Apostrophe to the Sun.-J. G. PERCIVAL. CENTRE of light and energy, thy way Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, Far in the blue, untended and alone: Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown, On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light; Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright. Thy path is high in heaven;—we cannot gaze So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul. Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake; All, that was once so beautiful, is torn By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, And, in their maddening rush, the crested mountains shake. The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair. The vales are thine :-and when the touch of spring Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore ; The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore. The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam, Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. Thine are the mountains,-where they purely lift Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift Dazzling, but cold;-thy farewell glance looks there, The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, And how the heavenly messenger impels Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells. The ocean is thy vassal :-thou dost sway His waves to thy dominion, and they go Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Rising and falling in eternal flow; Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And take them wings and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale. "I thought it slept."-HENRY PICKERING. From Recollections of Childhood. I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, As it was wont, within its cradle, now Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange And yet its little bosom did not move! I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand; She answered but with tears. Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look, Were cast-now on the babe once more were fixed- And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms, And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said— My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep; Alas! he's dead; he never will awake." He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more The Snow-Storm.-ANONYMOUS. THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, A mother wandered with her child. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifts of snow Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone"O God," she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!” She stripped her mantle from her breast, At dawn, a traveller passed by: She lay beneath a snowy veil; From this little tale of unaffected, childish sorrow, Mr. Agate (an estimable young artist of New York) has produced a very touching picture It was exhibited at the National Academy in that city. The frost of death was in her eye; Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ;- The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. ."-NEW YORK "I went and washed, and I received sight." EVENING POST. WHEN the great Master spoke, And he saw the city's walls, He looked on the river's flood, And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms, that stood He saw, on heights and plains, But a mighty thrili ran through his veins And his virgin sight beheld The ruddy glow of even, And the thousand shining orbs that filled And his heart, at daylight's close, |