"STAND AS AN ANVIL, WHEN IT IS BEATEN UPON."

"STAND, like an anvil," when the stroke Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast: Storms but more deeply root the oak,

Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. "Stand like an anvil," when the sparks Fly, far and wide a fiery shower; Virtue and truth must still be marks,

Where malice proves its want of power. Stand, like an anvil," when the bar Lies, red and glowing, on its breast: Duty shall be life's leading star,

And conscious innocence its rest. Stand like an anvil," when the sound Of ponderous hammers pains the ear: Thine, but the still and stern rebound

Of the great heart that cannot fear. *Stand, like an anvil;" noise and heat

Are born of earth, and die with time: The soul, like GoD, its source and seat, Is solemn, still, serene, sublime.

THAT SILENT MOON.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
O! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth!
How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry

Profaned her pure and holy light: Small sympathy is hers, I ween,

With sights like these, that virgin queen!

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,

And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes-
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,

On lonely eyes that wake to weep In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd slee: O! softly beams her gentle eye On those who mourn, and those who die

But, beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendours may,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart-
What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,

From dawning light to dying day :-
But, O! be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!

THERMOPYLE.

"T WAS an hour of fearful issues, When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom,

By that old Thessalian flood; When, lifting high each sword of flame, They call'd on every sacred name, And swore, beside those dashing waves, They never, never would be slaves! And, O! that oath was nobly kept: From morn to setting sun Did desperation urge the fight

Which valour had begun; Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood Ran down and mingled with the flood, And all, from mountain-cliff to wave, Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave O, yes, that oath was nobly kept, Which nobly had been sworn, And proudly did each gallant heart The foeman's fetters spurn; And firmly was the fight maintain'd, And amply was the triumph gain'd; They fought, fair Liberty, for thee: They fell-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.

ROBIN REDBREAST.*

SWEET Robin, I have heard them say,
That thou wert there, upon the day,
The CHRIST was crown'd in cruel scorn;
And bore away one bleeding thorn,
That, so, the blush upon thy breast,
In shameful sorrow, was impressed;
And thence thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.
Sweet Robin, would that I might be,
Bathed in my SAVIOUR'S blood, like thee;
Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the cross;
Live, ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship with human kind;
And take my pattern still from thee,
In gentleness and constancy.

* I have somewhere met with an old legend, that a robin hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn. from our dea Saviour's crown, and dyed his bosom with the blood; and that from that time robins have been the friends of man

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

WHAT is that, Mother?—The lark, my child!-
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,

To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!-
Proudly careering his course of joy;

Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!--
e is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swar-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

A CHERUB.

"Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is."JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYN, 1656.

BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless?

Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,

Io the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies;
Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile,
With that infant look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,

With the look and the voice of our darling coy-
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts
He had twined about with his infant arts,
To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,
In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
From that bitter fount in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our lonely way,
Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray
Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be,
Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.

LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE.

THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,
As full of peace and purity,
As free from care and strife;
No ripple on its tranquil breast
That dies not with the day,
No pebble in its darkest depths,
But quivers in its ray.

And see, how every glorious form
And page.t of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,

A mirror'd image lies;
So be thy spirit ever pure,

To Gon and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bea The imagery of heaven.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

LIFT not thou the wailing voice,
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,—
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,

Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;
High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,
Lift for her no voice of wailing!
Pour not thou the bitter tear;
Heaven its book of comfort opeth;
Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,

But, as one who alway hopeth, Humbly here in faith relying, Peacefully in JESUS dying, Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,Why should thine with tears be gushing? They who die in CHRIST are bless'd,

Ours be, then, no thought of grieving!
Sweetly with their Gon they rest,

All their toils and troubles leaving:
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope that every trial braveth,

Love that to the end endureth,

And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth!

Upon thy bosom; from the fountains gush
To cool the heated brow with purest wave;
And when distress the struggling soul would crush,
Thy tranquil mien hath power to heal, and save
From wasting grief. My spirit too was sear,
As is the last gray leaf, that lingers yet
On oaken branch, although my twentieth year
Upon my youthful head no mark had set.

f'o thee in hope and confidence I came,

And thou didst lend thine air a soothing balm; Didst teach me sorrow's fearful power to tame, And be, though pensive, cheerful, pleased, and calm.

My heart was chilled; age stole upon my mind,
In hour untimely, Spring from life to wrest;
I wandered far, my long-lost youth to find,
And I regain it, Nature, on thy breast!

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. AT KANDERSTEG.

FATHER in heaven! while friendless and alone
I gaze on nature's face in Alpine wild,
I would approach thee nearer. Wilt thou own
The solitary pilgrim for thy child.

When on the hill's majestic height I trod,
And thy creation smiling round me lay,
The soul reclaimed its likeness unto GOD,
And spurned its union with the baser clay.

The stream of thought flowed purely, like the air
That from untrodden snows passed coolly by;
Base passion died within me; low-born care
Fled, and reflection raised my soul on high.
Then wast thou with me, and didst sweetly pour
Serene delight into my wounded breast;
The mantle of thy love hung gently o'er
The lonely wanderer, and my heart had rest.

I gazed on thy creation. O! 't is fair;
The vales are clothed in beauty, and the hills
In their deep bosom icy oceans bear,
To feed the mighty floods and bubbling rills.

I marvel not at nature. She is thine;
Thy cherished daughter, whom thou lov'st to bless ;
Through thee her hills in glistening whiteness shine;
Through thee her valleys laugh in loveliness.

"T is thou, when o'er my path beams cheerful day, That smiling guid'st me through the stranger's

land;

And when mild winds around my temples play,
On my hot brow I feel thy lenient hand.

And shall I fear thee?-wherefore fear thy wrath,
When life and hope and youth from thee descend?
O be my guide in life's uncertain path,
The pilgrim's guardian, counsellor, and friend.

MY GODDESS.

A FREE VERSION FROM GOEthe.

WHO, of heaven's immortal train.
Shall the highest prize obtain?
Strife I would with all give o'er,
But there's one I'll aye adore,
Ever new and ever changing,
Through the paths of marvel raging,
Dearest in her father's eye,
Jove's own darling, Fantasy.

For to her, and her alone,
All his secret whims are known;
And in all her faults' despite
Is the maid her sire's delight.

Oft, with aspect mild, she goes,
Decked with lilies and the rose,
Walks among the flowery bands,
Summer's insect swarm commands,
And for food with honeyed lips
Dew-drops from the blossom sips;-

Or, with darker mein, and hair Streaming loose in murky air, With the storm she rushes by, Whistling where the crags are high, And, with hues of thousand dyes, Like the late and early skies, Changes and is changed again, Fast as moons that wax and wane.

Him, the ancient sire, we'll praise
Who, as partner of our days,
Hath to mortal man allied
Such a fair, unfading bride.

For to us alone she's given,
And is bound by bonds of heaven
Still to be our faithful bride,
And, though joy or wo betide,
Ne'er to wander from our side.

Other tribes, that have their birth
In the fruitful teeming earth,
All, through narrow life, remain
In dark pleasures, gloomy pain,
Live their being's narrow round,
To the passing moment bound,
And, unconscious, roam and feed,
Bent beneath the yoke of need.

But to us, with kind intent,
He his frolic daughter sent,
Nursed with fondest tenderness.
Welcome her with love's caress,
And take heed, that none but she
Mistress of the mansion be.
And of wisdom's power beware,
Lest the old step-mother dare
Rudely harm the tender fair.

Yet I know Jove's elder child,
Graver and serenely mild,
My beloved, my tranquil friend.
From me never may she wend,—
She, that knows with ill to cope,
And to action urges-Hope.

GEORGE HILL is a native of Guilford, on Long Island Sound, near New Haven. He was admitted to Yale College in his fifteenth year, and, when he graduated, took the Berkeleian prize, as the best classic. He was subsequently attached to the navy, as Professor of Mathematics; and visited in this capacity the Mediterranean, its storied islands, and classic shores. After his return, he was appointed librarian to the State Department, at Washington: a situation which he at length resigned on account of ill health, and was appointed Consul of the United States for the southwestern portion of Asia Minor. The climate disa

| greeing with him, he returned to Washington and he is now attached again to one of the bureaus in the Department of State.

The style of Mr. Hill's poetry is severe, and sometimes so elliptical as to embarrass his meaning; this is especially true of his more elaborate production, "The Ruins of Athens," written in the Spenserian stanza. He is most successful in his lyrics, where he has more freedom, without a loss of energy His "Titania," a dramatic piece, is perhaps the most original of his productions. It is wild and fanciful, and graced with images of much beauty and freshness.

FROM "THE RUINS OF ATHENS."

THE daylight fades o'er old Cyllene's hill, And broad and dun the mountain shadows fall; The stars are up and sparkling, as if still Smiling upon their altars; but the tall, Dark cypress, gently, as a mourner, bendsWet with the drops of evening as with tearsAlike o'er shrine and worshipper, and blends, All dim and lonely, with the wrecks of years, As of a world gone by no coming morning cheers. There sits the queen of temples-gray and lone. She, like the last of an imperial line, Has seen her sister structures, one by one, To Time their gods and worshippers resign; And the stars twinkle through the weeds that twine Their roofless capitals; and, through the night, Heard the hoarse drum and the exploding mine, The clash of arms and hymns of uncouth rite, From their dismantled shrines the guardian powers affright.

Go thou from whose forsaken heart are reft The ties of home; and, where a dwelling-place Not Jove himself the elements have left, The grass-grown, undefined arena pace! [hear Look on its rent, though tower-like shafts, and The loud winds thunder in their aged face; Then slowly turn thine eye, where moulders near A CESAR'S arch, and the blue depth of space Vaults like a sepulchre the wrecks of a past race.

Is it not better with the Eremite,

Where the weeds rustle o'er his airy cave, Perch'd on their summit, through the long, still night

To sit and watch their shadows slowly wave-

While oft some fragment, sapp'd by dull decay.
In thunder breaks the silence, and the fowl
Of Ruin hoots-and turn in scorn away
Of all man builds, time levels, and the cowl
Awards her moping sage in common with the owl!

Or, where the palm, at twilight's holy hour,
By THESEUS' fane her lonely vigil keeps:
Gone are her sisters of the leaf and flower,
With them the living crop earth sows and reaps,
But these revive not: the weed with them sleeps,
But clothes herself in beauty from their clay,
And leaves them to their slumber; o'er them

weeps

Vainly the Spring her quickening dews away, And Love as vainly mourns, and mourns, alas! for aye.

Or, more remote, on Nature's haunts intrude, Where, since creation, she has slept on flowers, Wet with the noonday forest-dew, and woo'd By untamed choristers in unpruned bowers: By pathless thicket, rock that time-worn towers O'er dells untrodden by the hunter, piled Ere by its shadow measured were the hours To human eye, the rampart of the wild, Whose banner is the cloud, by carnage undefiled. The weary spirit that forsaken plods The world's wide wilderness, a home may find Here, mid the dwellings of long-banish'd gods, And thoughts they bring, the mourners of the

mind;

The spectres that no spell has power to bind. The loved, but lost, whose soul's life is in ours, As incense in sepulchral urns, enshrined, The sense of blighted or of wasted powers, The hopes whose promised fruits have perish'd with their flowers.