Never can one grain be found,

Howe'er we anxious search around!

Then, Daughters, since this truth is plain,
That TIME once gone ne'er comes again,
Improv'd bid ev'ry moment pass-
See how the sand rolls down your glass.

AN EVENING IN CUBA.

The clearness and brilliancy of the heavens, the serenity of the air, and the soft tranquillity in which nature reposes, contribute to harmonize the mind, and produce calm and delightful sensations.

Edwards's West Indies.

BY LEGH.

How lovely was that eve! the moon shone clear;
Not e'en a vapoury cloud was sailing near;
The fireflies swarm'd around with fitful glare,
Like magic gems, they sparkled through the air:
Now glow'd the stars in such a bright array,
They seem'd to lighten forth a milder day;
There might the exulting soul aspire to be
Mingled with light through all eternity!

TO THE MORNING.

Written during Illness.

BY H. K. WHITE.

BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe

Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.

Tir'd with the taper's sickly light,

And with the wearying, number'd night,

I hail the streaks of morn divine:

And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes That round my rural casement twine:

The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; It fans my feverish brow, it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-lumes the lambent flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun;

She leaves her grassy nest,

And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast. Now let me leave my restless bed, And o'er the spangled uplands tread;

Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend: By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'erhead the wild briers bend, Till, on the mountain's summit grey,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh, Heaven! the soft refreshing gale
It breathes into my breast!

My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,
Is with new colours drest.

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze,

Invigorate my frame:

I'll join with thee, the buskin'd chase,
With thee the distant clime will trace,
Beyond those clouds of flame.

Above, below, what charms unfold
In all the varied view!
Before me all is burnish'd gold,
Behind the twilight's hue.

The mists, which on old Night await,
Far to the west they hold their state;
They shun the clear blue face of Morn;

Along the fine cerulean sky

The fleecy clouds successive fly,

While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds

adorn.

F

And hark! the thatcher has begun

His whistle on the eaves,

And oft the hedger's bill is heard
Among the rustling leaves.

The slow team creaks upon the road,

The noisy whip resounds;

The driver's voice, his carol blithe,
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe,
Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat
Beneath these clumps of trees,
The early dawn of day to greet,

And catch the healthy breeze,

Than on the silken couch of Sloth

Luxurious to lie?

Who would not, from life's dreary waste, Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy?

To him who simply thus recounts

The morning's pleasures o'er,

Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close,

To ope on him no more.

Yet Morning! unrepining still,

He'll greet thy beams awhile;
And surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whisp'ring willows wave,
Wilt sweetly on him smile;

And the pale glow-worm's pensive light

Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

THE RETURN HOME.

ANONYMOUS.

I LOVE to hear, at mournful eve,
The ploughman's pensive tone;
And still be wending on my way,
When the last note is done.

I love to see the misty moon,
And cross the gusty hill,

And wind the darksome homeward lane,

When all is hush'd and still.

From way thus distant, lone, and drear,
How sweet it is to come,
And, leaving all behind so drear,
Approach our pleasant home;

While every lowly lattice shines

Along the village street,

Where round the blazing evening fire
The cheerful household meet!