TO THE WITCH HAZEL.

Afar, on yonder faint blue mound
In the horizon's utmost bound,
At the first stride his foot he set;

The jarring world confessed the shock.
Stranger! the track of Thunder yet
Remains upon the living rock.
'The second step, he gained the sand
On far Superior's storm-beat strand:
Then with his shout the concave rung,
As up to heaven the giant sprung

On high, beside his sire to dwell;
But still, of all the spots on earth,
He loves the woods that gave him birth.
Such is the tale our fathers tell.'

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TO THE WITCH HAZEL.

MYSTERIOUS plant! whose golden tresses wave
With a sad beauty in the dying year,
Blooming amid November's frost severe,

Like the pale corpse-light o'er the recent grave!
If shepherds tell us true, thy wand hath power,
With gracious influence, to avert the harm
Of ominous planets, and the fatal charm
Of spirits wandering at the midnight hour;
And thou canst point where buried treasures lie.
But yet to me, thou art an emblem high
Of patient virtue, to the Christian given,

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ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE

Unchanged and bright, when all is dark beside ; Our shield from wild temptations, and our guide To treasures for the just laid up in heaven.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE,

OF SUMMER TWILIGHT PAINTED BY ALLSTON.

BY I. M'CLELLAN, JR.

THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darkened woods-the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,

And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade,
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo from the distant hill,
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty-like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter's shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
T were sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,

то

With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace, in some green paradise like this.

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The brazen trumpet, and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods :-the raging sword Hath never gathered its red harvest here! The peaceful Summer day hath never closed Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam

Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here Hath never left his sickle in the field,

To slay his fellow with unholy hand,

The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,

And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,

Have never broke its sabbath solitude.

TO

BY O. W. B. PEABODY.

Too lovely and too early lost!
My meinory clings to thee,
For thou wast once my guiding-star
Amid the treacherous sea;

But doubly cold and cheerless now,
The wave too dark before,

Since every beacon-light is quenched
Along the midnight shore.

I saw thee first, when hope arose
On youth's triumphant wing,
And thou wast lovelier than the light

Of early dawning spring.

Who then could dream, that health and joy
Would e'er desert the brow,

So bright with varying lustre once,
So chill and changeless now?

That brow! how proudly o'er it then,
Thy kingly beauty hung,

When wit, or eloquence or mirth

Came burning from the tongue; Or when upon that glowing cheek

The kindling smile was spread, Or tears, to thine own woes denied, For others' griefs were shed.

Thy mind! it ever was the home
Of high and holy thought;
Thy life, an emblem of the truths

Thy pure example taught;
When blended in thine eye of light,
As from a royal throne,

Kindness, and peace and virtue there,

In mingled radiance shone.

One evening, when the autumn dew

Upon the hills was shed,

And Hesperus far down the west

то

His starry host had led,

Thou saidst, how sadly and how oft

To that prophetic eye,

Visions of darkness and decline,
And early death were nigh.

It was a voice from other worlds,
Which none beside might hear;—
Like the night breeze's plaintive lyre,
Breathed faintly on the ear;
It was the warning kindly given,
When blessed spirits come,
From their bright paradise above,
To call a sister home.

How sadly on my spirit then,

That fatal warning fell! But oh! the dark reality

Another voice may tell;

The quick decline-the parting sigh

The slowly moving bier

The lifted sod--the sculptured stone

The unavailing tear!

The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven,

Entwine thy temples now;

The crown that shines immortally,

Is beaming on thy brow;

The seraphs round the burning throne

Have borne thee to thy rest,

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