We view the Heaven's broad expanse; the

cloudless realms afar

Are eloquent; we hear a voice in every shining star;

And sweetly falls that silent voice which speaks of Hope and Love,

Like gentle dews upon the heart from Heaven's full urn above.

The voiceless flowers have each a tone that through Creation rings,

The silent brook a pleasant song that still of Nature sings;

The light and shade-the passing years-the seasons, as they roll

Mysterious are their voices, but they sink into

the soul.

We turn toward the glowing East, we mark the fading West;

The silent voice still speaks to us, in labor or in rest.

Along the mighty ocean borne, upon the flow'rclad sod,

That sound unceasing speaks to us-that silent Voice is God!

HOHENLINDEN.

T. Campbell.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn!-but scarce yon level sun, Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens! On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few! few, shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

MELROSE.

Walter Scott.

Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go, visit it by the pale moonlight,
For the gay beams of lightsome day,
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white-
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seemed framed of ebon and ivory-
When silver edges the imagery

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die,
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave

Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruined pile,
And home returning soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair.

VILLAGE BELLS.

M. A. Brownr.

THERE's a charming sound on the morning air,
It comes from the white church nestling there-
Nestling amid the tall pine trees,

Looking the shrine of holy peace.
Why do the sweet bells merrily ring?
See ye not bright eyes glistening,
And a lovely form, in robes of white,
Blushing and smiling, 'twixt fear and delight?
'Tis a wedding train that is passing in pride,
Chime, sweet bells! for that beauteous bride.

They are ringing again, and in their sound Triumph and glory are scattered around; What mean the banners that float on the wind? What mean the wreaths that these bright helmets bind?

Whose are the troop that in warlike array Sweep down the valley, their homage to pay

At the altar of Him who alone can break
The bands of the foe, and the conqueror make!
Victory! Victory!-battles are done.

Ring out, sweet bells, for the triumph is won!

Again they are ringing in calmer peal,

Yet dearer and sweeter those notes we feel; 'Tis the sabbath morn, and the humble and proud

Together are thronging, in mingled crowd;
Some from the valley, and some from the hall,
All are obeying one general call;

Coming from many a differing abode,
Yet all approaching the house of God.

There's their sound again - but it's not the

same

As once on that summer morning came;
'Tis not the sound that swelled along
When every lip was a triumphing song.
Oh strange! in that low and solemn sound,
We are told that another his rest hath found;
Oh strange! that man will rejoice o'er strife,
And hail with mirth each scene of life;
Yet give but a doleful strain to say,
Our brother is taken from evil away!