PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and somber, and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

It was twelve by the village clock,

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

It was one by the village clock,

When he rode into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

You know the rest. In the books you have read

How the British regulars fired and fled,-
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,

Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

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To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,—

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere

THE HOUR OF DEATH.-FELICIA HEMANS.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-➡

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

HYMN OF NATURE.

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,

And the world calls us forth-and thou art there,

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

HYMN OF NATURE.-PEABODY.

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 summoned up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed 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;

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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.

MAUD MULLER.

MAUD MULLER.-JOHN G. WHITTIER.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,

Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest,
And a nameless longing filled her breast,-

A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid;

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down

On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks," said the Judge-" a sweeter draught From a fairer hand, was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

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