NAPOLEON AT REST.

HIS falchion waved along the Nile,

His host he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, His eagle-flag unrolled-and froze !

Here sleeps he now, alone !—not one,
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star

That led him on from crown to crown,

Has sunk, and nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled—
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,

That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far off world at last

Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast,

Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! Comes there from the pyramids,

And from Siberian wastes of snow,

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world be awed to mourn him?—No!

The only, the perpetual dirge

That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry

The mournful murmur of the surge,

The clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

OCCASIONAL HYMN.

O THOU, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,

Whom kings adored in song sublime,

And prophets praised with glowing tongue,

Not now, on Zion's height alone,

Thy favored worshipper may dwell, Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.

From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayer— The incense of the heart-may rise

To heaven, and find acceptance there.

In this Thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To Thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.

To Thee shall Age, with snowy hair,

And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee, And Childhood lisp, with reverent air, Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To Thee, at last, in every clime,

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

N. P. WILLIS.

SPRING.

THE Spring is here—the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours-
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,

To find refreshment in the silent woods; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange-that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.

There's no contentment, in a world like this,

Save in forgetting the immortal dream; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,

That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; Bird-like, the poisoned soul will lift its eye And sing-till it is hooded from the sky.

EXTRACT FROM A POEM

DELIVERED AT THE DEPARTURE OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF VALE COLLEGE, in 1826.

WE shall go forth together. There will come
Alike the day of trial unto all,

And the rude world will buffet us alike.

Temptation hath a music for all ears;
And mad ambition trumpeteth to all;

And the ungovernable thought within

Will be in every bosom eloquent ;

But, when the silence and the calm come on,

And the high seal of character is set,

We shall not all be similar. The scale

Of being is a graduated thing;

And deeper than the vanities of power,

M