Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill, and plain ;—
Who 'll buy himself a burial place?
Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell
That beauty flings around the heart;
I know its power, alas! too well;

'Tis going! Love and I must part!
Must part? What can I more with Love?
All over 's the enchanter's reign.
Who 'll buy the plumeless, dying dove,-
A breath of bliss, a storm of pain?
And, Friendship, rarest gem of earth;
Who e'er hath found the jewel his?
Frail, fickle, false, and little worth,
Who bids for Friendship-as it is?
'Tis going! going! hear the call ;

Once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low!
'T was once my hope, my stay, my all,
But now the broken staff must go!
Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high;
How dazzling every gilded name!
Ye millions! now 's the time to buy.

How much for Fame? how much for Fame?
Hear how it thunders! Would you stand
On high Olympus, far renowned,
Now purchase, and a world command!-
And be with a world's curses crowned.

Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine
In every sad foreboding breast,
Save this desponding one of mine,—

Who bids for man's last friend, and best?

Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life,

This treasure should my soul sustain!

But Hope and Care are now at strife,
Nor ever may unite again.

Ambition, fashion, show and pride,
I part from all for ever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide,
Has taught my haughty heart to bow.
By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod;
The best of all I still have left,-
My Faith, my Bible, and my GOD!

Ex. XCIV.—THAT SILENT MOON.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have passed beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth?

How oft has guilt's unhallowed hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,

Profaned her pure and holy light!
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasped, And heart meets heart in holy love, To smile, in quiet loneliness,

To hear each whispered vow, and bless.

G. W. DOANE.

Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch, with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon!

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanished scenes,

The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost, of other years!

And oft she looks, that silent moon,

On lonely eyes, that wake to weep,

In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banished sleep, Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,

On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendor may,
There's pureness in her chastened light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart,—
What power the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day :-
But oh! be mine a fairer boon,—
That silent moon, that silent moon!

Ex. XCV.-THE POET'S THEMES.

TALFOURD.

THE universe, in its majesty, and man in the plain dignity of his nature, are the poet's favorite themes. And is there no might, no glory, no sanctity in these? Earth has her own venerableness her awful forests, which have darkened her hills for ages with tremendous gloom; her mysterious springs pouring out everlasting waters from unsearchable recesses; her wrecks of elemental contests; her jagged rocks, monumental of an earlier world. The lowliest of her beauties has an antiquity beyond that of the pyramids. The evening breeze has the old sweetness which it shed over the fields of Canaan, when Isaac went out to meditate. The Nile swells with its rich waters toward the bulrushes of Egypt, as when the infant Moses nestled among them, watched by the sisterly love of Miriam. Zion's hill has not yet passed away with its temple, nor lost its sanctity amidst the tumultuous changes around it, nor even by the accomplishment of that awful. religion of types and symbols which once was enthroned on its steeps. The sun to which the poet turns his eye is the same which shone over Thermopyla; and the wind to which he listens swept over Salamis, and scattered the armaments of Xerxes. Is a poet utterly deprived of fitting themes, to whom ocean, earth, and sky are open-who has an eye for the most evanescent of nature's hues, and the most ethereal of her graces-who can "live in the rainbow and play in the plighted clouds," or send into our hearts the awful loveliness

of regions "consecrate to eldest time?" Is there nothing in man, considered abstractedly from the distinctions of this world-nothing in a being who is in the infancy of an immortal life—who is lackeyed by "a thousand liveried angels --who is even "splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave --to awaken ideas of permanence, solemnity and grandeur? Are there no themes sufficiently exalted for poetry in the midst of death and life--in the desires and hopes which have their resting-place near the throne of the Eternal-in affections, strange and wondrous in their working, and unconquerable by time, or anguish, or destiny? Such objects, though not arrayed in any adventitious pomp, have a real and innate grandeur.

Ex. XCVI.-TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

GRENVILLE MELLFN.

WAKE your harp's music!-louder,-higher,
And pour your strains along;

And smite again each quivering wire,
In all the pride of song!

Shout like those godlike men of old,

Who, daring storm and foe,

On this blest soil their anthem rolled,

Two hundred years ago!

From native shores by tempests driven,
They sought a purer sky,

And found, beneath a milder heaven,
The home of liberty!

An altar rose, and prayers,-a ray

Broke on their night of woe,——

The harbinger of freedom's day,
Two hundred years ago!

They clung around that symbol, too,
Their refuge and their all;

And swore, while skies and waves were blue,
That altar should not fall.

They stood upon the red man's sod,

'Neath heaven's unpillared bow,

With home, a country, and a God,
Two hundred years ago!

Oh! 't was a hard, unyielding fate
That drove them to the seas,
And persecution strove with hate,
To darken her decrees:

But safe above each coral grave,
Each blooming ship did go,-
A God was on the western wave,
Two hundred years ago!

They knelt them on the desert sand,

By waters cold and rude, Alone upon the dreary strand

Of oceaned solitude!

They looked upon the high blue air,
And felt their spirits glow,
Resolved to live or perish there,—
Two hundred years ago!

The warrior's red right arm was bared,
His eyes flashed deep and wild :
Was there a foreign footstep dared

To seek his home and child?

The dark chiefs yelled alarm,—and swore

The white man's blood should flow,

And his hewn bones should bleach their shore,Two hundred years ago!

But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim,

His arm was left alone,—

The still black wilds that sheltered him,

No longer were his own!

Time fled,—and on the hallowed ground

His highest pine lies low,

The cities swell where forests frowned,
Two hundred years ago!

Oh! stay not to recount the tale,-
'Twas bloody,-and 't is past;

The firmest cheek might well grow pale,
To hear it to the last.

The God of heaven, who prospers us,

Could bid a nation grow,

And shield us from the red man's curse,
Two hundred years ago!