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SOLITUDE.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all that flattered, followed, songht, and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude !

DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay wbite on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlisted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are laid in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

THE EAST.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in die; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learned the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering, upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of all-mighty Rome:
The trees wbich grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and
More near, from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood

Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levelled battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;
But the gladiators' bloody circus stands
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection !
While Cæsar's chambers and the Augustan halls
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As twere anew,

the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great or olil-
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns!

A SHIPWRECK.

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had

Been stove in the beginning of the gale; And the long-boat's condition was but bad,

As there were but two blankets for a sail, And one oar for a mast, which a young lad

Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board. 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down

Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown

of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail; Tbus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. At half past eight o'clock, booms, hen.coops, spars,

And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could kecp afloat the struggling tars,

For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars;

The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head-foremost-sunk, in short, Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell!

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,

As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushid,

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gusha,

Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary sbriek—the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun

Blister'd and scorch'd; and, stagnant on the sea They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,

Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
They glared upon each other—all was done,

Water, and wine, and food-and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.
At length one whisper'd his companion, who

Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
And then a hoarser murmur grew,

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,

'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellows' food. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,

And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was as more robust and hardy to the view,

But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw

One glance on him, and said, “ Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing !" and he saw him thrown Into the deep, without a tear or groan. The other father had a weaklier child,

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,

As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part.
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed;

And when the wislı'd for shower at length was come,
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,

Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child's mouth--but in vain.
The boy expired-the father held the clay,

And look'd upon it long, and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay

Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past,
He watched it wistfully, until away

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast;
Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering,
And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering.

ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD, 1743—1825.

Anna Lætitia BARBAULD, a name long dear to the admirers of genius and the lovers of virtue, was the eldest child and only daughter of the Rev. John Aikin, master of a boys' school in the village of Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, and was born in that place on the 20th of June, 1743. In her very earliest childhood she discovered remarkable powers of mind, being able to read quite well at two and a half years of age. Her education was conducted by her father, and was of a very solid character; and though at that day there was a strong prejudice against imparting to females any tincture of classical learning, she devoted a portion of her time to the study of Latin, and before she was fifteen she had read many authors in that language with pleasure and advantage: nor did she rest satisfied without gaining some acquaintance with the Greek.

In 1758, when Miss Aikin had just attained the age of fifteen, her father removed from the somewhat obscure village of Kibworth to take charge of the classical department in the “dissenting'' academy at Warrington, in Lancashire, to which he had been invited. In the cultivated society of this place, she found most congenial associates, and here for fifteen years she passed probably the happiest, as well as the most brilliant, portion of her existence. In 1773, she was induced by her brother to collect the various poems she had from time to time written, and arrange them for publication. She did so; and with so much favor were they received by the public, that four editions were called for within that year. Her brother also induced her to join him in forming a small volume of prose pieces, which was published that same year, under the title of “Miscellaneous Pieces, in Prose, by J. and A. L. Aikin." These likewise met with much approbation, and have been several times reprinted.

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