160 SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat First peeping out, then starting forth at once And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep, And the fair prospect of a fruitful year, SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet, With many a cheering word, his willing team, For labour fresh he hastens to the field Ere morning lose its coolness; but at eve, 161 THE FALLS OF NIAGARA BY J. G. C. BRAINARD. THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him, And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? O, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! Yea, what is all the riot man can make, In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far SCENE FROM HADAD. BY JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. The garden of ABSALOM's house on Mount Zion, near the palace, overlooking the city. TAMAR sitting by a fountain. Tam. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha; Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. Blest hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair, So softly glowing, so contemplative, Hath set, and sanctified to look on man. And lo! the smoke of evening sacrifice This day's offences!-Ha! the wonted strain, Herself, or heaven? Tam. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence Those sad, mysterious sounds. Had. What sounds, dear Princess? Tam. Surely, thou know'st; and now I almost think Some spiritual creature waits on thee. Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends Up from the city to these quiet shades; A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, |