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A WINTER MORNING.

With more than summer's beauty fair,
The trees in winter's garb are shown;
What a rich halo melts in air,

Around their crystal branches thrown!

And yesterday-how changed the view
From what then charm'd us; when the sky
Hung, with its dim and watery hue,
O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh.

The distant groves, array'd in white,
Might then like things unreal seem,
Just shown a while in silvery light,
The fictions of a poet's dream;

Like shadowy groves upon that shore
O'er which Elysium's twilight lay,

By bards and sages famed of yore,

Ere broke on earth heaven's brighter day.

O, GOD of Nature! with what might
Of beauty, shower'd on all below,
Thy guiding power would lead aright
Earth's wanderer all thy love to know!

THE BUGLE.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

O WILD, enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born

Wake, wake again, the night

Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,
Intense and eloquently bright.

Night, at its pulseless noon!
When the far voice of waters mourns in song,
And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long
Barks at the melancholy moon,

Hark! how it sweeps away, Soaring and dying on the silent sky,

As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay!

Swell, swell in glory out!

Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start, As boyhood's old remember'd shout,

O! have ye heard that peal,

From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,

Like some near breath around you steal?

172

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

Or have ye in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,
Where wings and tempests never soar?

Go, go-no other sound,

No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,
On midnight's fathomless profound!

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

BY HENRY WARE, JR.

To prayer, to prayer;-for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,

The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send up the incense of grateful prayer.

To prayer; for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on,
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.

To prayer;-for the day that God has bless'd
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours,

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.

Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow-
O, what is earth and its pleasures now !
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;

For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to sooth, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to God who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where he shall reign,
Who whisper'd, "Thy brother shall rise again."

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The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransom'd shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.

Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.
To him who unceasing love displays,

Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

WINTER.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. Thy lengthen'd eve is full of fireside joys, And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard. Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds, And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet. She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, And from the harvest-shouting. Man should rest Thus from his fever'd passions, and exhale The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, And drink in holy health. As the toss'd bark