SELECT POEMS.

SABBATH MORNING.

How beautiful the Sunday morn, amid
The quietude of nature. Spreading trees,
And the simplicity of rural life

Best harmonize with its divine intent;

And more than pompous cities, or the throngs
That flow unceasing thro' their crowded streets,
Welcome its silent spirit. Here, and there,

A rustic household, toward the village church
Wind through green lanes, where still the dewy grass
Reserves its diamonds for them. Happy sire,

And peaceful grandsire, with his hoary hair,
And joyous children, their fresh, ruddy brows
Compos'd to serious thought, and even the babe
In its young innocence, a wondering guest,

Wend forth, in blessed company, to pay

Their vows to Him, who heeds the pure in heart.

Heaven whispereth earth. And lo! an answering sigh
Speeds from the winds, as they unfold their wings,
Impalpable, and touch the dimpling streams,
And wave the plants, while from the leafy groves
Steals deeper melody. Methinks, the sea
Murmureth in tone subdued, as if its waves
Paus'd in its tyrant play, or cowering heard
That warning voice, which to the banish'd man
In rocky Patmos, taught unutter'd things,
And in the spirit-trance of scenes sublime,
Bore all of self away.

Hail, hallow'd morn!

That binds a yoke on Vice. Drooping her head,

She by such quaint hypocrisy, doth show

How excellent is Virtue. Eve may light

Her orgies up again, but at this hour,

She trembleth, and is still. Humility

From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark

The girded majesty of God pass by,

And kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief foregoes

Her bitterness, and round the tear-wet urn

Twines simple flowers, still musing on His words Who on this day despoil'd the conquering grave, "Thy dead shall rise again."

But best, firm Faith

Enjoys the Sabbath. She doth lift her brow And talk with angels, till the listening soul That by the thraldom of the week was bow'd To weariness, doth like the enfranchis'd slave Leap up, to put its glorious garments on.

2

CONNECTICUT RIVER.

FAIR River! not unknown to classic song;-
Which still in varying beauty roll'st along,
Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen,
A line of silver 'mid a fringe of green;

Or where, near towering rocks thy bolder tide,
To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide;
Or where in azure mantle pure and free

Thou giv'st thy cool hand to the waiting sea.

Though broader streams our sister realms may boast, Herculean cities, and a prouder coast,

Yet from the bound where hoarse St. Lawrence roars,
To where La Plata rocks resounding shores,
From where the arms of slimy Nilus shine,
To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine,
Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark,
Or sacred Ganges whelms her votaries dark,
No brighter skies the eye of day may see,
Nor soil more verdant, nor a race more free.