Nor man can pause, but in thy will must grow,
And, as his roots within more deep extend,
He shall o'er sons of sons his branches throw,
And to the latest born his shadows lend;
Nor know in thee disease nor length of days,
But lift his head for ever in thy praise.

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

THE MORNING WALK, OR THE STOLEN BLUSH.

NEVER tell me that cheek is not painted, false maid! 'Tis a fib, though your pretty lip parts while I say And if the cheat were not already betray'd, Those exquisite blushes themselves would betray it.

[it;

But listen! This morning you rose ere the dawn, To keep an appointment, perhaps—with Apollo; And, finding a fairy footprint on the lawn

Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow.

To the hillside I track'd it, and, tripping above me,
Her sun-ringlets flying and jewell'd with dew,
A maiden I saw! Now the truth, if you love me-
But why should I question—I'm sure it was you.

And you cannot deny you were met in ascending—
I, meanwhile, pursuing my truant by stealth-
By a blooming young seraph, who turn'd, and, attend-
ing

Your steps, said her name was the Spirit of Health.

Meantime, through the mist of transparent vermilion
That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill,
All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion,
Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill.

And Health, floating up through the luminous air, Dipp'd her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright;

Then turn'd, and dash'd down o'er her votary fair A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light.

Even yet they're at play here and there in your form, Through your fingers they steal to your white taper tips,

Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm, Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips.

Will you tell me again, with that scorn-lighted eye, That you do not use paint, while such tinting is there?

While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny?

No, in future disclaim the sweet theft, if you dare!

ANDREW NORTON.

SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

In grateful silence, earth receives
The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.

The soften'd sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;

The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odours on the gale.
Y

Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest, to gaze below a while,

Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.

Now gaze on Nature-yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fann’d,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above;

She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love.

Drink in her influence; lowborn Care,

And all the train of mean Desire,

Refuse to breathe this holy air,

And mid this living light expire.

W. O. P. PEABODY.

HYMN OF NATURE.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky:
The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summon'd up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dash'd like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade !
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their airy might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings !
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And Nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The wind breathes low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!

'Tis like the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.

And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;

So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.