And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters ;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,

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?
Oh! 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 drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains ?-a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

THE WAKENING.

MRS. HEMANS.

"While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime."

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds thro' the tumult her path of pride.

Ans-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
Is the peetle sound of a mother's voice;
Lang all they yearn for that kindly tone,
Tom the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And me in the camp to the bugle's breath,

e tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,

With tells that a field must ere night be won.

And me in the gloomy convict-cell,

To the dal deep note of the warning bell,

A bearly calls them forth to die,

The the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to sounds from the city borne;
And see to the rolling of torrent floods,
Fist old mountains, and solemn woods.

are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Lach to life hath a daily birth,

The fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
ONE, though to sever'd and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs?

108

And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters ;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
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!
Oh! 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 drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters fr
Above its loftiest mountains?-a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might

And some-oh! well may their hearts
To the gentle sound of a mother's voi
Long shall they yearn for that kindly
When from the board and the hearth

And some in the camp to the bugle's
And the tramp of the steed on the ec
And the sudden roar of the hostile gu
Which tells that a field must ere nigh

And some in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright sun mounts in the 1
And some to the peal of the hunter's
And some to sounds from the city bo
And some to the rolling of torrent flo
Far 'midst old mountains, and solem
So are we roused on this chequer'd ea
Each unto life hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyous, though sad
Be the voices which first our upsprin

But ONE must the sound be, and Of
Which from the dust shall awake us
ONE, though to sever'd and distant
How shall the sleepers arise from the

THE NIGHTINGALE.

COLERIDGE.

No cloud, no relic of the sunken da Distinguishes the west; no long thin

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers,
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
Most musical, most melancholy Bird!
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!

In nature there is nothing melancholy.

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was
pierced

With the resemblance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
First named these notes a melancholy strain:
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilight of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: We may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chaunt, and disburden his full soul
Of all its music!

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,

We have been loitering long and pleasantly.
And now for our dear homes.-That strain again?
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small fore-finger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's playmate and if Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with songs, that with the night

He may associate joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet Nightingale!

THE WIDOW'S MEAL AND OIL.

BARTON.

How rich is poverty's scant hoard,

When God hath bless'd its lot;

How poor the heaps that wealth has stored,
If he hath bless'd them not:-
Witness proud Ahab's regal dome,
And the poor widow's humble home.

There dwelt she, with sufficient food
For nature's simple calls;

While fear and caution sentries stood
Beside a monarch's walls:

Her cruse by power unseen was fed,
Her meal supplied their daily bread.

"The age of miracles is past,"
Some sceptic may exclaim;

H