For, faithful to its sacred page;

Heaven still rebuilds its span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age

That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.

The Better Land.

“ I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band ;
Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ?-
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? -
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle-boughs?"

-“ Not there, not there, my child !”

6 Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies -
Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?”

-“ Not there, not there, my child !”

“ Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?-

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?”

-“ Not there, not there, my child !”

• Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,

- It is there, it is there, my child !”

MRS. HEMANS.

The Twounded Eagle.

EAGLE! this is not thy sphere !
Warrior-bird, what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink ?
Wherefore on the violets' bed
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!

Eagle! wilt thou not arise ?
Look

upon thine own bright skies !
Lift thy glance !—the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won,
And the mounting lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air.
Hast thou left that realm on high ?
-Oh, it can be but to die !

Eagle, Eagle! thou hast bow'd
From thine empire o'er the cloud !
Thou that hadst ethereal birth,
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee !

-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?

Wert thou weary of thy throne ?
Was the sky's dominion lone ?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free !
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast.
-Woe for gifted souls and high !
Is not such their destiny ?

MRS HFMANS.

The Highlander.

MANY years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his native hills, fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march, and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch tree, on the solitary road of Lowran, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken in Galloway. Here he was found dead, and this incident forms the subjeet of the following verses.

From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,

The Highlander sped to his youthful abode ; Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary, Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was

the road,

Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before

him, He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat ; The light shady boughs of the birch tree hung o'er

him, And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet,

He sunk to repose where the red-heaths are blended,

One dream of his childhood his fancy pass’d o'er ; But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,

The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more. No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,

Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill ; Now the angel of death in the desert has found him,

Now stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill.

Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,

The fays of the wild chaunt the dirge of his rest; And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his

breast.

The Negro's Prayer.

O SPIRIT, that rid'st in the whirlwind and storm,

Whose voice in the thunder is feared,
If ever from man, the poor indigent worm

The prayer of affliction was heard,
If black man, as white, is the work of thy hand,
And who could create him but thee >

Ah give thy command,

Let it spread through thy land, That Afric's sad sons may be free !

If 'erst, when the man-stealers' treacherous guile,

Entrap'd me all thoughtless of wrong,