I feel it calm. But there's a sombrous hue
Along that eastern cloud of deep dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hilltops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth,
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth
With discord strange, and all that man calls life.
With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife,
And airs, and woods, and streams breathe harmonies;
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;
Nor binds his heart, with soft and kindly ties :
He feverish, blinded; lives, and feverish, sated, dies.

And 'tis because man useth so amiss

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she in such fresh hour as this
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,

From her fair face? It is that man is mad!

Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine

When nature grieves: nor deem this heart is bad.

Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are

thine,

While I to earth am bound: When will the heavens

be mine?

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense

Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern.
Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering humbly why it is, and whence:
But when I see cold man, of reason proud,
My solitude is sad-I'm lonely in the crowd.

But not for this alone, the silent tear

Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn, hour: fresh life is near;
But all my joys! they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy: while I, forlorn,
And, like the stricken deer, with sickly eye,
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm-my spirit's torn;
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high!

Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh!

And when I grieve, oh! rather let it be
That I, whom Nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea;
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit; who, as mine own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged burr
A beauty see; that I this mother mild

Should leave and go with care, and passions fierce and

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth! In crown of living fire
Up comes the Day! As if they conscious quaffed
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire
Laugh in the wakening light. Go, vain Desire!
The dusky lights have gone: go thou thy way!
And pining Discontent, like them, expire!

Be called my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day; And let me with the dawn, like PILGRIM, sing and pray!

COME TO ME DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

Mrs. FELICIA HEMANS.

OME to me, dreams of heaven!

COM

My fainting spirit bear

On your bright wings, by morning given,
Up to celestial air.

Away-far, far away,

From bowers by tempests riven!
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!

Come but for one brief hour,

Sweet dreams, and yet again

O'er burning thoughts and memory shower

Your soft, effacing rain!

Waft me where gales divine

With dark clouds ne'er have striven;

Where living founts forever shine,

O blessed dreams of heaven!

ON THIS SIDE SION'S HILL.

In the Life of the Rev. Andrew Fuller, the following hymn is referred to, as being a favorite of that eminent man during the latter pensive years of his life, and especially as being often repeated while pacing his room in the agonies of his last illness. The authorship is unknown.]

I

SOJOURN in a vale of tears,
Alas, how can I sing?

My harp doth on the willows hang,
Distuned in every string.
My music is a captive's-chain;
Harsh sounds my ears do fill ;
How shall I sing sweet Sion's song,
On this side Sion's hill?

Yet lo! I hear a joyful sound ;

'Surely I quickly come!"

Each word much sweetness doth distil,

Like a full honeycomb.

And dost thou come, my dearest Lord?
And dost thou surely come?

And dost thou surely, quickly come?
Methinks I am at home.

Come, then, my dearest, dearest Lord,
My sweetest, surest friend;

Come, for I loathe these Kedar tents;
Thy fiery chariots send.

What have I here? My thoughts and joys

Are all packed up and gone;

My eager soul would follow them

To Thine eternal throne.

What have I in this barren land?
My Jesus is not here;

Mine eyes will ne'er be blest until
My Jesus doth appear.

My Jesus is gone up to heaven,
To get a place for me;

For 't is His will that where he is
There should His servants be.

Canaan I view from Pisgah's top,
Of Canaan's grapes I taste;
My Lord, who sends unto me here,
Will send for me at last.

I have a God that changeth not,
Why should I be perplext?

My God that owns me in this world,
Will own me in the next.

Go fearless, then, my soul, with God,
Into another room;

Thou, who hast walked with him here,
Go see thy God at home.

View death with a believing eye;

It hath an angel's face;

And this kind angel will prefer
Thee to an angel's place.