'I go to the land of mist and storm,

Where the iceberg looms o'er the swell, Afar from the sunlit mountains and streams; Sweet land of the South! farewell ! '

The

song had ceased; and the Summer breeze, Came whispering up the glen ;

And the green leaves danced on the forest-trees, As they welcomed its breath again.

And the cold rocks slept in the moonlight wan,

But the wintry wind and its song were gone.

THE INFANT SAMUEL.

BY EPHRAIM PEABODY.

"Then Samuel answered, speak Lord; for thy servant heareth."

In childhood's spring,-ah! blessed spring!
As flowers closed up at even
Unfold in morning's earliest beam,
The heart unfolds to heaven.
Ah! blessed child that trustingly
Adores and loves and fears,
And to a Father's voice replies,

Speak Lord, thy servant hears.'

When youth shall come,-ah! blessed youth! If still the pure heart glows,

And in the world and word of God,

Its Maker's language knows ;

If in the night and in the day,
Midst youthful joys or fears,
The trusting heart can answer still
'Speak Lord, thy servant hears.'

When age shall come,—ah! blessed age! If in its lengthening shade,

When life grows faint and earthly lights
Recede and sink and fade,—

Ah, blessed age! if then heaven's light
Dawn on the closing eye,

And Faith unto the call of God

Can answer,-'Here am I.’

THE LAST SUN OF AUTUMN.

INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM, NOV. 30, 1839.

BY THE EDITOR.

'Tis the last sun of Autumn that smiles on us now, And the soft South is breathing o'er sere field and bough:

The leaves are all wither'd, the bright birds are gone, And the song of the wood is the Wind-Spirit's moan.

'Tis the time for the rushing of storms in the sky, For the Winter-wind's howling, the Autumn's last sigh;

And still it beams softly, this Summer-like sun,
Tho' the days e'en of Autumn are numbered and done.

So when from that cluster each dark lock shall fail,
And the glow of thy beauty shall wither and pale ;
Oh! smile as the last sun of Autumn doth now,
No sigh from thy bosom, no cloud on thy brow!

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

BY CHARLES H. BROWN.

HAIL, dark old ocean! wild and loud
Thy plangent billows roar,
Tossed by the tempest's raging might

Far on the surf-bound shore.

Hail! thou, whose ceaseless rage began
When earth from chaos sprung,

And through the heavens' re-echoing vaults
Celestial music rung.

Thou art the same mysterious sea,

As when, long ages past,

The silent moon first on thy tide

Its golden radiance cast.

The eternal hills, the rocks and caves

Proclaim thy deeds of old,

When o'er this sin-devoted world

Thy mighty deluge rolled.