Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light.

-Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch,
Came visions of that matron form which bent,
With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless
Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand,

In trembling prayer, she raised—that He, who saved
The sainted mother, would redeem the child.
Was the orison lost?-Whence then that peace,
So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resigned? that eloquence
So fondly urging those whose hearts were full
Of sublunary happiness to seek

A better portion? Whence that voice of joy,
Which from the marble lip in life's last strife

Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home?
Cold reasoners! be convinced.

And when ye stand

Where that fair brow, and those unfrosted locks
Return to dust,-where the young sleeper waits
The resurrection morn,-Oh! lift the heart

In praise to Him, who gave the victory.

FIRST MEETING OF THE OLD AND NEW WOrld,

1492.

She comes she comes with her white sails spread,

With her banners proudly streaming,

With a haughty brow, and an eye of dread,
Through its darkened fringes beaming.

And who is she, 'mid these island shades,
Unshielded from wrong or danger,

Who hastes from the depth of her forest glades
To welcome the stately stranger?

Her glance heeds not the gathering storm;

In its simple joy it blesses,

And the grasp of her hand is as free and warm

As the wealth of her ebon tresses.

But the gold of her rivers shall turn to dust,
Ere from history's scroll hath faded,
The deeds of that visitant's savage lust,
Who thus her realm invaded.

Yes, many a pitying eye must weep

O'er the Old World's shameful story:

At the scourge which she raised o'er her sister's sleep,
And the blood that stained her glory.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

WOODS IN WINTER.

WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the whitethorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That over-brows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

On the gray maple's crusted bark

Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips; Whilst in the frozen fountain-hark His piercing beak the bittern dips.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,-
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay;
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your scag;

I hear it in the opening year—

I listen, and it cheers me long.

THERE

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blowsWhere, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade,
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter, And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid`

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

As to the sunshine and the pure bright air

Their tops the green trees lift.

-Hence gifted bards

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods-the golden sun-
The flowers-the leaves the river on its way—
Blue skies and silver clouds-and gentle winds-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes-
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in-
Mountain and shattered cliff-and sunny vale-
The distant lake-fountains-and mighty trees-