A few of Hudson's more majestic hills

Might furnish forests for the whole of thine, Hide in thick shade all Humber's feeding rills,

And darken all the fountains of the Tyne.

Name all the floods that pour from Albion's heart,
To float her citadels that crowd the sea,
In what, except the meaner pomp of Art,
Sublimer Hudson! can they rival thee?

Could boastful Thames with all his riches buy,
To deck the strand which London loads with gold,
Sunshine so bright-such purity of sky-

As bless thy sultry season and thy cold?

No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee

In ancient scrolls; no deeds of doubtful claim Have hung a history on every tree,

And given each rock its fable and a fame.

But neither here hath any conqueror trod,
Nor grim invader from barbarian climes;
No horrors feigned of giant or of god

Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes.

Here never yet have happy fields, laid waste,
The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit,
The cottage ruined, and the shrine defaced,
Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute.

"Yet, O Antiquity!" the stranger sighs,
"Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view;
The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes,

Where all is fair indeed-but all is new."

False thought! is age to crumbling walls confined,

To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones? Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, More than old fortresses and sculptured stones? Call not this new which is the only land

That wears unchanged the same primeval face Which, when just dawning from its Maker's hand, Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race.

Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth

Glide past green Eden towards the unknown South, Than Hudson broke upon the infant Earth,

And kissed the Ocean with his nameless mouth.

Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile!

Thebes and the Pyramids to thee are young; Oh, had thy waters burst from Britain's isle, Till now perchance they had not flowed unsung!

ON A LADY SINGING.

FT as my lady sang for me

OF

That song of the lost one that sleeps by the sea,
Of the grave on the rock, and the cypress-tree,
Strange was the pleasure that over me stole,
For 'twas made of old sadness that lives in my soul.

So still grew my heart at each tender word,
That the pulse in my bosom scarcely stirred,
And I hardly breathed, but only heard:
Where was I?-not in the world of men,
Until she awoke me with silence again.

Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume,
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room:
Whether it came from the vine without,
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt.
Light shadows played on the pictured wall
From the maples that fluttered outside the hall,
And hindered the daylight—yet ah! not all;
Too little for that all the forest would be,-
Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me!

When my sense returned, as the song was o'er,
I fain would have said to her, "Sing it once more,"
But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore:

Music enough in her look I found,

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound.

THE

Phabe Carey.

CHRISTIAN WOMAN.

H, beautiful as Morning in those hours

OF

When, as her pathway lies along the hills,
Her golden fingers wake the dewy flowers,
And softly touch the waters of the rills,
Was she who walked more faintly day by day
Till silently she perished by the way.

It was not hers to know that perfect heaven

Of passionate love returned by love as deep;

Not hers to sing the cradle-song at even,

Watching the beauty of her babe asleep; "Mother and brethren"-these she had not known, Save such as do the Father's will alone.

Yet found she something still for which to live—
Hearths desolate, where angel-like she came,
And "little ones" to whom her hand could give
cup of water in her Master's name;

A

And breaking hearts to bind away from death,
With the soft hand of pitying Love and Faith.

She never won the voice of popular praise;

But, counting earthly triumph as but dross, Seeking to keep her Saviour's perfect ways,

Bearing in the still path His blessed cross, She made her life, while with us here she trod, A consecration to the will of GOD!

And she hath lived and laboured not in vain : Through the deep prison-cells her accents thrill, And the sad slave leans idly on his chain,

And hears the music of her singing still;

While little children, with their innocent praise,
Keep freshly in men's hearts her Christian ways.

And what a beautiful lesson she made known!-
The whiteness of her soul sin could not dim;
Ready to lay down on God's altar-stone

The dearest treasure of her life for Him.
Her flame of sacrifice never, never waned:
How could she live and die so self-sustained?

For friends supported not her parting soul,

And whispered words of comfort kind and sweet, When treading onward to that final goal

Where the still bridegroom waited for her feet; Alone she walked, yet with a fearless tread, Down to Death's chamber, and his bridal bed '

Thomas Buchanan Read.

THE STRANGER

ON THE SILL.

ETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn

BET

Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn-and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallow's throng,
And hear the pewee's mournful song;

But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger's children are swinging there.