JEEHAWKEN! In thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of Nature in her wild

And frolic hour of infancy is met;

And never has a summer morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high

Amid thy forest solitudes he climbs

O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger which sublimes
The breathless moment-when his daring step
Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear

Like the death music of his coming doom,

And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume

The currents in his veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling-like the moan
Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view
Ocean and earth and heaven burst before him;
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue

Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him,
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;

And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there
In wild reality. When life is old

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this: nor lives there one
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days
Of happiness were passed beneath that sun,
That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze
Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

THE

HE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peaceWhere Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The Mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian's grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of day

And when the sun set, where were they? And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left a poet here?

For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

-Byron.

B

LEST land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like
throng,

In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

Lo, Bethlehem's hill-side before me is seen,
With the mountains around and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.

Oh, here with His flock the sad wanderer came-
These hills He toiled over in grief, are the same-

The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed Him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.
Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near

To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.

Oh, the outward hath gone!-but, in glory and power,
The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!
-John Greenleaf Whittier.

HE stars are forth, the moon above the tops

Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful!

I linger yet with Nature, for the night

Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness

I learned the language of another world.

I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering—upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome.
The trees, which grew along the broken arches,
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and

More near, from out the Cæsar's palace came
1 he owl's long cry, and interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot-where the Caesars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through leveled battle-

ments,

And twines its root with the imperial hearths.
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;
But the gladiator's bloody circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,

While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls

Grovel on earth in distinct decay,

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries,
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,

And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still
rule

Our spirits from their urns.

-Lord Byron.

K

NOWEST thou the land which lovers ought to
choose!

Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews;
In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,

The purple vintage clusters in the sun;
Odors of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,
Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees,
And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves,
Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless
Belov'd-speed we from this sullen strand,

[loves.

Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand.
Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye
But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky;
And, flying fast and free before the gale,
The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail;
And waters glittering in the glare of noon,

Or touched with silver by the stars and moon,
Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light,
When the far fisher's fire affronts the night.
Lovely as loved! toward that smiling shore
Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more.

It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth:
Nature is delicate and graceful there,

The place's genius, feminine and fair;

The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautifu!!-to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and and be all pain forgot.
-Edward C. Pinkney.

VER the dumb campagna-sea,

Out in the offing through mist and rain, St. Peter's Church heaves silently

Like a mighty ship in pain,

Facing the tempest with struggle and strain.

Motionless waifs of ruined towers,
Soundless breakers of desolate land!
The sullen surf of the mist devours

That mountain range upon either hand,
Eaten away from its outline grand.

And over the dumb campagna sea

Where the ship of the church heaves on to wreck, Alone and silent as God must be

The Christ walks! -Ay, but Peter's neck

Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck.

Peter, Peter, if such be thy name,

Now leave the ship for another to steer,

And proving thy faith evermore the same

Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear, Since He who walks on the sea is here! Peter, Peter!-he does not speak

He is not as rash as in old Galilee. Safer a ship, though it toss and leak, Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea!

-And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he.

Peter, Peter! he does not stir

His nets are heavy with silver fish:

He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer,

"The broil on the shore, if the Lord should wish, But the sturgeon goes to the Cæsar's dish."