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And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to

mirth,

Turn to a moody melody of wail,

And through her stony throngs I go alone,
Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still

Thou art my only counsellor, with whom
Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill,
Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom
Of solitude, which is so sad and sore,
Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.

A boyish thought, and weak:

I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee;
And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest,
With naught but thy pale beams upon my breast.

Let it be so indeed

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone: And let me perish where no heart shall bleed, And naught, save passing winds, shall make my

moan;

No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine.

DR. BIRD.

THE CORAL INSECT.

TOIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train,

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;
Toil on-for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock;

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,

And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;
The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men,

And the mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison drop in man's purest cup;
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath,
And why need ye sow the floods with death?

With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;--
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold,
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,
And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ;-
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build-ye build--but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;-
As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid,
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,

Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.
MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THE CHILD OF EARTH.

FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her dark'ning brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
'I am content to die-but, oh! not now!-
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe-
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing-
Not while the bright flowers round my footsteps
wreathe.

Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow-
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!'

The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time;
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime:
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
'Let me not perish while o'er land and sea,

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on;
For while the murmur of the mountain-bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone:
Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow-
I am content to die!-but oh! not now!'

Summer is gone and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;-
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn.
'Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow-
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!'

The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers far and near
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:

Yet still that prayer ascends. 'O! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices light and lod;
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!

The spring is come again-the joyful spring!
Again the banks with clust'ring flowers are sp
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing

The child of earth is number'd with the dead!
'Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow-
Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!'
MRS. NORTON.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.

WHAT were they?--you ask: you shall presently see;
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea;
O no;-for such properties wondrous had they,
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could
weigh,

Together with articles, small or immense,
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense;
Naught was there so bulky but there it could lay,
And naught so ethereal but there it would stay;
And naught so reluctant but in it must go :-
All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire,
Which retain'd all the wit that had ever been there;
As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf,
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,
As to bound like a ball on the roof of his cell.

Next time he put in Alexander the Great,

With a garment that Dorcas had made-for a weight; And though clad in armour from sandals to crown, The he o rose up, and the garment went down.

A long row of alms-houses, amply endow'd
By a well-esteem'd Pharisee, busy and proud,
Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest
By those mites the poor widow dropp'd into the chest;
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce,
And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a
bounce.

By further experiments (no matter how)

He found that ten chariots weigh'd less than one plough.

A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale,
Though balanced by only a tenpenny nail.
A lord and a lady went up at full sail,

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale.
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,-
Ten counsellors' wigs full of powder and curl,-
All heap'd in one balance, and swinging from thence,
Weigh'd less than some atoms of candour and

sense ;

A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,

Than one good potato just wash'd from the dirt;Yet not mountains of silver and gold would suffice, One pearl to outweigh-'t was the pearl of great price!'

At last the whole world was bowl'd in at the grate With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight;When the former sprung up with so strong a rebuff, That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roofWhile the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell, That it jerk'd the philosopher out of his cell.

MISS J. TAYLOR.

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