The Stars.

On 'tis lovely to watch ye at twilight rise, When the last gleam fades in the distant skies. When the silver chime of the minster bell,

And the warbling fount in the woodland dell And the viewless sounds in the upper air, Proclaim the hour of prayer!

Then

ye shine in beauty above the sea, Bright wanderers o'er the blue sky free! Catching the tone of each sighing breeze, And the whispering sound of the forest trees, Or the far-off voice, through the quiet dim Of some hamlet's hymn!

And the midnight too, all still and lone!
Ye guard in beauty from many a throne!
In your
silver silence throughout the hour,
Watching the rest of each folded flower;
Gladdening with visions each infant's sleep,
Through the night hour deep!

Yes,

ye

look over Nature's hushed repose, By the forest still where the streamlet flows,

By the breezeless hush of many a plain,
And the pearly flow of the silver main,
Or sweetly far o'er some chapel shrine

Of the olden time!

THE ASPEN LEAF

Thus in shadeless glory ye onward roll,

Bright realms of beauty from pole to pole!

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'Midst the vaulted space where your bright pathslie, In the hidden depths of the midnight sky, To some far-off land-to some distant home, 'Neath the ocean's foam!

But lo! the far voice of the waking sea,
And the dim dew rising o'er lawn and lea,
And the first faint tinge of the early day,
Shining afar o'er the ocean's spray!

O ye that have been as a power and a spell,
Through the dim midnight!-Fare ye well!
F. MULLER.

I WOULD not be

Ebe Aspen Leaf

A leaf on yonder aspen tree :
In every fickle breeze to play,
Wildly, weakly, idly gay,

So feebly framed, so lightly hung,

By the wing of an insect stirred and swung,
Thrilling e'en to a redbreast's note,
Drooping if only a light mist float,

Brighten'd and dimm'd like a varying glass,
As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass ;-

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THE ASPEN LEAF.

I would not be, I would not be,
A leaf on yonder aspen tree.

Is it not because the autumn sere

Would change my merry guise and cheer,-
That soon, full soon, nor leaf, nor stem,
Sunlight would gladden or dew-drop gem,
That I, with my fellows, must fall to the earth,
Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth,
Or else on the bough where all had grown,
Must linger on, and linger alone,
Might life be an endless summer's day,
And I be for ever green and gay,
I would not be, I would not be,
A leaf on yonder aspen tree!—
Proudly spoken, heart of mine,

Yet weakness and change perchance are thine.
More, and darker, and sadder to see,

Than befall the leaves of yonder tree!
What if they flutter-their life is a dance;
Or toy with the sunbeam-they live in his glance:
To bird, breeze, and insect rustle and thrill,
Never the same, never mute, never still,-

Emblems of all that is fickle and gay,

ད་

But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay-
Chide them not-heed them not-spirit, away
Into thyself, to thine own hidden shrine,

What there dost thou worship? what deem'st thou divine?

Thy hopes, are they steadfast, and holy, and high?

THE ASPEN LEAF.

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Are they built on a rock; are they raised to the sky? Thy deep secret yearnings,-O whither pointthey, To the triumph of earth, to the toys of a day? Thy friendships and feelings,-doth impulse prevail To make them, and mar them, as wind swells the sail?

Thy life's ruling passion-thy being's first aim --What are they? and yield they contentment or shame ?

Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state,

If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate,
It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die,
And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh;
But for thee, the immortal, no winter may throw
Eternal repose on thy joy, or thy woe;
Thou must live-live for ever-in glory or gloom,
Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb.
Look to thyself, then, ere pass'd is Hope's reign,
And looking and longing alike are in vain,
Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been or to be
But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree.

MISS JEWSBURY.

The Dead Sea.

THE wind blows chill across those gloomy waves;
O how unlike the green and dancing main !
The surge is foul as if it roll'd o'er graves:
Stranger! here lie the cities of the plain.

Yes, on that plain, by wild waves covered now,
Rose palace once, and sparkling pinnacle!
On pomp and spectacle beamed morning's glow,
On pomp and festival the twilight fell.

Lovely and splendid all,-but Sodom's soul

Was stained with blood, and pride, and perjury; Long warn'd, long spared, till her whole heart was

foul,

And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh.

And still she mocked, and danced, and taunting spoke

Her sporting blasphemies against the Throne: It came!-the thunder on her slumber broke: God spake the word of wrath! Her dream was done.

Yet, in her final night, amid her stood
Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven
Pleaded with man; but she was quite imbued :

Her last hour waned-she scorn'd to be forgiven.