THE LOST PLEIAD.-Mrs. Hemans.
And is there glory from the heavens departed? -Oh! void unmarked!-thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-
No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burningThe shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea
To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourned for
Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are,
When from its height afar
A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanished star!
THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.-Mrs. Southey.
Tread softly-bow the head
In reverent silence bow-
No passing bell doth toll-
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.
Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor
One by that paltry bed
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
Enter! no crowds attend-
Enter! no guards defend
This palace gate.
That pavement damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.
No mingling voices sound
An infant wail alone ;-
A sob suppressed-agen
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.
Oh! change-oh! wondrous change-
Burst are the prison bars-
This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!
Oh! change, stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod:
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God.
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The fount, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corei,1
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone and forever!
AN INVITATION TO PRAISE GOD.-Watts.
Sweet flocks, whose soft enameled wing
Swift and gently cleaves the sky,
Whose charming notes address the spring
With an artless harmony;
Lovely minstrels of the field,
Who in leafy shadows sit,
And your wondrous structures build,
Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light;
To nature's God your first devotions pay,
Ere you salute the rising day,-
'Tis he calls up the sun, and gives him every ray.
Serpents, who o'er the meadows slide,
And wear upon your shining back
Numerous ranks of gaudy pride,
Which thousand mingling colors make;
Let the fierce glances of your eyes
Rebate their baleful fire;
In harmless play twist and unfold
The volumes of your scaly gold;
That rich embroidery of your gay attire,
Proclaims your Maker kind and wise.
1 The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.
Insects and mites, of mean degree,
That swarm in myriads o'er the land,
Moulded by Wisdom's artful hand,
And curled and painted with a various dye;
In your innumerable forms
Praise him that wears the ethereal crown,
And bends his lofty counsels down
To despicable worms.
TO THE EVENING WIND.—Bryant.
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high
their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
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