No fears his venturous course could stay— It echoed to his mailèd heel; He sees a glimmering taper gleam Then first he felt the touch of fear, And now the waning moon was low, As violets peep from wintry snows, And gently heaves her breast; A rising blush begins to dawn, And slowly, as the morning broke, The maiden from her trance awoke Beneath his ardent eye! As the first kindling sunbeams threw And tipped the hills with flame, From out its depths of tangled gloom A cloud of fragrant incense stole, Loud neighed the steed within his stall, But fresher than the rosy morn, The maiden's heart doth prove, IN Jonathan Lawrence. LOOK ALOFT. N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, Should the visions which Hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart. "Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb, And oh, when Death comes in his terrors, to cast George D. Prentice. SABBATH EVENING. How OW calmly sinks the parting sun! And, beautiful as dream of heaven, It slumbers on the hill; Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, And, rendering back the hues above, Seems resting in a trance of love. Round yonder rocks the forest-trees Like saints at evening bowed in prayer Around their holy shrine; And through their leaves the night-winds blow So calm and still, their music low Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, And yonder western throng of clouds, Retiring from the sky, So calmly move, so softly glow, Bright creatures of a better sphere, The blue isles of the golden sea, The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, The spirit of the holy eve Comes through the silent air And the far depths of ether beam Each soul is filled with glorious dreams, Each pulse is beating wild; And Thought is soaring to the shrine Of Glory undefiled! And holy aspirations start, Like blessed angels, from the heart, And bind-for earth's dark ties are riven Our spirits to the gates of heaven. THE DEAD MARINER. LEEP on, sleep on! above thy corse SLEEP The winds their Sabbath keep; The waves are round thee, and thy breast Heaves with the heaving deep. |