And when the solemn Sabbath came,

We gather'd in the wood,

And lifted up our hearts in prayer
To God, the only good.

Our tem ples then were earth and sky;

Noue others did we know

In the days when we were pioneers,
Fifty years ago!

Our forest life was rough and rude,
And dangers closed us round,
But here, amid the green old trees,

Freedom we songht and found.
Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts
Would rush with shriek and moan;
We cared not-though they were but frail,
We felt they were our own!
O, free and manly lives we led,

Mid verdure or mid snow,
In the days when we were pioneers,
Fifty years ago!

But now our course of life is short;
And as, from day to day,
We're walking on with halting step,
And fainting by the way,
Another land, more bright than this,
To our dim sight appears,
And on our way to it we'll soon
Again be pioneers!

Yet while we linger, we may all
A backward glance still throw
To the days when we were pioneers,
Fifty years ago!

UNSEEN SPIRITS.

N. P. WILLIS.

The shadows lay along Broadway-
'Twas near the twilight-tide-
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.

Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charmed the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good as fair

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare

From lovers warm and true-
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo-
But honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair-
A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail

Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Aunabel Lee;
So that her highborn kiusmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher,

In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea),
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the
love

Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing
ine dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright

IN BLESSING THOU ART BLESSED.

WILLIAM W. FOSDICK.
Born in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1824.

Freely give, for while bestowing
Angel eyes thy bounty mark,
And their seraph forms all glowing
Shall dispel the gloomy dark.
While the midnight forth is straying,
They shall guard thee in thy rest,
And shall whisper low in praying,
That in blessing thou art blessed.

When the bitter winter lingers,

And the friendless child is cold, Let thy pity's rosy fingers

Drop the widow's mite of gold. And when oft the spring recalling

Bids the swallow to her nest,
Joys, like blossoms around thee falling,
Prove in blessing thou art blessed.

Canst thou dry the tear of sorrow 9
Canst thou make the sad one sing
O! the spirit of each morrow,

Will a brighter blessing bring.
Though the purse be all the poorer,
Thou art richer in the breast,
For on earth there's nothing truer
Than in blessing we are blessed.

THE HERITAGE.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare:
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit 9
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit 9
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit 9
A patience learn'd by being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man's son ! there is a toil,

That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten soft white hands-
This is the best crop from thy lauds ;
A heritage it seem to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great :

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragraut and benign;
A heritage it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill'd past;
A heritage it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

Then will I listen to the sound,
And musing o'er the embers pale
With whitening ashes strewed around,
The forms of memory unvail:

Recall the many-colored dreams

That fancy fondly weaves for youth When all the bright illusion seems The pictured promises of Truth; Perchance observe the fitful light,

And its faint flashes round the room, And think some pleasures feebly bright May lighten thus life's varied gloom;

I love the quiet midnight hour,

When Care and Hope and Passion sleep,
And Reason with untroubled power
Can her late vigils duly keep.

I love the night; and sooth to say,
Before the inerry birds that sing
In all the glare and noise of day,
Prefer the cricket's grating wing

THE PARTING.

ANDREWS NORTON.

We did not part as others part :

And should we meet on earth no more,
Yet deep and dear within my heart
Some thoughts will rest a treasured stora
How oft, when weary and alone,

Have I recalled each word, each look,
The meaning of each varying tone,
And the last parting glance we took!
Yes, sometimes even here are found

Those who can touch the chords of love,
And wake a glad and holy sound,
Like that which fills the courts above
It is as when a traveler hears,

In a strange land, his native tongue, A voice he loved in happier years,

A song which once his mother sung. We part; the sea may roll between, While we through different climates roam Sad days-a life-may intervene : But we shall meet again at home.

BALLAD.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

Daughter of a New York physician.-First appeared as an authoress in 1828.

The maiden sat at her busy wheel,

Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee:
Her song was in mockery of love,
And oft I heard her say,

"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,

And I sighed to think that the traitor love
Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of woe,
While she caroled in tones so gay-
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more;
The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

O, well I knew what had dimmed her eye,
And made her cheek so pale:
The maid had forgotten her early song,
While she listened to love's soft tale;
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,
It had wasted her life away-

And the stolen heart. like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

Lightly, lift lightly, Paul, the vail that hides As a soft cloud vails the sky,

Her who sleeps here, whose innocence divides The love that you and I,

That you and I, dear Paul, owe one another In future to be shared by this sweet other.

How tranquil, and how beautiful, the sleep Of sinless infancy!

And as in silence here our watch we keep, I love to think that she,

To think that she, dear Paul, our little May, Is like the lily bloom we saw to-day.

Sickness, and death, obey,

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing-
Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted-something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thon hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought,
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Under a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

SNOW.

They are all asleep; each curl-sweapt head
Rests on its pillow white:

I have stolen around to each quiet bed,
Again and again, to-night.

But now, as I sit in my old arm-chair,
In the firelight's golden glow,
My heart will go, in its mute despair,
To the little girl under the snow.

I dare not gaze out on the world to-night,
But I hear the loud winds roar;

I know the drifts are deep and white
Around my cottage door.

I bend again o'er each little bed,
Aud hear the breathings low
Of my sleeping babes-but oh, the dead!
The little girl under the snow.

O! does she not start, in her dreamless sleep,
With a low, wild cry of fear i
Sometimes, I think I hear her weep,
With a mother's listening car.
Cold, cold is she in her shroud of white,
In the dismal grave so low :

I would she were here in my arms to-night-
The little girl under the snow.

Be still, my heart! In the Summer time
We laid her down to rest;

We said she had gone to a fairer clime—
She had gone to Jesus' breast;
That He, in His own dear love would keep
Her safe from another woe-

O, should we not envy the dreamless sleep
Of the little girl under the snow?

And but for the living my tears should be,
As I think of my little band,
Scattered like blossoms on the sea,

When the tempest sweeps the land.
O, shield them, Father, with Thine own love,
Wherever their feet may go.

And bring them safe to the home above,
Of the little girl under the snow.

The homage of the pilgrim's kneeBut oft the sweetest birds of Heaven

Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell

The hermit squirrel steals to drink, And flocks which cluster to their bell Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon; Here, from the sultry harvest fields

The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar marked with tan,
In rusty garments gray with dust,
Here sits and dips his little cau,
And breaks his scanty crust

;

And, lulled beside thy whispering stream,
Oft drops to slumber unawares,
And sees the angel of his dream
Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,

Thou saint within a mossy shrine,

The tribute of a heart to-day
Weary and worn is thine!

HEAVEN.

WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

There is an hour of peaceful rest
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a joy for souls distrest,
A balm for every wounded breast-
"T is found alone, in heaven.

There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven:
When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,

And all is drear, but heaven.
There faith lifts up her cheerful eye,
To brighter prospects given,
And views the tempest passing by;
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all's serene, in heaven.

There, fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;
There, rays divine disperse the gloom-
Beyond the confines of the tomb

Appears the dawn of heaven.

EXTRACTS FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA."

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

This much admired poem is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. He was known among different tribes by several names, one of which was Hiawatha, Into this old tradition has been woven many curious Indian legends. The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways, on the southern shore of Lake Superior.

The first extract we make is the wooing of
Wabun. "Wabun." signifies, "the last
Wind." and his bride, Wabun Anneg
"the Morning Star."

Young and beautiful was Wabun ;
He it was who brought the morning,
He it was whose silver arrows
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley;
He it was whose cheeks were painted
With the brightest streaks of crimson,
And whose voice awoke the village,
Called the deer, and called the hunter.

Lonely in the sky was Wabun;
Though the birds sang gayly to him,
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow
Filled the air with odors for him,
Though the forests and the rivers
Sang and shouted at his coming,
Still his heart was sad within him,
For he was alone in heaven.

But one morning, gazing earthward,