Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof

The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky, fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere fire above its soft colors wove While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and the sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

THE EMIGRANTS.

Andrew Marvell.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride,
In ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat that rowed along

The listening winds received this song:

'What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?

'Where He the huge sea monsters rocks
That lift the deep upon their backs;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storm and billows' rage.

'He gives us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
In daily visits through the air.

'He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranate close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

'He makes the figs our mouth to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon, He stores the land.
'He cast-of which we rather boast-
The gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
'Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
Which thence perhaps resounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay.'

Thus sang they in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;

And all the way to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

VIRTUE.

Berbert.

SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave,

For thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turns to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

RECOLLECTIONS.

From the German of Friedrich Matthisan. I LONG to see once more before I die

The fields in which I wandered when a child, Where all the happy dreams of opening life Around me hovered.

The rill with banks of violets that flowed Among the alders which my father planted, Would give me greater pleasure than the sight Of classic rivers.

And that low hill, crowned with a linden tree, Where round and round with hands together clasped,

I and my playmates ran, would tell me more Than Alpine mountains.

THE PIC-NIC FROM LUISE.

From the German of Sahaun Beinrich Voss.

THEN spake the mother, full of care and bustle,

'Hans, bring the kettle; here we'll light the fire

Where the cool wind will drive the smoke away. Where shall we sit? Here, under this old beech, This good old family tree, whose rind is marked