There spoke a wishful tenderness,--a doubt The silken fringes of their curtaining lids For ever. There had been a murmuring sound, ROBERT C. SANDS Is the Editor of a New York paper. In conjunction with Mr. Eastburne, he wrote Yamoyden, a poem descriptive of Indian life. He displayed, in his parts of the poem, great originality of thought, lively conception of character, and felicity of expression. YAMOYDEN. KNOW ye the Indian warrior-race? How their light form springs in strength and grace, Like pine on their native mountain-side, In the summer's heat and the winter's snow; Calm lies its glimmering surface spread; The pebble's weight upon its breast, And when their muttering accents sleep, JOHN PIERPONT, A NATIVE of Connecticut, is favourably known in England by his Airs of Palestine, a poem of singular merit. His odes and lyrical pieces are, however, superior to the Palestine, and some of them could scarcely be surpassed by any in our language. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE Pilgrim Fathers-where are they? Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, The pilgrim exile-sainted name!— The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, And moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head; The pilgrim fathers are at rest: When the summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 1 May-Flower, the name of the ship that brought the first colonists to New England. The pilgrim spirit has not fled; It walks in noon's broad light: And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, NAPOLEON AT REST. HIS falchion waved along the Nile, Here sleeps he now, alone!-not one, Gazed as it faded and went down. High is his tomb: the ocean flood, Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud, That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here! The far-off world at last Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark! comes there from the Pyramids, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The only, the perpetual dirge, That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cryThe mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. CARLOS WILCOX WAS an amiable American Divine. He resembled Cowper in many respects: in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities,—in the modest and retiring disposition of his mind,-in its fine culture and original poetical cast. His longest poem, The Religion of Taste, has been recently republished in this country, but is not as generally known as it deserves to be. He died A.D. 1827. ACTIVE CHRISTIAN BENEVOLENCE THE SOURCE OF SUBLIME AND LASTING HAPPINESS. WOULDST thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, Some high or humble enterprise of good With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind; No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare; That, 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groves, To measure worlds, and follow where each moves? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er ex.st. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,Shalt bless the earth while in the world above; The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream and wider grow; The seed, that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. VERNAL MELODY IN THE FOREST. With sonorous notes Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, The forest rings. Where, far around inclosed |