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Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;

To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,
Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps,
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

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,
As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote,
All fading soon as lower sinks the sun,
Till twilight end. But now another scene,
To me most beautiful of all, appears:
The sky, without the shadow of a cloud,
Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow
So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye,
Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force
Its power of vision to admit the whole.
Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye,
Midway, the blushing of the mellow peach
Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep;
And here, in this most lovely region, shines,
With added loveliness, the evening-star.
Above, the fainter purple slowly fades,
Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven.

Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun
Descended, in a single row arranged,
As if thus planted by the hand of art,
Majestic pines shoot up into the sky,
And in its fluid gold seem half-dissolved.
Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands
With shafts erect, and tops converged to one,
A stately colonnade, with verdant roof;
Upon a nearer still, a single tree,

With shapely form, looks beautiful alone;

While, farther northward, through a narrow pass
Scoop'd in the hither range, a single mount
Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems,
And of a softer, more ethereal blue,
A pyramid of polish'd sapphire built.

But now the twilight mingles into one
The various mountains; levels to a plain
This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade,
Where every object to my sight presents
Its shaded side; while here upon these walls,
And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks
Under thick foliage, reflective shows
Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line
Of the horizon, parting heaven and earth!

SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING.

FAR off and low

In the horizon, from a sultry cloud,
Where sleeps in embryo the midnight storm,
The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets,
Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus
Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge;
Or if the bolder fancy so conceive
Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus
Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops
With beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright
The distant flashes gleam as to efface
The window's image, on the floor impress'd
By the dim crescent; or outshines the light
Cast from the room upon the trees hard by,
If haply, to illume a moonless night,
The lighted taper shine; though lit in vain,
To waste away unused, and from abroad
Distinctly through the open window seen,
Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp.

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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
Where meet the mountains green and azure sky,
And view the deep when sun-gilt billows shine;
Fair bounds to sight, that never thought confine,
But tempt it far beyond, till by the charm
Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine
Call'd home again, or by the soft alarm
Of Love's approaching step, and her encircling arm.

Through this wide interval, the mountain side
Show'd many a sylvan slope and rocky steep:
Here roaring torrents in dark forests hide;
There silver streamlets rush to view, and leap
Unheard from lofty cliffs to valleys deep:
Here rugged peaks look smooth in sunset glow,
Along the clear horizon's western sweep;
There from some eastern summit moonbeams flow
Along o'er level wood, far down to plains below.

Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone
Round that horizon; now o'er mountains proud
Dim vapours rest, or bright ones move alone:
An ebon wall, a smooth, portentous cloud,
First muttering low, anon with thunder loud,
Now rises quick, and brings a sweeping wind
O'er all that wood in waves before it bow'd;
And now a rainbow, with its top behind

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,
And its communion with things all its own,
Its forms sublime and lovely; as the blind,
Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown,
Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone.

Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell
With all whom that enchantress held subdued,
As in the holiest circle of her spell,
Where meaner spirits never dare intrude,
They dwelt in calm and silent solitude,

Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet,
In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued
With its devotion to life's inmost seat,

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
The impious sophist could recline beside
The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone
On all its loveliness at eventide :

On its small running waves, in purple dyed
Beneath bright clouds, or all the glowing sky,
On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
And on surrounding mountains wild and high,
Till tears unbidden gush'd from his enchanted eye.
But his were not the tears of feeling fine,
Of grief or love; at fancy's flash they flow'd,
Like burning drops from some proud, lonely pine,
By lightning fired; his heart with passion glow'd
Till it consumed his life, and yet he show'd
A chilling coldness both to friend and foe,
As Etna, with its centre an abode
Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Of all its desert brow the living world below.

Was he but justly wretched from his crimes?
Then why was CowPER's anguish oft as keen,
With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes
Genius and feeling, and to things unseen
Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be-
tween

The earth and skies, to darken human hope?
Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene
To render vain faith's lifted telescope,

And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope?

He, too, could give himself to musing deep;
By the calm lake at evening he could stand,
Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep
On all its breast, by not an insect fann'd,
And hear low voices on the far-off strand,
Or through the still and dewy atmosphere
The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand,
From fronting shore and woody island near
In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more
clear.

And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams,
In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair
Shot under lofty tops her level beams,
Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare,

THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY.

AND thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends
No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight,
Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends,
Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate;
None seek thy misery, none thy being hate;
Break from thy former self, thy life begin;
Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate,
And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within,
And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win.

With deeds of virtue to embalm his name,
He dies in triumph or serene delight;
Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame
At every breath, but in immortal might
His spirit grows, preparing for its flight:
The world recedes and fades like clouds of even,
But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more

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
Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,

Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined;
Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,
With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,

That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers

Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.

Has immortality of name been given
To them that idly worship hills and groves,
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven?
Did NEWTON learn from fancy, as it roves,
To measure worlds, and follow where each moves?
Did HOWARD gain renown that shall not cease,
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves?
Or did PAUL gain heaven's glory and its peace,
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of
Greece!

Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim
Thy want of worth; a charge thou couldst not hear
From other lips, without a blush of shame,
Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,
And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame;
"Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd,
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,-
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow;
The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal
bowers.

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT.

ERE long the clouds were gone, the moon was set;
When deeply blue without a shade of gray,
The sky was fill'd with stars that almost met,
Their points prolong'd and sharpen'd to one ray;
Through their transparent air the milky-way
Seem'd one broad flame of pure resplendent white,
As if some globe on fire, turn'd far astray,
Had cross'd the wide arch with so swift a flight,
That for a moment shone its whole long track of
light.

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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
That glorious constellation of the north
Treads its eternal circle! going forth
Its princely way among the stars in slow
And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail!
I joy to see thee on thy glowing path
Walk, like some stout and girded giant; stern,
Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot
Disdains to loiter on its destined way.

The other tribes forsake their midnight track,
And rest their weary orbs beneath thy wave;
But thou dost never close thy burning eye,
Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on,
While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds
Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds.
The near horizon tempts to rest in vain.
Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit
Thy long-appointed watch; but, sleepless still,
Dost guard the fix'd light of the universe,
And bid the north forever know its place.

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
The illimitable universe, thy voice

Join'd the high chorus; from thy radiant orbs
The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise,
Who thus had cast another sparkling gem,
Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd
Of splendours that enrich his firmament.
As thou art now, so wast thou then the same.
Ages have roll'd their course, and time grown gray;
The earth has gather'd to her womb again,
And yet again, the myriads that were born
Of her uncounted, unremember'd tribes.
The seas have changed their beds; the eternal hills
Have stoop'd with age; the solid continents
Have left their banks; and man's imperial works-
The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had
flung

Their haughty honours in the face of heaven,
As if immortal-have been swept away:
Shatter'd and mouldering, buried and forgot.
But time has shed no dimness on thy front,
Nor touch'd the firmness of thy tread; youth,
strength,

And beauty still are thine; as clear, as bright,
As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth,
Beautiful offspring of his curious skill,
To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim
The eternal chorus of eternal Love.

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
Forever! Yea, and those refulgent drops,
Which now descend upon my lifted eye,
Left their far fountain twice three years ago.
While those wing'd particles, whose speed outstrips
The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth
Compass'd its tedious circuit round and round,
And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld
Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom.
So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve!
So vast the void through which their beams descend!
Yes, glorious lamp of God! He may have quench'd
Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night
Rest on your spheres; and yet no tidings reach
This distant planet. Messengers still come
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem
To see your lights still burning; while their blaze
But hides the black wreck of extinguish'd realms,
Where anarchy and darkness long have reign'd.

Yet what is this, which to the astonish'd mind
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought
Confounds? A span, a point, in those domains
Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars
Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight
Embraces all at once; yet each from each
Recedes as far as each of them from earth.
And every star from every other burns
No less remote. From the profound of heaven,

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