Or the soft, melancholy glide
Of some deep stream, through glen and glade,
Because 'tis not the thunder made
By ocean's heaving tide!

The hallowed lilies of the field
In glory are arrayed,
And timid, blue-eyed violets yield
Their fragrance to the shade;
Nor do the way-side flowers conceal
Those modest charms that sometimes steal
Upon the weary traveler's eyes
Like angels, spreading for his feet
A carpet, filled with odors sweet,
And decked with heavenly dyes.

Thus let the affluent Soul of Song--
That all with flowers adorns--
Strew life's uneven path along,
And hide its thousand thorns:
Oh, many a sad and weary heart,
That treads a noiseless way apart,
Has blessed the humble poet's name,
For fellowship, refined and free,
In meek wild-flowers of poesy,
That asked no higher fame!

And pleasant as the water-fall
To one by deserts bound--
Making the air all musical
With cool, inviting sound--
Is oft some unpretending strain
Of rural song, to him whose brain
Is fevered in the sordid strife
That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,
While moving on, in caravan,
Across the sands of Life.

Yet, not for these alone he sings;
The poet's breast is stirred
As by the spirit that takes wings
And carols in the bird!
He thinks not of a future name,
Nor whence his inspiration came
Nor whither goes his warbled song;
As Joy itself delights in joy--
His soul finds life in its employ,
And grows by utterance strong.

A PARTING.

(AN EXTRACT.)

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

And now, farewell--and if the warm tear start
Unbidden to your eye, oh! do not blush
To own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart,
Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gush
Of its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rush
Of many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry brings
Her tales of by-gone pleasure but to crush
The reed already bending--now, there sings
The syren voice of Hope--her of the rainbow wings.

Ah! well-a-day! Ceased is the witching strain--
Fled are they all--and back the senses turn
To this dark hour of anguish and of pain--
Of rending heart-chords--agony too stern
For words to picture it--of thoughts that burn
And wither up the heart. I