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I look behind, I look before,
The happy vision is no more!
But in its room a darker shade

Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made;
I cannot turn, yet do not know,
What I would, or whither go;

But I have heard, to heart of sin,
A small voice whispering within,
'Tis all I know, and all I trust,-
"That man is weak, but God is just."

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THE HUNTER.

By Professor WILSON.

HIGH life of a hunter! he meets on the hill
The new-waken'd daylight, so bright and so still,
And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll,
The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul.
'Tis his on the mountains to stalk like a ghost,
Enshrouded in mist, in which nature is lost,
Till he lifts up his eye, and flood, valley and height,
In one moment all swim in an ocean of light;
While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurl'd,
Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent world.
'Tis his by the mouth of some cavern-his seat,—
The lightning of heaven to behold at his feet,
While the thunder below him, that growls from the cloud,
To him comes in echo more awfully loud.

When the clear depth of noontide, with glittering motion,
O'erflows the lone glens, an aërial ocean;

When the earth and the heavens, in union profound,

Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound.

As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close,
'Neath a rock of the desert in dreamy repose,
He sees in his slumbers such visions of old

As wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told;

O'er the mountains a thousand plumed hunters are borne, And he starts from his dream at the sound of the horn.

TO THE WINDS.

We found the following in a newspaper, with the name of ALICE CAREY appended to it. Who she is, we know not, but there is a touch of truest poetry in these stanzas.

TALK to my heart, oh Winds!
Talk to my heart to-night;
My spirit always finds

With you a new delight,
Finds always new delight
In your silver talk at night.

Give me your soft embrace,
As you used to long ago
In your shadowy trysting place,
When you seem'd to love me so,-
When you meekly kiss'd me so,
On the green hills, long ago.

THE MEETING IN THE LANE.

By MARY JANE SAWYER.

WE were to meet at sunset down the lane,
To tread once more that pathway in the shade
Of the old trees-old chestnut trees-that there
Meeting o'erhead a rustling archway made;
Lovely the scene, the hour no less, as sank
Sound into silence, into shadow, light;
Meek Nature seem'd to hold her breath in awe,
Shrinking affrighted from approaching night.

As paled the last red cloud in heaven, she came
Her light step quickening as she onward drew;
The face she met me with was sadly gay,

And my lip trembled, for her thoughts I knew;
The morrow was to be our wedding day,

And this fair Summer's night brought to its close The long, sweet story of our love; the thought Was joy, yet sadness dashed it as it rose.

'Twas sad to feel our pleasant meetings o'er,

Though came no more the grief that bade us part;
It had become the habit of our love,-

Ah, me! the love of that fond, gentle heart!
No storm of Fate could shake it where it grew,
Or strew the lovely blossom that it bore;
She loved as Woman rarely loves but once,
A love that asks return, and aks no more.

We met in silence, and a moment's space

Each stood with downcast eyes; the time had been Our joy had flooded forth in words, but now

It seem'd beyond all language-calm—serene—

It was an earnest of what life would be,

The placid feeling that inspired each breast,

I took her hand,-I drew her to my side,

"Dear love"!-her raised eyes, tearful, spoke the rest.

CARES.

A quaint poem by Lord BACON.

THE world's a bubble, and the life of man
Less than a span;

In his conception wretched, from the womb,
So to the tomb :

Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years,
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limnes the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools.

The rural parts are turn'd into a den
Of savage men.

And where's a city from all vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three ?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

Or pains his head.

Those that live single take it for a curse,
Or do things worse.

Some would have children, those that have them moan,
Or wish them gone.

What is it then to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please
Is a disease;

To cross the sea to any foreign soil
Perils and toil.

Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace.

What then remains but that we still should cry
Not to be born, or, being born, to die.

LIFE.

From The Old Man's Counsel, by W. C. BRYANT, the American

poet.

SLOW pass our days

In childhood, and the hours of light are long
Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse
They glide in manhood, and in age they fly;
Till days and seasons flit before the mind,
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,
Seen rather than distinguish'd.
Ah! I seem

As if I sat within a helpless bark,

By swiftly running waters hurried on

To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks,
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,

Bare sands, and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks,

And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear
Each after each, but the devoted skiff
Darts by so swiftly that their images
Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep
By other banks and the great gulf is near.
Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And the fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield-

All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence of thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnish'd, and a wither'd heart.

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
By LOGAN.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

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