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то AN INFANT.

Sleep on! sleep on! but oh, my soul,
This is not slumber's soft control!

Boy!-boy! awake!—that struggling cry
So faint and low-that agony !

The long, sunk, heavy gasp and groan!
And oh ! that desolate, last moan !—
My God! the infant spirit's gone!
Are there no tears ?-dark-dark-alone !

'Tis past! farewell! I little thought
The mockeries which my fancy wrought,
From fate's dark book were rudely torn!-
That clouds would darken o'er thy morn!
That death's stern hand would sweep away
The flower just springing to the day!
But wounded hearts must still bleed on!
Enough, enough-GOD'S WILL BE DONE!

51

AN AIR-CHATEAU.

BY NEHEMIAH CLEAVELAND.

How beauteous in the glowing west,
Those thousand-tinted isles that float;

On the broad sea of light they rest,
Or pass to lovelier realms remote.

Methinks it were a bliss to roam

Where those far fields in beauty lie; Methinks there were a welcome home, In the soft clime of yonder sky.

On some bright, sunny cloud, I'd build My palace, in the verge of heaven;

On marble fix it firm, and gild

It's cornices with gold of even.

AN AIR CHATEAU.

53

From amethystine beds I'd draw

My blocks to shape its swelling dome; Here should you trace the old Doric law, There the Corinthian grace of Rome.

In avenues of enchanting sweep,

Broad oaks and towering elms should stand;

Blue lakes in placid stillness sleep,

And currents roll o'er silver sand.

Perchance, to animate the scene,
Beyond the reach of art and gold,
Some spirit, whose seraphic mien

Should wear no trace of earthly mould

Crowning each hope, might cheer my eyes
With beauty, and with love my heart,

And to my sky-hung Paradise,

Its last and loveliest charm impart.

The day, with her, more calm, more bright,
Would flit on silken wing away,

With her, the dark and drowsy night

Seem soft and cheerful as the day.

Pensive we'd rove where scarce a ray
Pierces the dun, o'er-hanging shade,
Or, arm in arm, delighted stray

Through flowery lawn and emerald glade.

The joys of high, soul-kindling thought; Sweet converse at the twilight hour; The pleasures of a life, untaught

To pant for wealth or sigh for power ;

The calm delights of lettered ease;
Of virtuous toil the peaceful rest

Who finds his bliss in such as these,
How truly wise, how deeply blest!

Of joy, on earth, or in the skies,-
But one perennial spring is found;
Deep in the soul that fountain lies,

And flowers of Eden fringe it round.

MENTAL BEAUTY.

BY RICHARD H. VOSE.

I love the hour when day is spent, And stars are in the firmament:— Sweet hour of night, thy shadows roll, A heavenly calmness o'er the soul.

I love to gaze upon the deep,

When furious storms are lulled to rest;

How calmly sweet those billows sleep, And mildly smile on ocean's breast.

Oh! who can gaze upon the ocean, And see the moonbeams sparkle there, Nor feel the flame of pure devotion, Nor offer up one fervent prayer.

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