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Though now in swaddling-clothes he lies,

All hearts his power shall own,
When he, with legions of the skies,
The clouds of heaven his throne,

Shall come to judge the quick and dead,
And strike a trembling world with dread.

PAINS OF THE IMAGINATION.

On ocean's cliff, see beauty wild and pale,
Watching alone the fury of the gale :
Amid the dangers of the rugged

coast,
She marks her sailor's gallant vessel tost;
Frantic with grief, her sunny locks she tears,
As the red lightning on the breakers glares,
And o'er the tumult of the boiling deep,
Mad whirlwinds howl, and dark tornadoes sweep.
Shall she, delighted, hear the tempest rave,
And list the murmurs of the dashing wave!
Think ye the grandeur of the scene can charm
Her heart, that throbs at every gust alarm!

Behold yon volumes of sulphureous smoke, Roll in black wreaths, and heaven with vapor choke ! The mountain trembles, and the earth afar Feels the dread shock of elemental war; Loud roars the ocean, and the mingled din Breaks on the ear from rumbling caves within: Then flames the crater: to the skies aspire The liquid gushes of volcanic fire. Aghast the peasant of Campania stands, And mourns his ruin'd cot, his deluged lands, Perchance his wife, his children's hapless doom, Buried in flame, and hurried to the tomb. While his lorn bosom is with anguish wrung, Cares he what bards the scene sublime have sung ? How many Plinies once admired the sight, Its grandeur traced, then perish'd in delight?

But hark in southern climes along the ground, Like distant thunders, runs a hollow sound: Wide and more wide extends the sullen jar, As when conflicting chariots rush to war;

Rocks, woods, and plains the wild commotion feel,
And the tall Andes to their bases reel;
In mountain waves, the undulating lea
Heaves, like the tossings of a troubled sea;
Impending ruin mocks the force of art,
And ghastly terror seizes every heart.
Then yawns the fathomless abyss, and down
At once are hurl'd the works of old renown,
The monuments of ages; all that man,
His genius, taste, and luxury could plan :
All, all in one promiscuous grave repose,
O’er which the earth, and gushing waters close,
And hence along the stagnant lake and plain,
Shall solitude and desolation reign.

Oh! who hath not in fancy trod alone, The trackless deserts of the burning zone, Nor felt a dreariness oppress his soul, To mark the sands in eddies round him roll, Like ocean's billows, threatening to o'erwhelm, His wilder'd march, through many a weary realm? No verdure smiles, no crystal fountains play, To quench the arrows of the god of day, No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams, Allay the fervor of his torrid beams; No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies ; But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs, Whose desolating march, whose withering breath Sweeps through the caravan with instant death; The wandering Arab, startled at the sound, Mantles his face, and presses close the ground, Till o'er his prostrate, weary limbs hath pass’d, In sullen gusts, the poison-wafting blast.

'Tis night: but there the sparkling heavens diffuse No genial showers, no soft-distilling dews; In the hot sky, the stars, of lustre shorn, Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn, And the red moon, from Babelmandel's strand, Looks, as she climbs, through pyramids of sand, That whirl'd aloft, and gilded by her light, Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night. From distant wilds is heard the dismal howl Of hideous monsters, that in darkness prowl: Urged by gaunt famine from his lair and home,

Along the waste, the tiger's footsteps roam,
And from afar, the fierce hyena's scream
At midnight breaks the traveller's fitful dream,

MOSES Y. SCOTT,

Author of The Fatal Jest, and other pieces, published at New York, in 1819.

POCAHONTAS.

Rude was the storm, and her fallen hair
Stream'd in the gale from her bosom bare;
As alone, through the forest's blacken'd shade,
On errand of fear came the Indian maid.

Wild was her look; but her eye was bright
With the melting beam of Mercy's light-
Her speech was hurried; but kindness hung
On the accents bland of her warning tongue.

6 White men, beware of Havoc's sweep!
He is waked in the forest, from sullen sleep-
He would drink your blood, in a guardless hour,
And your wives and slumbering babes devour.

“ Beware!—for, the tempest, chain'd so long,
Shall burst tonight, in its fury strong-
The trees must root them against its sway,
And their branches cling, or be scatter'd away!

“ The fire shall rage; for, the breeze is blowing-
The smoke rolls hither--the flames are glowing;
They climb the hills ; to the vales they spread-
The night is black; but the forest is red.

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66 White men, beware! And when at last,
Your fears are dead, and your dangers past,
Shall the voice of the warner be e'er betray'd-
Shall white men forget the Indian maid ?”

HENRY WARE, JR. MINISTER of the Second Congregational Church in Hanover Street, Boston. He is more distinguished as a writer of prose than poetry; though in the latter, he has executed some beautiful things. Several of the best articles of criticism in the North American Review are from his pen.

THE VISION OF LIBERTY.

The evening heavens were calm and bright;
No dimness rested on the glittering light,
That sparkled from that wilderness of worlds on high

Those distant suns burn’d on with quiet ray;

The placid planets held their modest way ;
And silence reign'd profound o’er earth, and sea, and sky.
Oh what an hour for lofty thought!

My spirit burn’d within; I caught
A holy inspiration from the hour.

Around me man and nature slept;

Alone my solemn watch I kept,
Till morning dawn'd, and sleep resumed her power.
A vision pass’d upon my soul.

I still was gazing up to heaven,

As in the early hours of even;
I still beheld the planets roll,

And all those countless sons of light
Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the moonless night.

When, lo, upon the plain,
Just where it skirts the swelling main,
A massive castle, far and high,

In towering grandeur broke upon my eye.
Proud in its strength and years, the pond'rous pile

Flung up its time-defying towers;
Its lofty gates seem'd scornfully to smile
At vain assault of human powers,

And threats and arms deride.
Its gorgeous carvings of heraldic pride
In giant masses graced the walls above,

And dungeons yawn'd below.
Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove,
Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow.

Bursting on my steadfast gaze,

See, within, a sudden blaze!
So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,

That scarcely stirs the pine tree top,

Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop,
The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell.

But soon it spread-
Waving, rushing, fierce, and red,
From wall to wall, from tower to tower,

Raging with resistless power ;
Till every fervent pillar glow'd,.

And every stone seem'd burning coal,
Instinct with living heat, that flow'd
Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,
Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.

At length a crackling sound began;
From side to side, throughout the pile it ran ;

And louder yet, and louder grew,
Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew,
Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.
The shatter'd walls were rent and riven,

And piecemeal driven
Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.

'Tis done; what centuries had rear’d,

In quick explosion disappear’d,
Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place,-
Bright with more than human grace,

Robed in more than mortal seeming,
Radiant glory in her face,

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