And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam,
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers,
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers,
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,
And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves;
With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep,
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,
'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep,
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home;
He that went forth a tender yearling boy,

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full-blazed th' irradiate dome.

MILMAN.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the centinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn ;'-
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

CAMPBELL.

THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright beaming world of our own,
And the light that surrounds us is all from within;
Oh! 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may,
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,
But affection is warmest when these fade away.
When we see the first charm of our youth passes by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, Now tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then, is the moment affection can sway, With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they, But the love born of sorrow, like sorrow is true! In climes full of sunshine, though splendid their dyes, Yet faint is the odour th' flowers shed about; 'Tis the clouds and the mist of our own weeping skies, That call their full spirit of fragrancy out. So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth, But 'tis only in grief true affection appears; To the magic of smiles it may first owe its birth,

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out-by tears!

MOORE.

THE AFFECTIONATE HEART.

Let the great man, his treasures possessing,
Pomp and splendour for ever attend;
I prize not the shadowy blessing,
I ask the affectionate friend.

Tho' foibles may sometimes o'ertake him,
His footsteps from wisdom depart;
Yet my spirit shall never forsake him,
If he own an affectionate heart.

Affection! thou soother of care,
Without thee, unfriended we rove;
Thou canst make e'en the desert look fair,
And thy voice is the voice of the dove.
Mid the anguish that preys on the breast,
And the storms of mortality's state;
What shall lull the afflicted to rest,
But the joys that on sympathy wait?
What is fame, bidding envy defiance,
The idol and bane of mankind;
What is wit, what is learning and science,
To the heart that is stedfast and kind?

Even genius may weary the sight,

By too fierce and too constant a blaze;
But Affection, mild planet of night!
Grows lovelier the longer we gaze.

It shall thrive when the flattering forms
Which encircle creation decay;
It shall live mid the wide wasting storms,
That bear all undistinguished away.

When time at the end of his race

Shall expire with expiring mankind;
It shall stand on its permanent base,-
It shall last till the last wreck of mind.

MRS. COTTLE.

NATURE'S MUSIC.

Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!
My minstrels are the trees;

The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls,
Earth's sounds my symphonies.

There's music sweeter to my soul,

In the weed by the wild wind fanned; In the heave of the surge, than ever stole From mortal minstrel's hand.

There's mighty music in the roar

Of the oaks on the mountain's side;

When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar,
And the lightning flashes wide.

There's music in the city's hum,
Heard in the noontide glare;
When its thousand mingling voices come
On the breast of the sultry air.

There's music in the forest stream,
As it plays through the deep ravine;
Where never Summer's breath or beam
Has pierced its woodland screen.
There's music in the thundering sweep
Of the mountain waterfall;

As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap,
From the brow of its marble wall.

There's music in the dawning morn,

Ere the lark his pinion dries

In the rush of the breeze, through the dewy corn, Through the garden's perfumed dyes.

There's music in the twilight cloud,

As the clanging wild swans spring;
As homeward the screaming ravens crowd,
Like squadrons on the wing.

There's music in the depths of night,

When the world is still and dim;

And the stars flame out in their pomp of light,
Like thrones of the Cherubim.

THE DROUGHT.

What strange, what fearful thing hath come to pass? The ground is iron and the heavens are brass; Man on the withering harvests casts his eye, "Give me your fruits in season, or I die;" The timely Fruits implore their parent Earth, "Where is thy strength to bring us forth to birth?" The Earth, all prostrate, to the Clouds complains, "Send to my heart your fertilizing rains;" The Clouds invoke the Heavens,-Collect, dispense Through us your quickening, healing influence;" The Heavens to Him that made them raise their moan, "Command thy blessing and it shall be done;" The Lord is in his temple;-hush'd and still, The suppliant Universe awaits his will.

He speaks; and to the clouds the Heavens dispense, With lightning speed, their genial influence; The gathering, breaking Clouds pour down their rains, Earth drinks the bliss through all her eager veins; From teeming furrows start the Fruits to birth, And shake their treasures on the lap of Earth; Man sees the harvests grow beneath his eye, Turns and looks up with rapture to the sky; All that have breath and being now rejoice, All Nature's voices blend in one great voice,

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Glory to God, who thus Himself makes known!" -When shall all tongues confess Him God alone?

Lord, as the rain comes down from Heaven ;---the rain

Which waters Earth, nor thence returns in vain ;

But makes the tree to bud, the grass to spring,
And feeds and gladdens every living thing;
So may thy word upon a world destroy'd,
Come down in blessing and return not void;
So may it come in universal showers,

And fill Earth's dreariest wilderness with flowers,
--With flowers of promise fill the world, within
Men's heart laid waste and desolate by sin;

Where thorns and thistles curse the infested ground,
Let the rich fruits of righteousness abound;
And trees of life for ever fresh and green,
Flourish where trees of death alone have been ;