ON SEEING A GRAVE WITHOUT A STONE.

BY PAUL ALLEN.

ALAS! no scutcheon'd marble here displays,

In long-drawn eulogies, thy name and worth; Such servile homage adulation pays

To a poor mouldering clod of common earth.

The pompous eulogy, emblazon'd high,

With all the glare that flattery can bestow,
In splendid falsehood strikes the trav❜ler's eye,
And makes the silly tear of pity flow.

The yellow cowslip, and the violet blue,
The pallid daisy, growing by thy side,
Are all, poor peasant! that remains to you;
But nature gives what haughty man denied.

Sweet, simple trophies! and to me more dear
Than all the arrogance of letter'd lore:
Receive the tribute of a parting tear,

Warm from my heart; a bard can give no more.

STANZAS.

BY JOSIAS L. ARNOLD.

VAIN is the cheek's vermilion hue,

The forehead smooth and high,

The lip, like rose-buds moist with dew,
And vain the sparkling eye.

1791.

The flow'r that's ting'd with various dyes,

At first may lure the eye;

But if no fragrance from it rise,

'Tis pass'd neglected by.

A NOVEMBER LANDSCAPE.

BY SARAH H. WHITMAN.

How like a rich and gorgeous picture hung

In memory's storied hall, seems that fair scene O'er which long years their mellowing tints have flung; The way side flowers had faded one by one,

Hoar were the hills, the meadows drear and dun, When homeward wending 'neath the dusky screen Of the autumnal woods at close of day, As o'er a pine-clad height my pathway lay,

Lo! at a sudden turn, the vale below

Lay far outspread all flushed with purple light,
Grey rocks and umbered woods gave back the glow
Of the last day-beams fading into night,

While down a glen where dark Moshassuck flows
With all its kindling lamps the distant city rose,

SPRING.

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK, BY HENRY C. WHITAKER.

SEE, see how the Spring like a glittering bride,
Comes forth on the hills in beauty and pride;

She flings o'er the forest her mantle of green,
Where the blossoming trees so gracefully lean,
And the bird in the branches in merry mood sings,

As he shakes the bright drops of the dew from his wings.
See, see on the soft blushing cheek of the flower,

The red glow grows deeper and deeper each hour;
The winter-frost flies to his cavern so old,

Far down their dark chambers all dismal and cold--
While old earth throws aside his gray robes to the rain
That is falling so gently on river and plain;

And stretches, in joy, his broad arms to embrace

The light form of Spring with her fair smiling face.

Down, down the rough mountains, the silver streams leap And dance in the valleys so lonely and deep;

No longer the nightingale fears the rude blast,

But sings in the green-wood that winter is past.

Many a shadow grows bright in the beams,

That sparkle and flash from ths swift-bounding streams; Many a leaf like a diamond gem,

Is waving in beauty on many a stem;

Rainbows are playing on many a flower,

As it lifts its thin petals that drip with the shower;
And the earth, like a monarch, majestic and old,
Sits high on a throne of purple and gold.

347

THE DEATH BED OF BEAUTY.

BY JAMES O. ROCKWELL.

SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose

By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken; Or like the sun, when dimmed with clouds it goes

To its clear ocean-bed, by calm winds shaken : Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow It smiles with angel meekness-or like sorrow When it is soothed by resignation's glow,

Or like herself, she will be dead to-morrow.

How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the sweet breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl

That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam,

Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint! She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted!

Oh bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye
To look upon so fair a type of Heaven;

She could not dwell beneath a winter sky,

And her heart-strings were frozen here, and riven,

And now she lies in ruins-look and weep!

How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow ! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep

Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow.

LINES.

BY MRS. SOPHIA M. PHILLIPS.

Oн know you not, my friends, my friends,

Your faces will arise

On silent wings at evening,

Before my gushing eyes?

On silent wings at evening,
When I shall long to stand
Beneath the pleasant light of smiles,
Within my own dear land.

I have not loved it well before,
This dearest, greenest spot!
Where nothing now hath ever been
That I remember not.

Oh! earnest sounds will follow me

Upon the happy breeze;

Blending of names and voices,
Home music o'er the seas!

And I shall turn me fervently,
To meet its melting power,
And fill with love my yearning soul,
In record of the hour.

And still from each surrounding spell,
My spirit breaking free,
Shall hear and hail forever

This music o'er the sea.