The river's touch'd with glowing light,
And rolls, a crimson flood;

While heaven's blush has lent its hues
Unto the leafy wood.

Still, are you folded to your dreams?
Bright must those visions be,

If they surpass the gorgeousness
Of evening's pageantry!

Good night! the stars are gemming heaven,

And seem like angel's eyes, Resuming now their silent watch

Within the far-off skies;

They nightly on their burning thrones

Like guardian spirits, keep

Familiar vigil o'er the world,
Wrapt in its solemn sleep;
And tenderly they gaze on us,
Those children of the air,
While every ray they send to us,
Some message seems to bear,
That stirs us to the inmost core;

And we do thrill beneath their beams,

And start, and tremble, wildly, like
Ambition in his dreams.

Now, lo! you burst your emerald bonds,

And ope your languid eyes,

And spread your loveliness before

Those dwellers of the skies;

While incense, from your grateful hearts,
Like prayer ascends to heaven;
And kindly dew, and starry light,
Are answering blessings given.

"Ask and ye shall receive," you seem
To whisper to my heart,

And move me in your worshipping
To take an active part.

Sweet teachers! 'tis an hour for prayer,

When hush'd are sounds of mirth,

And slumber rests his balmy wing

Upon the weary earth:

When all the ties that bind the soul

To worldliness, are riven

Then heart-felt prayers, like loosen'd birds Will wing their way to heaven.

THE FLOWER-GARDEN.

BY R. M. MILNES.

O PENSIVE Sister! thy tear-darken'd gaze
I understand, whene'er thou look'st upon
The Garden's gilded green and colour'd blaze,
The gay society of flowers and sun.

Thou thinkest of the withering that must come,
The quenching of this radiance all around,
The hastening change in Nature's merriest home,
The future blackness of the orphan'd ground.

Thou thinkest too of those more precious blooms The firstling honours of thy Life's fresh field, The childly feelings that have all their tombs, The hopes of youth that now no odours yield:

Still many a blessed sense, in living glee,
Waves its bright form to glorify thy breast,
But this fair scene's perverse morality

Tells thee, they all will perish like the rest:

Yet pluck them, hurt them not; whate'er betides, Touch not with wilful force those flowers

thine,

Let death receive them, his inviolate brides,
They are the destined vestals of bis shrine.

And if those children of the insensate earth

Go down in peace tó a prolific grave,

If Nature raises in continuous birth

The plant whose present grace she will not save,

So some deep-grounded root or visible seed, When these heart-blossoms fade, may still remain,

In a new season of thy being, decreed

To rise to light and loveliness again.

THE FRAGRANT AIR-FLOWER.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

MEN say there is a gentle flower,
That, born beneath an eastern sky,
Without the gift of sun or shower,
Gives out its precious sigh:
That-with affection-sweetly dwells
Beneath the Indian's stately doom
Or freely throws its fragrant spells
Around his lowly home,-

Fed only by that sacred air
That, as a spirit, hovers there!

And thou art like that fairy thing,
Though gifted with a colder sky,
With scent and bloom, too pure to fling
Before the passer by;

Who, with the star-flowers of thine eyes,
Couldst brighten still the brightest lot,
Or, with thy fond and fragrant sighs,
Make rich the poor man's cot!-
An English Ruth,-in good or ill,
To follow wheresoe'er we roam,
And hang thy precious garlands, still,
Amid the breath of home!

-My weary heart! my weary heart'

It is a pleasant thing

To wander from the crowd apart,

When faint, and chill'd, and cold thou art,

And fold thy restless wing,

Beside the sweet and quiet streams

Where grow life's lily-bells,

And peace-that feeds on happy dreams,
And utters music,-dwells-

And love, beside the gushing springs,

Like some young Naiad, sits and sings!

To leave awhile the barren height,
Where thou, too long, hast striven,

As if the spirit's upward flight
Had been the path to heaven.