I know not who or whence thou art,
Yet feel thy influence o'er my heart;
Thy song so sweet-so rich, though soft,
Its dying cadences-hath oft

In thraldom sweet my feelings held,
And my brow's gathering gloom dispell'd;
For when, with soul-depressing power,
Pale melancholy rules the hour,
The breathings of thy plaintive lyre
Can soft and tender thoughts inspire;
Can blunt affliction's rankling dart,
And touch the pulses of the heart,
Like a departed spirit's tone
Breath'd to some long-lov'd earthly one.
And when thou sing'st of pleasures fled,
Or of the once-lov'd, still-lov'd dead;
When thou describ'st those realms of light
Which are too pure for mortal sight;
Where those, who here were doom'd to sever,
Shall be united, and for ever;
Where all the good of ages past
In holiest love shall meet at last:
The soul, delighted with the theme,
Receives from thy sweet song a gleam
Of worlds, that yield more perfect bliss
Than e'er can be conceiv'd in this;
Glimpses of brighter scenes than lie
Within the scope of human eye;
And visions of that radiant shore,
Where care and sorrow vex no more;
Where countless hosts of angels throng,
And pour the never-ending song,
TO HIM who sits enthron'd in light;
Ineffable, and infinite.

Oh! long may'st thou continue the Sweet source of such sweet melody: Still let thy pure and hallow'd muse Its touching harmony diffuse;

For songs like thine, to virtue given, Fall on the heart like dew from heaven.

B. N.

THE OCEAN.

(From MR. BIRD's poem of "DUNWICH, A TALE OF THE SPLENDID CITY," now in the press).

BEATS there a heart which hath not felt its core
Ache with a wild delight, when first the roar
Of Ocean's spirit met the startled ear?
Beats there a heart so torpid, and so drear,
That hath not felt the lightning of its blood
Flash vivid joy, when first the rolling flood
Met the charmed eye in all its restless strife,
At once the wonder and the type of life!

Thou trackless, dark, and fathomless, and wide
Eternal world of waters !-ceaseless tide
Of power magnificent! unmeasured space,
Where storm and tempest claim their dwelling-
place!

Thy depths are limitless!-thy billows' sound
Is Nature's giant voice-thy gulph profound
Her shrine of mystery, wherein she keeps
Her hidden treasures-in thy caverned deeps
Is stored the wealth of nations, and thy waves
Have been are now-and will be, dreary graves
For countless millions!-Oh! thou art alone
The costliest footstool of God's awful throne,
The mighty tablet upon which we see
The hand of power-the sign of Deity!

THE WOOD NYMPH.

THE summer leaf has left the bough,
And darkly frowns the lowering sky;
All lovely things are fading now,
And wintry winds sound drearily.

Stripped of its green umbrageous shade,
The living woof of buds and flowers,

How bare and bleak the forest glade,

How scathed and changed its fairy bowers.

The angry spirits of the woods,

With sullen voices chafe the air; And, hoarsely answered by the floods, Breathe nought but fury and despair.

Hush'd is each tender soothing note,

Which, borne upon the summer breeze, Would o'er the calm fair waters float,

Soft as love's sweetest phantasies.

And she is gone, that blessed one,

Who, often heard, though seldom scen, When brightly gleamed the noon-tide sun, Breathed music through the leafy screen!

And in the glittering golden ray,
I've shaped her form of life and light;
Yet still the pageant flashed away,

For mortal eye too keenly bright.
But she was near-I felt her sighs
In every perfumed breath that stole,
Feeding a thousand reveries

Within my rapt enchanted soul.

I heard her voice, when all was mute,
Save some bright insect's ceaseless wing;
Like echoes from a fairy lute,

Or fays in flower-bells whispering.
Now other visions haunt the wild,

Now other sounds are on the breeze; And nature's fair and gracious child Gives place to darker mysteries. EMMA ROBERTS.

CHURCH, IN SUFFOLK.

WHAT, in the olden time, hast thou seen,
Dark ruin, lone and gray?

Full many a race of man from the green
And bright earth pass away!

The organ has pealed in these roofless isles,
And priests knelt down to pray,

At the altar where now the daisy smiles
O'er their silent beds of clay.

I've seen the strong man, a wailing child,
By his mother offered here;

I've seen him a warrior fierce and wild,
I've seen him on his bier;
His warlike harness beside him laid,

In the silent earth to rust,
His plumed helm and trusty blade
To moulder-dust to dust!

I've seen the stern reformer scorn

The things once deem'd divine;
And the bigot's zeal with gems adorn
The altar's sacred shrine !

I've seen the silken banners wave,
Where now the ivy clings,
And the sculptur'd stone adorn the grave
Of mitred priests and kings!

I've seen the youth in his tameless glee,
And the hoary locks of age,
Together bend the pious knee,

To read the sacred page;

I've seen the maid with her sunny brow
To the silent dust go down-
The soil-bound slave forget his woe-
The king resign his crown!

Ages have fled and I have seen

The young-the fair-the gayForgotten as they ne'er had been, Though worshipped in their day;

And schoolboys here their revels keep,
And spring from grave to grave,
Unconscious that beneath them sleep

The noble and the brave!

Here thousands find a resting place,
Who bent before this shrine;
Their dust is here-their name and race
Oblivion now are thine!

The prince, the peer, the peasant sleeps
Alike beneath the sod;

Time o'er their dust short record keeps, Forgotten, save by God!

I've seen the face of nature change,

And, where the wild waves beat, The eye delightedly might range O'er many a princely seat; But hill, and dale, and forest fair, Are whelm'd beneath the tideThey slumber here, that could declare Who owned these manors wide! All thou hast felt-these sleepers knew ; For human hearts are still,

In every age, to nature true,

And sway'd by good or ill;
By passion rul'd, and born to woe,
Unceasing tears to shed;

ROBERT KERR PORTER, IN SOUTH AMERICA, ON HIS WIDOW HOOD.

RIPE clusters, pluck'd in sunny prime,

Will often re-appear,

To cheer the board in northern clime,
When winter spoils the year! .
Again, by grace divine,

To suff" ring man are given
Past hours of well-spent time,

The fruit preserved in heaven!
Such num'rous hours are thine,
O'er-look'd in hope's gay light;
But now disclosed, they shine
The stars of sorrow's night!
With mournful tenderness,
Fond friendship's distant band
Now dread thy woe's excess,
Unsooth'd in stranger land;
But friendship's lovely flower,
The growth of every clime,
Springs swift in sorrow's bower,
Nor wants the dews of time!

Arise! the new-born year!

A star of peace to thee! And may no cloud, nor tear, Its smiling circle see!

H. O. C.