Lost-in the distant page,

Ere my bewildered thoughts for flight were free! Farewell! in vain upon the void I gaze,—

I cannot soar like thee!

WHO ARE THE HAPPY?

O'ER the far mountain peak on high,
First shines the morning ray;
And latest from the crimson sky
The beam of parting day.

Yet there, to greet the partial light,
Nor flowers nor verdure bloom;
But barren all-though coldly bright-
And cheerless as the tomb.

While in the modest vale's recess,

Where sunlight scarce descends,
Fresh flowerets spring, the beam to bless,
And grateful foliage bends.

Thus hearts that bask in fortune's smile,
Undimmed by clouds of care,

Feel not the joys their hours beguile,
Which humbler bosoms share.

STANZAS.

Written while sailing through the Delaware Water-Gap.

ONWARD with gliding swiftness,

Our light bark cleaves the deep;
The billow dances in our wake,
As down the tide we sweep.
The broad high cliffs above us,
Like giant columns stand;
As in their grandeur stationed there,
The guardians of their land.

Yon purple clouds are drooping
Their banners from on high,

And brightly through their waving folds
Gleams forth the azure sky.

And sunset's beams are tinting

The mountain's lofty crest;

Yet fails their golden light to reach

The silent river's breast.

The eagle soars around us;

His home is on the height,
To which with eager, upward wing,
He shoots in airy flight.

The rough night-blast high o'er us,

Assails the beetling verge,

And through the forests' tangled depths
Murmurs like ocean's surge:

The foliage trembles to his breath,
The massive timbers groan—

But we, his might defying, pass

In sheltered silence on.

Onward! dim night is gathering;
Those gilded summits fade-
And darkly from the thickets brown
Extends the deepening shade:
It shrouds us, but we pause not:-
With light and graceful sweep,
Shadowy and swift, our vessel breaks
The waters' glassy sleep.

Their rocky barrier passed at length,
We feel the cool fresh air;

Yon light is beaming from our home,
And welcome waits us there.

WORLDLY CARES.

THE waves that on the sparkling sand
Their foaming crests upheave,
Lightly receding from the land,
Seem not a trace to leave!

Those billows in their ceaseless play,
Have worn the solid rocks away.

The summer winds, which wandering sigh

Amid the forest bower,

So gently, as they murmur by,

Scarce lift the drooping flower;

Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom,
Spring's withered beauties to the tomb.

Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne, Their impress leave behind;

And spirits, which their bonds would spurn, The blighting traces find;

Till altered thoughts and hearts grown cold,
The change of passing years unfold.

IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH?

Is this a day of death?

The heavens look blithely on the laughing earth,
And from her thousand vales a voice of mirth
And melody is springing; with the breath
Of smiling flowers, that lift their joyous heads,
Bright with the radiant tear which evening sheds.

Hath sorrow's voice been heard,

With her low plaint, and broken wail of wo?—
Hark to the play of waves!—and glancing now

Forth from his leafy nest, the exulting bird
Pours his wild carol on the fragrant gale,
Bidding the sun-bright woods and waters hail!

Hath happiness departed

From this glad scene? Is there a home-a hearth Made desolate? Alas! the tones of earth

Sound not in concert with the broken-hearted! Yon sea-the gorgeous sun-the azure sky— Were never meant to mourn with things that die!

SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.

It is no very easy matter to introduce one's own Sketch, or decide on the relative merit of one's own performances. That I have written some things not unworthy a place in this collection, I certainly believe, nor could I see that there would be more presumption in thus including them among the poems of my sister authors, than in publishing mine in a separate volume. But whether to preface them or not, was the question. I flattered myself that those who were interested in my writings, might regret the omission of any notice of the writer; to speak of myself in the third person savored too much of affectation; still there is great discretion required in using the great I.-Finally, I decided to confine my remarks chiefly to the influences which have made me what I am;-as thus, it appeared to me, my history might be of some benefit or consolation to those who are suffering similar sorrows, or struggling with similar difficulties; and such of my readers as are happily exempt from these, may find, in their " 'halcyon lot, "the reason that their talents have never been directed to literary pursuits. Few females are educated for authorship; and as the obstacles which oppose the entrance of woman on the fields of literature are many and great, it requires, usually, a powerful pressure of outward circumstances to develop