All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook," A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favorable eyes As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. But these are but their outcasts. View them ear And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, Names that adorn and dignify the scroll Whose leaves contain their country's history. Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Of Florence and the Arno-yet the wing Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales Through sun and snow-and, in the autumn time, Her clear, warm heaven at noon,-the mist that shrouds The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, And his mind's brightest vision but displays And when you dream of woman, and her love; To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find them there. The Rising Moon.-W. O. B. PEABODY. THE moon is up! How calm and slow The weary winds forget to blow, The way-worn travellers, with delight, It glistens where the hurrying stream It falls upon the forest shade, And sparkles on the leaves. So once, on Judah's evening hills, And still that light upon the world The waning moon, in time, shall fail But God hath kindled this bright light America to Great Britain.*-WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ALL hail thou noble land, Our father's native soil! O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore : For thou, with magic might, Canst reach to where the light The world o'er! The Genius of our clime, From his pine-embattled steep, While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. O'er the main our naval line, Though ages long have passed Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame By its chains? While the language, free and bold, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung, *This poem was written in the year 1810. It was first printed, we believe, in Coleridge's Sybilline Leaves. Coleridge inserted it among his own poems, with the following note : "This poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and dear friend, I communicate to the reader for its moral, no less than its poetic, spirit." After such a commendation from the greatest poet, and perhaps the groat. est man living, any additional one would be superfluous.-ED. When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Between let Ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, *יין "We are One!" The Night-flowering Cereus.-UNITARIAN MISCELLANY Now departs day's gairish light- Rise upon the brow of night! Haste, thy transient lustre shed! Night has dropped her dusky veil- See to life her beauties start; Hail! thou glorious, matchless flower! In the solemn, fleeting hour. This alludes merely to the moral union of the two countries. The author would not have it supposed that the tribute of respect, offered in these stanzas to the land of his ancestors, would be paid by him, if at the expense of the independence of that which gave him birth. The night-flowering Cereus, or Cactus grandiflorus, is one of our most splendid hot-house plants, and is a native of Jamaica and some other of the West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly set with spines. The flower is white, and very large, sometimes nearly a foot in diameter. The most remarkable circumstance with regard to the flower, is the short time which it takes to expand, and the rapidity with which it decays. It begins to open late in the evening, flourishes for an hour or two, then begins to droop, and before morning is completely dead. Ere we have our homage paid, Thou wilt bow thine head and die; Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine, Religion, too, that heavenly flower, Then thy beauties are surpassed, God is Good.-ANONYMOUS. GOD is good! Each perfumed flower, The insect, fluttering for an hour,- I hear it in the rushing wind; And clouds, with gold and silver lined, Each little rill, that, many a year, And every bird, in accents clear, Joins in the song that God is good. The restless main, with haughty roar, Calms each wild wave and billow rude, Retreats submissive from the shore, And swells the chorus, God is good |