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And while from vale to vale, like incense given, Sounds on the breeze of morn the Sabbath bell, The chastened soul may lift its dream to heaven Till the rapt heart seems kindling in the spell; While, touched with day-beams, grove, and fount and river,
in the soft beauty of Contentment sleep, How should man conquer Passion's stormy fever And drink of peacefulness so pure and deep?
Why, when the anthems of the streams are swelling, And the fresh blossoms odorous tribute yield :— When gales delicious of sweet buds are telling, That humbly blooming, bend in every field? Why should Man's heart no pure emotions cherish— Why should its reverence and affection die ;When fragile birds and blossoms, born to perish, Make glad the chambers of the open sky!
BY HENRY LANCE.
THE rifted clouds are flying fast
They turn their silver lining out'
And then down to the ocean's rim
In wild disorder pass,
And roll their thick and black'ning folds
Into one mighty mass.
A single star is bright above:
While the dark spirit of the gale
There is a music in the wind-
Of all its earthly ties,
And bade it hold communion with
The spirits of the skies!
The mournful music of the wind
The golden visions of the past,
Now doubly bright to view-
THE LAS 1 REQUEST.
THE LAST REQUEST.
BY B. B. THATCHER.
BURY me by the Ocean's side
O give me a grave on the verge of the deep,
When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweep—
Shall burst on my turf,
And bathe my cold bosom in death as 1 sleep!
Bury me by the sea
That the vesper at eve-fall may ring o'er my grave, Like the hymn of the bee,
Or the hum of the shell in the silent wave!
Or an anthem-roar
Shall be beat on the shore
By the storm and the surge, like a march of the brave!
Bury me by the deep
Where a living footstep never may tread
And come not to weep
O wake not with sorrow the dream of the dead' But leave me the dirge
Of the breaking surge,
And the silent tears of the sea on my head!
And grave no Parian praisePurple no turf for the heartless tomb
And burn no holy blaze,
To flatter the awe of its solemn gloom!
Of the star-eyed night,
And the violet morning my rest will illume:
And honors, more dear
Than of sorrow and love, shall be strewn on my clay
With its fragrant dews and its crimson array-
On the verge of the deep,
Till the sky and the seas shall have past away!
A HOLY stillness, beautiful and deep,
Reigns in the air and broods upon the ocean: The worn-out winds are quieted to sleep, And not a wave is lifted into motion.
The sea-bird skims along the glassy tide,
Or floats upon the sea outstretching wide
A sheet of gold beneath the noonday's brightness.
The fleecy clouds hang on the deep blue sky,
Reaching above each other, broad and high-The dazzling sunbeams in their bosoms folded.
It seems as if the burning cheek of day
Were placed upon the ocean's noiseless pillow; And both in harmonising slumber lay,
Stirred by no cooling breeze or rippling billow.
How at an hour like this the dreaming mind
Partakes the quiet that is shed around us; As if the Power that stilled the restless wind. With the same soothing influence had bound us.
BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.
DAYS of my youth,
Ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth,
Ye are frosted and gray:
Eves of my youth,
Your keen sight is no more:
Cheeks of my youth,
Ye are furrowed all o'er:
Strength of my youth
All your vigor is gone:
Thoughts of my youth,