glowing thoughts that as they steal Around the soul entranced, a goddess make

Of nature to whose shrine of beauty kneel,
The fond enthusiasts adoring all
Within her we may dread or lovely call.

The terrible in nature is to them

The beautiful, and they can with delight Behold the tempest, and its wrath contemn,

Stationed upon some rock whose quivering height Is by the spirit swept, whose diadem

In burning terror wreathes the brow of night, While the rude winds their cave of slurnber rend, And to the loud-voiced thunders answer send.

Yet, Nature, not alone when stern and wild

Canst thou the homage of the bard awaken, Still art thou worshipp'd by the muse's child,

When thou thy throne of terrors hast forsaken; With darkness when thy brow is undefiled,

When scarce a leaflet of thy robe is shaken
By zephyrs that soft music murmuring,
Around thee wave their aromatic wing.