Straight by the listener flying clear away, To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER.* THE sun now rests upon the mountain topsBegins to sink behind-is half conceal'd— And now is gone: the last faint, twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. Sweet to the pensive is departing day, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpen'd to a needle's point, With golden borders,sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half-hour's space above the mountain lie; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threaten'd rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed Every person, who has witnessed the splendour of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot,-these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, "fading, still fading," till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows, and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snowbanks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.-Rev. G. B. CHEEVER. Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun With shapely form, looks beautiful alone; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass But now the twilight mingles into one SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING. FAR off and low In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, THE CASTLE OF IMAGINATION.* JUST in the centre of that wood was rear'd Her castle, all of marble, smooth and white; Above the thick young trees, its top appear'd Among the naked trunks of towering height; And here at morn and eve it glitter'd bright, As often by the far-off traveller seen In level sunbeams, or at dead of night, When the low moon shot in her rays between That wide-spread roof and floor of solid foliage green. Through this wide interval the roving eye From turrets proud might trace the waving line Through this wide interval, the mountain side Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth to bind. Above the canopy, so thick and green, And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, Through scatter'd openings oft were glimpses seen Of fleecy clouds, that, link'd together, sail In moonlight clear before the gentle gale: Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance; Sometimes a twinkling star, or planet pale, Long holds the lighted eye, as in a trance; And oft the milky-way gleams through the white expanse. That castle's open windows, though half-hid With flowering vines, show'd many a vision fair: A face all bloom, or light young forms, that thrid Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air, Oft caught the eye a moment: and the sound Of low, sweet music often issued there, And by its magic held the listener bound, And seem'd to hold the winds and forests far around. * This and the two extracts which follow are from "The Religion of Taste." Within, the queen of all, in pomp or mirth, While glad attendants at her glance unfold Their shining wings, and fly through heaven and earth, Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, Adorn'd with emblems that of empire told, And rising in the midst of trophies bright, That bring her memory from the days of old, And help prolong her reign, and with the flight Of every year increase the wonders of her might. In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, Were scatter'd thick to catch the wandering glance, And stop the dreamer on his unknown way; There, too, was every sweet and lofty lay, The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung As that enchantress moved in might or play; And there was many a harp but newly strung, Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley rung. There, from all lands and ages of her fame, Were marble forms, array'd in order due, In groups and single, all of proudest name; In them the high, the fair, and tender grew To life intense in love's impassion'd view, And from each air and feature, bend and swell, Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead threw O'er each enamour'd sense so deep a spell, The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. The walls around told all the pencil's power; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines, as in the hour When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought. With these were others all divine, drawn all From ground where oft, with signs and accents dread, The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead, And where strong angels flew to blast or save, Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled, And where their mighty LORD o'er land and wave Spread life and peace till death, then spread them through the grave. From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye, Some kindling gleams of their ethereal glow, Would ofttimes fall, as from the opening sky, On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro, Or fasten'd till their orbs dilated grow; Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn Truths they had fear'd or felt ashamed to know; The skeptic would believe, the lost return; And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn. Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast, The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined; And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast, They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their kind To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind, Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet, As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet. In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. "T was thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; "T was thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. ROUSSEAU AND COWPER. ROUSSEAU Could weep-yes, with a heart of stone On its small running waves, in purple dyed Was he but justly wretched from his crimes? The earth and skies, to darken human hope? And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope? He, too, could give himself to musing deep; And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. AND thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, bright, All intervening mists far off are driven; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unroll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the am bient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours To take their swift and everlasting flight; Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd; Do something-do it soon-with all thy might; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd. Some high or humble enterprise of good Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear Rouse to some work of high and holy love, SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT. ERE long the clouds were gone, the moon was set; A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, With all its fix'd, unutterable things, What madness in the living to pursue, As their chief portion, with the speed of wings, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings! Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste To dance along the path that always brings Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced! Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. Rear'd in the sunshine, blasted by the storms Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, Men come and go like vegetable forms, Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, While yet they know not if beyond the tomb A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom. What matter whether pain or pleasures fill The swelling heart one little moment here? From both alike how vain is every thrill, While an untried eternity is near! Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career; The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. HENRY WARE, JR. [Born 1794.] THE Reverend HENRY WARE, Jr., D.D., was born at Hingham, in Massachusetts, on the seventh day of April, 1794. He was educated at Cambridge, and graduated when he was but eighteen years old. In 1817, he was ordained minister of the Second Congregational Church, in Hanover street, Boston; but, in consequence of ill health, he resigned that charge in 1828. In the following year he was appointed Professor of Pulpit Eloquence and the Pastoral Care in the Theological School con nected with Harvard College, and still holds that office. He is the author of several popular prose works, of which the most important are a Life of the Saviour, Hints on Extemporaneous Preaching, and Hints on the Formation of the Christian Character. As a poet, he seems to have aimed only to prove, by a few masterly attempts, his possession of the "vision and the faculty divine." He is a brother of the Reverend WILLIAM WARE, author of Probus, Letters from Palmyra, etc. TO THE URSA MAJOR. WITH what a stately and majestic step The other tribes forsake their midnight track, Ages have witness'd thy devoted trust, Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven, And echo'd from the outer spheres that bound Join'd the high chorus; from thy radiant orbs Their haughty honours in the face of heaven, And beauty still are thine; as clear, as bright, I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, Undimm'd, unquench'd-just as I see it nowHas issued from those dazzling points through years That go back far into eternity. Exhaustless flood! forever spent, renew'd Yet what is this, which to the astonish'd mind |