From torrid clime beyond the main O'er deserts waste and wide. He gains the old, enchanted wood, Where baleful swamp-fires gleam and glare, Well might the warrior's courage fail, Strange horror broods around! At every turn his footsteps sank Till, issuing from the dangerous wood, With all its flanking towers! The moon a paly lustre sheds; Resolved, the grass-grown court he tread The gloomy portal gained— He crossed the threshold's magic bound, No fears his venturous course could stay→ It echoed to his mailèd heel; With clang of arms and clash of steel He sees a glimmering taper gleam Then first he felt the touch of fear, And now the waning moon was low, As violets peep from wintry snows, And gently heaves her breast; A rising blush begins to dawn, And slowly, as the morning broke, Beneath his ardent eye! As the first kindling sunbeams threw And tipped the hills with flame, From out its depths of tangled gloom A cloud of fragrant incense stole, Loud neighed the steed within his stall, But fresher than the rosy morn, The maiden's heart doth prove, The dawn of light and love! IN Jonathan Lawrence. LOOK ALOFT. N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, Should the visions which Hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, And oh, when Death comes in his terrors, to cast George D. Prentice. SABBATH EVENING. HOW calmly sinks the parting sun! Yet twilight lingers still; And, beautiful as dream of heaven, Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, And, rendering back the hues above, Seems resting in a trance of love. Round yonder rocks the forest-trees In shadowy groups recline, Like saints at evening bowed in prayer Around their holy shrine; And through their leaves the night-winds biow So calm and still, their music low Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, Soft echoed on the evening air. And yonder western throng of clouds, So calmly move, so softly glow, The blue isles of the golden sea, |