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And eyes with heaven's own brightness beaming,
Rose a fair majestic form,
As the mild rainbow from the storm.

I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye;
And when, with gesture of command,

She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand,
My slumbers fled mid shouts of “ Liberty!"

Read

ye

the dream? and know ye not
How truly it unlock'd the word of fate?

Went not the flame from this illustrious spot,
And spreads it not, and burns in every state?

And when their old and cumbrous walls,

Fill’d with this spirit, glow intense,
Vainly they rear their impotent defence-

The fabric falls !

That fervent energy must spread,
Till despotism's towers be overthrown;

And in their stead,

Liberty stands alone!
Hasten the day, just Heaven!

Accomplish thy design;
And let the blessings thou hast freely given,

Freely on all men shine;
Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd,
And human power for human good employd ;
Till law, not man, the sovereign rule sustain,
And peace and virtue undisputed reign.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

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.
Oh, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send upward 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 blest
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.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
Oh 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;
Oh 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 upwards 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 soothe, 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 whisperid, “ Thy brother shall rise again."

11

VOL. III.

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.

JOHN E. HALL

Was born in Philadelphia. He was educated for the law, but turned his attention from that to literature, and became the editor of the Port Folio, after the death of Dennie. He was also the conductor of a law journal, and translated Emerigon. A variety of articles in prose and verse in the Port Folio, are from his pen.

REFLECTIONS OF A RECLUSE.

Days of my youth, ah, whither have ye fled!
Moments of innocence, of health and joy,
Unruffled by the thoughts of worldly care,
With throbs of sad delight, how oft I sigh,
When Recollection paints thy scenes anew,
My steps ye led to halls where minstrels struck
The breathing lyre, to sing of Beauty's charms,
Or chivalry's heroic deeds.

Not then, I pour'd
The melancholy song,

of

memory;
No solitary tale my idle hours could tell
Of sorrow; Hope departed; or Despair.
My dulcet harp was strung to Rapture's notes ;

Its jocund strings re-echoed themes of love,
Or careless caroll’d what young joys could teach.
When twilight came, I sought the mountain's brow,
To mark her solemn grandeur hastening near.
Then, ah! then, I woo'd the charms of silence,
Far from the pageant show of restless man,
The pomp of pride, the sneer of haughtiness :
Malice, with quivering lip, and knawing care :
Envy, that blasts the buds whose perfumed dyes
She fain would equal: green-eyed Jealousy :
And spectres of despair, whom memory brings
To haunt the slumbering dreams of guilty men,
Of these, yet ignorant and their powers unfelt,
I rioted in youth's gay harvest,
And quaff'd the cup of roseate health and joy.

But I am changed now!
If e'er I smile, 't is as the flower of spring,
Whose tincture blooms through drops of morning dew!
And when the once loved charms of solitude
I woo, amid the valley's silence,
Or on the high hill top, where thunders loud
Proclaim to man the majesty of God,
"T is not to bathe in dreams of shadowy bliss,
Or fondly dwell on scenes of wild romance:
To weave a sonnet for my mistress' brow,
Or con an artless song to soothe her ear!
No cheerful thoughts like these entice my feet
Through tangled dells or o'er the mountain's height.
Hopeless and sad in gloomy nooks retired,
I love to watch the slow revolving moon,
And muse on visions fled of treacherous love,
Of joys departed, and deceitful hopes :
Me now, no more the balmy breeze of spring,
Nor summer's streamlets murm’ring through the grove,
Nor changeful winds that yellow autumn brings,
Can yield delight-stern winter's joyless gloom
Suits with my bosom's cold and cheerless state!
Life's purple tide no more salubrious flows;
The vernal glow of hope is fled: and joy,
Shall glad no more my once contented cot:
False, fickle woman drove her smiles away.

All hail, December's chilling skies !
Come darken more the anguish of my soul.
Bring with thy gloomy hours despair's sad shades-
Bring all the load that misery prepares,
To gall us through the miry road of life:

Bring silent sorrow with her bitter brow :
Bring lovely woman, with her syren smile,
Like transient meteor to seduce our steps:
Bring care, with self-consuming wants oppress’d,
And doubt, to lead us from our onward path,
And sharp solicitudes to vex our nights:
Let war, too, throw her lurid glare around,
And turn the savage from his hunter toils,
To raise the tomahawk and bend the bow.
In her funereal train attendant,
Let famine stalk, and, with insatiate hand,
Fell plunder, knowing neither friend nor foe,
And violence, to stain the soldier's name.
Let bloody slaughter loose, to dye with gore
Our soil, and teach the world what evils wait
On madden'd counsels and ambitious schemes.
Accursed schemes! that saw no wrath denounced
On souls remorseless shedding human blood.
Detested plans! which bade the cymbals strike,
Roused the loud clarion, and made the cannon roar,
To drown the Saviour's voice proclaiming loud,
To God on high be glory given: on earth,
Let peace among mankind for ever reign.

CARLOS WILCOX

Was born at Newport, New Hampshire, October 22d, 1794. He studied at Middlebury College, Vermont, and afterwards at the Theological Seminary at Andover. In 1824, he was settled as a preacher at Hartford, in Connecticut. He published a small poem, entitled The Age of Benevolence, No. 1, which was a work of merit. His ill health obliged him soon after to relinquish his situation, and he died on the 29th of May, 1827. A volume of his poetry and sermons, with a memoir, was published the last year. As a preacher he was uncommonly eloquent and interesting.

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