Till I bid the bright hours chase the night from her bowers, And lead the young day to her arms; And when the gay rover seeks eve for his cover, And sinks to her balmy repose, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-famed west, In curtains of amber and rose. From my sentinel sleep by the night-brooded deep I gaze with unslumbering eye, When the cynosure star of the mariner, And guided by me through the merciless sea, I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, The birds in their chambers of green, And mountains and plain glow with beauty again, As they bask in my matinal sheen. Oh! if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, Though fitful and fleeting the while, What glories must rest on the home of the blest, Ever bright with the Deity's smile. GERMAN EMIGRANTS. From the German of Ferdinand Freiligrath. Black forest maids, with sunburnt faces, These vessels carried oft to fill Visions of home will round them cling. All will be dead, when in the west Tired in the chase, the Cherokees Will drink from them on hunting ground; No more from glad grape-gleaning, these Shall come with German vine-leaves crowned. Why, wanderers, must you leave your land? The Neckervale has wine and corn; Tall firs in our Black Forest stand; In Spessart sounds the Alper's horn. 'Mid foreign woods you'll long in vain For your paternal mountains green, For Deutschland's yellow fields of grain, And hills of vines with purple sheen. The vision of your olden time Of all you leave so far behind, Like some old legendary rhyme, Will rise in dreams, and haunt your mind. The boatman calls-depart in peace, God keep you man, and wife, and child! Joy dwell with you, and fast increase Your rice and maize in yonder wild. PLEASURES. PLEASURES are like poppies spread- A FATHER'S DREAM. Thomas K. Taylor. THERE was a lovely little flower I looked again, my flower was gone, Strewed ashes on my head. And sat me down to wail and weep, There stood one by my side, And showed me where it grew Beyond the scorching summer's power, Where winter never blew; And told me he had taken it To that more genial sphere, And dews which always fall in heaven, But never here below, Must wash its leaves both morn and even, Or it would never grow. And it must have a tender care And truer love than mine, He pointed unto heaven," and there," Shall tend and train thy flower for thee, Then come to heaven, and it shall be And then he went away-my heart Both joy and grief were in my theme, It was not quite a gloomy strain, But a sweet mingling of the twain I woke in tears, which soon were dry, And then I laid my ashes by, |