Its light within my gloomy breast THE FERRY. A translation from the German of UHLAND, by whom we know not, but it is extremely well executed. It appeared in the newspapers some ten or twelve years ago. MANY a year is in its grave Since I pass'd this restless wave, Then in this same boat beside One on earth in silence wrought, So, where'er I turn mine eye Back upon the days gone by, Sadd'ning thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends that closed their course before me. But what binds us friend to friend, 'Tis that soul with soul can blend: Soul-fraught were those hours of yore, Let us walk in soul once more. Take, oh boatman, thrice thy fee, Take, I give it willingly, For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have cross'd with me. MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. One of MARY HOWITT's delicious outpourings of overflowing love for Nature, and embodying the spirit in which she wrote in one of her many books about the country, and its manifold glories and delights. "I never bend in prayer without thanking God for having given us little children." DWELLERS by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee! Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, The grey and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hung day and night; Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight. Give These are your joys! Go forth your hearts up unto their mighty power; For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower. The voice of hidden rills Its quiet way into your spirit finds; And awfully the everlasting hills Address you in their many-toned winds. Ye sit upon the earth, Twining its flowers and shouting full of glee; Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills, like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary regions to your wilds belong, Then go forth-earth and sky To you are tributary; joys are spread Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread! THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. A quaint, but impressive poem by H. W. LONGFELLOW, an American His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand, he wipes Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. From MILTON's Paradise Lost,-the grandest Hymn ever composed by an uninspired writer. Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the sun, scarce yet up-risen, "These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good, Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! In these thy lowest works; yet these declare On earth join all ye creatures, to extol If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise. That singing up to heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise. |