MORNING TWILIGHT. 125 No soothing hope, no blissful thought of parted friends in Heaven They feel that thou wast summoned to the Christian's high reward, The everlasting joy of those whose trust is in the Lord. MORNING TWILIGHT. BY J G. PERCIVAL. THE mountains are blue in the morning air, The mists, like a lightly moving sea ; The sun is not risen-and over the whole The pure blue sky is in calm repose ; In its deep recess has a look so cool, One would worship its nymph, as he bent to drink. ]]* Pure and beautiful thoughts, at this early hour, Go off to the home of the bright and blessed; They steal on the heart with an unseen power, And its passionate throbbings are laid at rest: O! who would not catch, from the quiet sky And the mountains that soar in the hazy air, When his harbinger tells that the sun is nigh, The visions of bliss that are floating there. AMBITION. BY JOHN NEAL. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, And held my breath, when-flaming high-- As challenging the haughty sky, They went like battle o'er my soul: For I was so ambitious then, I burned to be the slave-of men. I stood and saw the morning light, € Where nations warred for liberty: AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. And thought I heard the battle cry I sailed upon the dark-blue deep: And shouted to the eaglet soaring; To hear the gallant waters roaring ; But, I am strangely altered now— I love no more the bugle's voiceThe rushing wave—the plunging prow-→ The mountain with his clouded browThe thunder when his blue skies bow, And all the sons of God rejoice I love to dream of tears and sighs AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. ROUND Autumn's mouldering urn, Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the quiet vale, And stars in beauty burn. 127 128 AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. Tis the year's eventide. The wind,-like one that sighs in pain, And yet my pensive eye That lies beyond, I sigh. The moon unveils her brow; I stand deep musing here, Beneath the dark and motionless beech, Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach The air breathes chill and free; A Spirit, in soft music, calls From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls And round her withered tree. The hoar and mantled oak, Where weeds the fountain choke. Leaves, that the night-wind bears A PARTING SONG. 129 Are types of our mortality, And of our fading years. The tree that shades the plain, A PARTING SONG. BY J. W. MILLER. THIS autumn-close-this autumn-close- From all its vagrant flights. The painted fields, the burnished clouds, His mantle on the woods, Shall be, through waning winter moons, To me as present goods. I've stood upon thy hills, fair land, When morning filled the sky, And over gleaming sea and isle |