O, never, never may the sigh

Of agony severe,

Thy bosom rend, nor that mild eye
Be dimmed with Misery's tear.

THE WEST.

O YE to whom God's word reveals its privileges blest, Who hold the pearl without a price-think, think upon the West!

And think, as every precious boon of heaven comes up in view,

Of those that joyed where now ye joy, that worshipped once with you,

For we have left our sunbright homes, the scenes of early day,

Our pleasant hearths, and all we loved, to wander far away,

In wilds where voice of Sabbath bell breaks not

upon the air,

Where lifted not are hands in praise, nor bent the knee in prayer;

And where come o'er the lab'ring heart its whitewinged happy hours,

While warm tears gush, a tribute given to light that

once was ours:

O ye who bless its diamond spark, lit up within the

breast,

Think what it is to mourn it quenched,-O think upon the West!

The past!-we fain would dwell upon the pages of

the past,

Though sad it is to read of joys too beautiful to last; Yet we will yield in thought again, unto his fond

caress

Who listened to our lisping prayer, and said that God would bless;

Aye, and we feel the mother's kiss, which only she could give,

When teaching us to bow the heart to HIM who bade us live.

We think, too, on the white-haired man who chid our careless youth,

And well remember where his lips dropped sacred words of truth.

And sadly comes to aching thought, with memory's quickened power,

The Bible class, the Sunday-school, and Prayer's rejoicing hour.

O ye who revel in this light, who hear the gospel

blest,

Give praise to God, and succour here;-O think upon the West!

Here where tall forests wave their tops, the wild beast hath his den,

The eagle hath her eyry built, unknown to steps of

men;

And small birds hang their mossy nests, on many a branching limb,

And yield at evening's peaceful hour, their pure and joyous hymn;

But for us rise no temple-walls, nor points the spire to heaven,

O, many faint for Bread of Life,-to break it, none are given!

Oft, too, by men who lust for gain, these solitudes are trod,

Who cast off fear, refrain from prayer, foes to themselves and God;

The stillness of these lovely vales is broken by their

curse;

By reckless sires the children led, soon wax from bad to worse.

O ye that hail the Sabbath morn, ye with the Bible

blest,

Speed, speed the Rose of Sharon here to blossom in the West!

Valley of the Mississippi, 1830.

WRITTEN AT LONG MEADOW, MASSACHUSETTS.

O, WHO would not shun the hurried din
That riots, proud city, thy walls within?
Who would not turn his pilgrim feet
From the crowded hall to the calm retreat,
And climb with the sun his native mountain,
And seek at noon the favourite fountain?
Let such with his joys be far from me,
I give, simple scenes! my love to ye.
Away, away from the fevered mart,
Where avarice rules in the slavish heart,

Where all is soulless and all is cold,
Save love of self and love of gold.
I hasten from the enchanter's spell,

To scenes where nature delights to dwell;
To the clime of my earliest, brightest dreams;
Where on ruder hills, by purer streams,
Through sunnier vales, 'twas mine to roam,
Than thought ever imaged—it was my home.
Yes, land of my childhood! dear art thou,
New England! dearer to fancy now,
Than when, as thy mountain breezes free,
In the laughing hours of infancy,

From fields and floods, 'twas mine to borrow
Bliss for the day and hope for the morrow.
And here, where along romantic shores
Her waters Connecticut proudly pours;
Where the yellow and purple harvest is seen
Gorgeously waving o'er meadows of green;
Where the village spire is seen to shine
Like a snowy wreath 'mid groves of pine:
Where the village bell is heard in a tone
Of sadness, as it seems to moan

In music, along the valley and hill:
Here in the bosom of all that's still
And pure and holy, the wanderer knew
The smile of love and the greeting true.
Who would not shun the hurried din,
That revels, proud city, thy walls within ?
Who to the domes of the proud would stray,
When the heart and its joys are far away?

R

MISSION SHIPS.

WHAT on thy boundless path of foam,
Eternal, heaving sea!

Of all that hail thee as their home,
Hast thou most dear to me?

The merchant ship whose precious gums And ambergris and gold,

Are heaped, the price of princely sums, Deep in her teeming hold

The barque that gaily seeks the breeze On embassy of state;

Round which, the willing winds and seas Obsequious, seem to wait

Or the proud bulwark of the deeps,
Where warring thunders play:
That, bristling for the combat, keeps
Stern watch on thy highway?

Not these! not these! for still they bear Those of the worldly brow;

And men disturbed with fruitless care, Press o'er thy billows now.

Not these, not these, O Deep! for they Man's purposes perform;

His lusts and passions to obey,

They court thy frequent storm.