The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields; All that the geniul ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven, Oh how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?

II.

BEAUTY.-GAY.

What is the blooming tincture of the skiz
To peace of mind and harmony within?
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye
To the soft soothing of a calm reply?
Can comeliness' of form, or shape, or air,
With comeliness of words or deeds compare?
No! those at first the unwary heart may gain,
But these, these only, can the heart retain.

III.

THE POET.-Shakspeare.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

IV.

FLOWERS. HUNT.

We are the sweet flowers, born of sunny showers (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith); Utterance mute and bright, of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath; All who see us love us,---we befit all places;

Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces. Mark our ways, how noiseless all, and sweetly voiccless,

'Comeliness (kům' le nes). Nothing (nuth' ing).

Though the March winds pipe, to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells where our small seed dwells,

Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear.
We thread the earth in silence, in silence build our bowers,--
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers

V.

SUMMER WIND.-BRYANT.

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass ;
There is no rustling in the löfty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize
Rolls up its long, green leaves; the clover droops.
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,-
Their bases on the mountains, their white tops
Shining in the far ether,-fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yět virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming.

VI.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.-MOORE.

"Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone,
All her lovely companions are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred, no rose-bud, is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes, or give sigh for sigh!

H

INFLUENCE OF HOME.

219

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! to pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping, go, sleep thoa with them;
Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er thy bed,
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, when friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle the gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd, and fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit this bleak world alone?

INFLUENCE OF HOME.

OME gives a certain serenity to the mind, so that every thing is well defined, and in a clear atmosphere, and the lesser beauties brought out to rejoice in the pure glow which floats over and beneath them from the earth and sky. In this state of mind afflictions come to us chastened; and if the wrongs of the world cross us in our door-path, we put them aside without anger. Vices are about us, not to lure us away, or make us morose, but to remind us of our frailty and keep down our pride.

2. We are put into a right relation with the world; neither holding it in proud scorn, like the solitary man, nor being carried along by shifting and hurried feelings, and vague and careless notions of things, like the world's man. We do not take novelty for improvement, or set up vogue for a rule of conduct; neither do we despair, as if all great virtues had departed with the years gone by, though we see new vices and frailties taking. growth in the very light which is spreading over the earth.

3. Our safest way of coming into communion with mankind is through our own household. For there our sorrow and regret at the failings of the bad are in proportion to our love, while our familiar intercourse with the good has a secretly assimilating influence upon our characters. The domestic man has an inde pendence of thought which puts him at ease in society, and a cheerfulness and benevolence of feeling which seem to ray out from him, and to diffuse a pleasurable sense over those near him, like a soft, bright day.

4. As domestic life strengthens a man's virtue, so does it help to a sound judgment and a right balancing of things, and gives ar integrity and propriety to the whole character. Göd, in his

goodness, has ordained that virtue should make its own enjoy ment, and that wherever a vice or frailty is rooted out, something should spring up to be a beauty and delight in its stead. But a man of a character rightly cast, has pleasures at home, which, though fitted to his highest nature, are common to him as bis daily food; and he n oves about his house under a continued scuse of them, and is happy almost without heeding it.

5. Women have been called angels in love-tales and sonnets, till we have almost learned to think of angels as little better than woman. Yet a man who knows a woman thoroughly, and loves her truly,-and there are women who may be so known and loved,-will find, after a few years, that his relish for the grösser pleasures is lessened, and that he has grown into a fondness for the intellectual and refined without an effort, and almost

unawares.

6. He has been led on to virtue through his pleasures; and the delights of the eye, and the gentle play of that passion which is the most inward and romantic in our nature, and which keeps much of its character amidst the concerns of life, have held him in a kind of spiritualized existence: he shares his very being with one who, a creature of this world, and with something of the world's frailties,

Is yet a spirit still, and bright,

With something of an angel light.

With all the sincerity of a companionship of feeling, cares, sorrows, and enjoyments, her presence is as the presence of a parer being, and there is that in her nature which seems to bring him nearer to a better world. She is, as it were, linked to angels, and in his exalted moments he feels himself held by the same tie.

us.

7. In the ordinary affairs of life, a woman has a greater influence over those near her than a man, While our feelings are, for the most part, as retired as anchorites, hers are in play before We hear them in her varying voice; we see them in the beautiful and harmonious undulations of her movements—in the quick shifting hues of her face-in her eye, glad and bright, then fond and suffused; her frame is alive and active with what is at her heart, and all the outward form speaks.

8. She seems of a finer mould than we, and cast in a form of beauty, which, like all beauty, acts with a moral influence upon our hearts; and as she moves about us, we feel a movement within which rises and spreads gently over us, harmonizing us with her own. And can any man listen to this-can his eye, day after day, rest upon this-and he not be touched by it, and made better?

9. The dignity of a woman has its peculiar character; it awes more than that of man. His is more physical, bearing itself up with an energy of courage which we niay brave, or a strength which we may struggle against: he is his own avenger, and we may stand the brunt. A woman's has nothing of this force in it; it is of a higher quality, and too delicate for mortal touch.

R. H. DANA.

RICHARD HENRY DANA was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 15th of November, 1787. He graduated at Harvard in 1807. He opened a law-office in Newport, R. I., in 1811, and became a member of the legislature; but his constitutional sensitiveness and feeble health compelled him to abandon his profession soon after. For two years, from 1818, he aided in editing the N. A. Review; and in 1821 began the publication of "The Idle Man," a periodical in which he communicated to the public his Tales and Essays. After the discontinuance of that paper, he wrote able articles for several of the best periodicals of the country. The first volume of his poems, containing "The Bucaneer," was printed in 1827. An edition of his writings, in two volumes, was published in New York in 1830. Mr. DANA at present passes his time between his town residence at Boston and his country retirement at Cape Ann, where he can indulge in his love of nature. He is regarded always, by as many as have the honor of his acquaintance, with admiration and the most reverent affection. All of his writings belong to the permanent literature of the country, and yearly find more and more readers. They are distinguished for profound philosophy simple sentiment, and pure and vigorous diction.

i.

73. AN OLD HAUNT.

THE rippling water, with its drowsy tone;

The tall elms, towering in their stately pride;
And-sorrow's type-the willow, sad and lone,
Kissing in graceful woe the murmuring tide;

2. The gray church-tower; and dimly seen beyond,
The faint hills gilded by the parting sun;
All were the same, and seem'd with greeting fond
To welcome me as they of old had done,