And in the glowing noon,
Thy sparkling brightness in the stars,
Thy beauties in the moon.

I see thy bark go gliding on
O'er all the mighty seas.
I hear thy voice upon the storm,
And gentler on the breeze,

Comes thrilling with the warbling notes
The lark pours out on high,
And in the blackbird's evening song
Flows to my pathway nigh;

Comes with the brooklet's murmuring voice,
And from the ocean wave,
Which Neptune in his choice sees fit
Upon the shore to lave.

I hear the rude, prosaic law
Pour out its vile abuse,
In earnest with its bitter vice
My fancy to seduce.

Yet let the sceptic whet his scythe,
Thy beauties to deplore;
So shall I love them fonder still,
And seek thy presence more.

The proud revilers who employ
Their tongues as poisoned darts
I deem of rude, unpolished taste,
Uncouth and shallow hearts.

BOYISH DAYS.

Hail, happy thought--
Sweet, happy thought
Of boyish days!
Can hope no more arise?
Can I no more surmise
That they will come again?
All happy sport!
All sweet resort
To merry games,
To which, with spirit light,
I often did unite
In free and boy-like glee!
The welcome call
To bat and ball
I used to hear
With that intense delight,
So free, and pure, and bright,
Which only boys can know.
The merry gambols
And country rambles
I loved to join,
With admiration high,
To which no fear was nigh.
Are they for ever gone?
Yes, they are gone--
For ever gone;
In time's abyss
I see them foundering fast;
It soon will be the last--,
The dying breath of them.
'Tis sorrow now
Bedecks my brow,
And sorry care
Lies waiting in my path;
Prevailing power it hath
To bear the spirit down.
But let me rise
To win the prize,
Which is for those
Who triumph o'er despair,
And, passing every care,
Fight bravely to the end.

BEAUTY.

Beauty, as the rose of Summer,
For a season looketh gay;
Ere a while it fades and falleth;
So doth beauty pass away.

Charms, the brilliant and enticing,
Sparkle to allure awhile;
But they are the world's vain treasure,
And an outward, fleeting wile.

There is yet a charm more pleasing
Than the outward to behold;
'Tis a humble spirit, easing
Pilgrims onward to the fold.

This the scythe of time shall never
Rob of its adorning g