Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low.
'Twould joy his heart could he but aid
So good a lady in her wo,

He meekly, smoothly said.

With wealth and servants, she is soon aboard,
And that white steed she rode beside her lord.

The sun goes down upon the sea;
The shadows gather round her home.
"How like a pall are ye to me!

My home, how like a tomb!

O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head.
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead."

And now the stars are burning bright;
Yet still she looks towards the shore
Beyond the waters black in night.
"I ne'er shall see thee more!

Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow,
And I'm alone-scarce know I where I go."

Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea!
The wash of waters lulls thee now;
His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy hand upon his brow.

He is not near, to hush thee, or to save.
The ground is his-the sea must be thy grave.

Sonnet.-BRYANT.

A POWER is on the earth and in the air

From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth: her thousand plants
Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze:
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den;
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men

Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town:
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament.

Power of the Soul in investing external Circumstances with the Hue of its own Feelings.-DANA.

-LIFE in itself, it life to all things gives;
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives-
Becomes an acting being, ill or good;

And, grateful to its giver, tenders food

For the soul's health, or, suffering change unblest,
Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:

As is the man, e'en so it bears its part,

And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.

Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see,
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs, as if a breeze were there
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall;
The double strips of silvery sand unite

Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.-
Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough,
Peck not alone; that bird below, as thou,

Is busy after food, and happy, too

They're gone! Both, pleased, away together flew.

And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams;
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky,
And one still, sightless level make the earth,
Like thy dull, lonely, joyless soul,-a dearth.

The rill is tuneless to his ear, who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen amongst the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,

Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more-
In nature's calmest hour, he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves-puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world:
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow-men? Why, then, he deems
'Tis hate for hate :-as he, so each one seems.

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breastWhich gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.

Spring in Town.-BRYANT.

THE Country ever has a lagging spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses. Showers and sunshine bring
Slowly the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing birds come back;

Within the city's bounds the time of flowers
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day,
Such as full often, for a few bright hours,

Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May,
Shine on our roofs, and chase the wintry gloom-
And, lo, our borders glow with sudden bloom.

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then
Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June,
That, overhung with blossoms, through its glen
Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon;
And they that search the untrodden wood for flowers
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.

For here are eyes that shame the violet,
Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies;
And foreheads white as when, in clusters set,
The anemonies by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie

Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curledThrice happy man, whose trade it is to buy,

And bake, and braid those love-nets of the world! Who curls of every glossy color keepest,

And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest!

And well thou mayst; for Italy's brown maids

Send the dark locks with which their brows are drest;

And Tuscan lasses from their jetty braids

Crop half to buy a ribbon for the rest;

But the fresh Norman girls their ringlets spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then henceforth let no maid or matron grieve
To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Frowzy or thin; for Vignardonne shall give
Such piles of curls as nature never knew:
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
Had blushed outdone, and owned herself a fright.

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street
Like notes of wood-birds, and where'er the eye
Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by;
The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space,
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,-

A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
To Singsing and the shores of Tappan bay.

Ye that dash by in chariots, who will care

For steeds and footmen now? Ye cannot show

Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
And last edition of the shape! Ah no;
These sights are for the earth and open sky,
And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.

The Sabbath.-CARLOS WILCOX.

WHO scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. Emblem and earnest of eternal rest,

A festival with fruits celestial crowned,
A jubilee releasing him from earth,
The day delights and animates the saint.

It gives new vigor to the languid pulse

Of life divine, restores the wandering feet,

Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip,
Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts,
Establishing them all upon a rock.

Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path,
His progress mark, and keep his rest in view.
In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days,
Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come.
To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn
Seems like the first, when every thing was new.
Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven,
His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies,
And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold.
In every thing a smiling God is seen.
On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun
His glory shines. In objects overlooked
On other days he now arrests the eye.
Not in the deep recesses of his works,
But on their face, he now appears to dwell.
While silence reigns among the works of man,
The works of God have leave to speak his praise
With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea.
His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades
All nature, breathing round the air of heaven,
And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life
A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now
To bring him near; for Faith performs the work;
In solemn thought surrounds herself with God,
With such transparent vividness, she feels