I looked on manhood's towering form
Like some tall oak when tempests blow,
That scorns the fury of the storm

And strongly strikes its root below.
Again I looked-with idiot cower
His vacant eye's unmeaning ray
Told how the mind of godlike power
Passeth away.

O earth! no better wealth hast thou?
No balsam for the heart that bleeds?
Fade all thy blossoms on their bough?
Fail all thy props like bruised reeds?
The soul replied, "My hopes are wreath'd
Around the bowers of changeless day,
Where angel tones have never breath'd

'Passing away.'"

SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY.

I was a pensive pilgrim at the foot

Of the crown'd Alleghany, when he wrapp'd
His purple mantle gloriously around,

And took the homage of the princely hills,
And ancient forests, as they bow'd them down,
Each in his order of nobility.

-And then in glorious pomp, the sun retir'd
Behind that solemn shadow. And his train
Of crimson, and of azure and of gold
Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint,
And ray on ray, till all the concave caught
His parting benediction.

But the glow

Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank

In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood

In awful state, like dread ambassador

'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown'd severe

Upon the world beneath, and lifted up

The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky

To witness 'gainst its sins. And is it meet

For thee, swoln out in cloud-capp'd pinnacle,
To scorn thine own original, the dust

That, feebly eddying on the angry winds,

Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee,
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach

This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root
Draws depth and nutriment?

But lo! a star,

The first meek herald of advancing night,
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence
Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star!
Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world,
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes
Thee light, and man salvation.

Not to mark

And treasure up his follies, or recount

Their secret record in the court of Heaven,

Thou com'st. Methinks, thy tenderness would shroud

With trembling mantle, his infirmities.

The purest natures are most pitiful.

But they who feel corruption strong within,

Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace

Of their own image, in another's breast.

-So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies
His own mad visage, furiously destroys
The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star!

Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls,
While race on race, their little circles mark,
And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all,

Who through this evening scene may wander on,
And from yon mountain's cold magnificence
Turn to thy milder beauty, point to all,

The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth,
A silent teacher of its boundless lore.

CONTENTMENT.

"Is that beast better that hath two or three mountains to graze on, than a little bee that feeds on dew or manna, and lives upon what falls every morning from the storehouses of heaven, clouds, and providence? Can a man quench his thirst better out of a river than a full urn; or drink better from the fountain which is finely paved with marble, than when it swells over the green turf?"

BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR.

THINK'ST thou the steed that restless roves
O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound,

Finds fresher pasture than the bee,

On thymy bank, or vernal tree,

Intent to store her industry,

Within her waxen round?

Think'st thou the fountain forc'd to turn
Thro' marble vase, or sculptur'd urn,

Affords a sweeter draught,

Than that which in its native sphere,