Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. Nor can the light canoes, that glide Yet round this waste of wood and wave, The thunder-riven oak, that flings To the lone traveller's kindled eye. The gnarled and braided boughs, that show The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone; For they have told the war-whoop o'er, Till the wild chorus is their own. Wave of the wilderness, adieu! Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods! Roll on, thou element of blue, And fill these awful solitudes! Thou hast no tale to tell of man God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves— Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves! Oriental Mysticism.-LEONARD WOODS. The following passage is translated from a German version of the Dschauhar Odsat, a Persian poem of the thirteenth century, and is here offered as a specimen of the mystic writings of the East, a single sprig brought to town from a distant and unfrequented garden. These writings are characterized by wildness of fancy, a philosophy extremely abstruse, and especially by a deep spiritual life They prove, as will be seen in the lines which follow, that the human mind has strong religious instincts; which, however, unless guided by a higher wisdom, are liable to great perversion.-Extravagant as the conception of the passage here selected must appear to us, it has still its foundation in truth. That the ideas of infinite and divine things, which slumber in the mind, are often violently awakened by external objects, is what every one has experienced. Says a modern poet, in prospect of " clear, placid Leman," And what is the story of Rudbari and Hassan, but an exhibition, a la mode orientale, of the same truth? IN ancient days, as the old stories run, Strange hap befell a father and his son. Rudbari was an old sea-faring man, And loved the rough paths of the ocean; And Hassan was his child,-a boy as bright, As the keen moon, gleaming in the vault of night. Rose-red his cheek, Narcissus-like his eye, And his form might well with the slender cypress vie. And Hassan pure as a drop of early dew. Now, because Rudbari loved this only child, He was feign to take him o'er the waters wild. The ship is on the strand-friends, brothers, parents, there Take the last leave with mingled tears and prayer. The sailor calls, the fair breeze chides delay, The sails are spread, and all are under way. But when the ship, like a strong-shot arrow, flew, And the well known shore was fading from the view, Such mystic words as none could understand: "On this troubled wave in vain we seek for rest. Who builds his house on the sea, or his palace on its breast? He will love, when home returned at last, To tell, in his native cot, of dangers past." Then Hassan said: "Think not thy brave boy fears Hold me not back; I will not be denied." Rudbari now wept o'er his wildered child: "What mean these looks, and words so strangely wild? Dearer, my boy, to me than all the gain That I've earned from the bounteous bosom of the main! A light from the INFINITE broke in upon my soul!" And would better suit the mouth of some star-gazing sage." Thy words, my father, cannot turn away 16 Mine eye, now fixed on that supernal day." "Dost thou not, Hassan, lay these dreams aside, I'll plunge thee headlong in this whelming tide." "Do this, Rudbari, only not in ire, 'Tis all I ask, and all I can desire. For on the bosom of this rolling flood, Slumbers an awful mystery of Good; And he may solve it, who will self expunge, And in the depths of boundless being plunge." He spake, and plunged, and as quickly sunk beneath As the pearl is by the shell that clasps it round. To a Sister about to embark on a Missionary Enterprise.— B. B. THATCHER. O SISTER! sister! hath the memory That thus, with tearless eye, thou leavest me— Hast thou forgot, friend of my better days, And where, oh! where are the unnumbered vows We made, my sister, at the twilight fall, A thousand times, and the still starry hours Of the dew-glistering eve-in many a walk By the green borders of our native streamAnd in the chequered shade of these old oaks, The moonlight silvering o'er each mossy trunk, And every bough, as an Eolian harp, Full of the solemn chant of the low breeze? Thou hast forgotten this-and standest here, Thy hand in mine, and hearest, even now, The rustling wood, the stir of falling leaves, And-hark!-the far off murmur of the brook! Nay, do not weep, my sister!-do not speak- That even now, like spirits of the dead, Are trilling, ever and anon, the notes Long loved of old-oh! hear them, heed them not With power alone o'er those who gave them ear, They would but turn thee from a high resolve. Then look not back! oh! triumph in the strength Of an exalted purpose! Eagle-like, Press sunward on. Thou shalt not be alone. Have but an eye on God, as surely God Will have an eye on thee-press on! press on! The Pilgrim Fathers.-SPRAgue. THEY Come-that coming who shall tell? For them who smote the power of kings; When we are in the tomb. We, too, might yield the joys of home, Knew we those waves, through coming time, Felt we that millions on that shore Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled; Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, Stern and resolved, that faithful band, Though anguish rends the father's breast, For them, his dearest and his best, |