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Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray ;Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
The Lyre.—MILTON WARD.
THERE was a lyre, 'tis said, that hung
High waving in the summer air ;
And left to breathe its music there.
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain,
In coral grottoes of the main.
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
Bright with the tears that morning wept,
Waved lightly his soft, azure wing ;
What harp such lays of joy could sing !
The birds, that sweetly warbled by,
Were heard not where that harp was nigh.
Along the bosom of the west
In colors softly mingled lay,
While night had darkened all the rest,Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay, that rung
As solemn Philomela sung,
Along the dewy breeze of even ;
They seemed the echoed songs of heaven. Sometimes, when all the air was still,
Nor e'en the poplar's foliage trembled, That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones no earthly tones resembled; And then, upon the moon's pale beams,
Unearthly forms were seen to stray, Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play. But soon the bloom of summer fled
In earth and air it shone no more; Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While heaven its wintry sternness wore. One day, loud blew the northern blast
The tempest's fury raged alongOh for some angel, as they passed,
To shield the harp of heavenly song! It shrieked-how could it bear the touch,
The cold, rude touch, of such a storm, When e'en the zephyr's seemed too much,
Sometimes, though always light and warm ! It loudly shrieked—but ah! in vain
The savage wind more fiercely blew ; Once more—it never shrieked again,
For every chord was torn in two ! It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the fiercest blast;
that thus its bosom tore,
Gently upon its shattered form,
That lyre they could not wake or warm.
Scenery of Andover.-GEORGE B. CHEEVER.
THERE is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the back-ground, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot ;-these features constitute, at all times, a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the whole scene the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away.
Then come the varying tints of twilight, “ fading, still fading,” till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the northwestern blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow-banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.
A happier Clime.-EASTBURN.
When sailing on this troubled sea
Yet we must suffer; here below,
Letter from the Poet Cowper to Mrs. King.
October 11, 1788. You are perfectly secure from all danger of being overwhelmed with presents from me. It is not much that a poet can possibly have it in his power to give. When he has presented his own works, he may be supposed to have exhausted all means of donation. They are his only superfluity. There was a time—but that time was before I commenced writer for the press—when I amused myself in a way somewhat similar to yours; allowing, I mean, for the difference between masculine and female operations. The scissors and the needle are your chief implements; mine were the chisel and the saw. In those days, you might have been in some danger of too plentiful a return for your favors. Tables, such as they were, and joint-stools, such as never were, might have travelled to Perton-hall in most inconvenient abundance. But I have long since discontinued this practice, and many others which I found it necessary to adopt, that I might escape the worst of all evils, both in itself and in its consequences-an idle life. Many arts I have exercised with this view, for which nature never designed me; though among them were in which I arrived at considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the most heroic perseverance. There is not a "?squire in all this country who can boast of having made better squirrel-houses, hutches for rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in the article of cabbage-nets, I had no superior. I even had the hardiness to take in hand the pencil, and studied a whole year the art of drawing. Many figures were the fruit of my labors, which had, at least, the merit of being unparalleled by any production either of art or nature. But before the year was ended, I had occasion to wonder at the progress that may be made, in despite of