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!

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 lull'd every care to rest;
With golden harps they woke a strain,

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

EVENING THOUGHTS.

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,

Or Providence, (formerly Miss Hickman.) Her volume of poems was published the present year.

THE HUMA.*

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 mirth.

Fly on-nor seek a place of rest,

In 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 thee, 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.

RECOLLECTIONS.

I'VE pleasant thoughts that memory brings, in moments free

from care,

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

eyes.

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

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 sunny 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;