BARD, awaking

Thou goddess fair! this fragrant air

What! gone! gone! And I here alone, enthroned on a rotten stump, overhung with bushes and cobwebs! Nothing but old birches and oaks around, and the green strewn with rotten wood! Humph! Where are the crumbled atoms of the moon!--the palace of light meet for Jove-and the goddesses!-and the golden throne! Where is the laurel crown ?-ha! a nettle-top stuck in my hair! Ha!-hem! hem!-have I been dreaming of fame? Why, I thought I was Apollo, at one time, enthroned amid a sun of blazing green, and whole creations rose and disappeared at my nod, or, more probably, at the touch of my lyre. And then, again, I saw an Ethiopian, or was myself the blackmoor, with my lyre turned to a fiddle, whose music created armies, and set them to battling; and then I saw a chariot— very much like the chariot of the sun-but there was a strange something about it-and-what was I next? Confound me if I can tell : I think that I was either a blood-hound or a fox, or both; and thenwhy I must have completely lost my identity-I was a goose; a South Carolina Nullifier; and then I suddenly became blended with this mighty frame of things, and was a paradise of flowers; then a wilderness of alligators, dragons, and all the et ceteras of the horribles; and now, to make the catastrophe complete, I am sitting here, my goddesses and palace vanished, my crown a nettle-top, and my throne a stump! Well, I will write a poem-I will put the adventures of this night into the form of a tragedy, and be the hero of my own play. And a most dolorous tragedy it will be-it will immortalize me. But the nettle-top-poh! I care not-I will write.

[Exit BARD.

A SUMMONS TO THE COUNTRY.

Is it to sit within thy stately hall,

Or tread the crowded street, thy chief delight? From all her heights and depths though Nature call

Thee to her charms-though grove, and plain, and height, Warble for thee-though Ocean's stormy might Thunder for thee-though the starred heavens sublime Shine out for thee-though peering orient bright, O'er mountain wood, the sire of day and time, Doth call for thee-and with retiring light Glance down his hues from their celestial clime To lure thee forth-yet can all these excite In thy cold breast no chord's responsive chime? Still wilt thou choose a prison-yard and cell?— Well! God forgive thy choice, for thou dost penance well.

God is in the hues of heaven

Fading from the sky and bay-
God is in the shades of even,

That chase the heavenly hues away.

God is in the torrent falling-
In the song of whip-poor-will-
In the voice of shepherd calling-
In the bleating on the hill-

In the cloud the distance glooming-
In the distant thunder's roar—
In the far-off ocean booming

On his everlasting shore.

God! Thou art all substance wreathing
Into forms that suit thy will;

God! Thou art through all things breathing
One harmonious anthem still.

THERE

LIFE'S VOYAGE.

rose, amid the boundless flood,

A little island green,

And there a simple race abode

That knew no other scene.

Save that a vague tradition ran,
That all the starry skies
Bore up a brighter race of man,
Robed in the rainbow's dyes.

A youth there was of ardent soul,
Who viewed the azure hue,
And saw the waves of ocean roll
Against its circle blue.

He launched his skiff, with bold intent,

To seek the nations bright,

And o'er the rolling waters went,

For many a day and night.

His lusty arms did stoutly strain,

Nor soon their vigor spent:

All hope was he right soon to gain
And climb the firmament.

Where glorious forms, in garments bright,
Dipped in the rainbow's dyes,

And streets, star-paved, should lend their light
To his enraptured eyes.

And then might he his isle regain
Fraught with a dazzling freight,
And lead his kindred o'er the main,
To this celestial state.

But whilst he plied the bended oar
The island left his view;
But yet afar his bark before,

The azure circle flew.

Yet still did flattering hope sustain

And give him vigor new;

But still before him, o'er the main,

Retired the circle blue.

Though whirlpools yawned, and tempests frowned,

And beat upon his head,
And billows burst his bark around,

Hope on that phantom fed.

Nor yet had ceased his labors vain,
Had not his vigor failed,

And 'neath the fever of his brain,
His vital spirit quailed.

Then Death appeared upon the sea,

An angel fair and bright-
For he is not what mortals say—
A grim and haggard sprite.

And, "Thou dost chase," he said, "my child!
A phantom o'er the main;

But though it has thy toils beguiled,

Thou hast not toiled in vain.

"Thou hast thus roused each slumbering might,

And framed thy soul to be

Fit now to climb yon starry height—

Come, then, and follow me."