Who o'er his being seem'd to throw,
In all her modes of life below,

A spell of bliss, alike that brought

A brighter glow to every thought,

And, through the love which could not die,
A deeper feeling to that tie

Which, with an influence never done,
Still closer bound their hearts in one.

Her voice was melting, soft, and sweet,
And bore a magic and a power
Could bid the bosom wildly beat,
Or pause in deep suspense-as, meet
Το

scene and sense, aloft would tower

Her warblings, rich, and clear, and high,
As those far up the morning sky,

Or, ceasing loftily to soar,

In glory fall, and falling, die :

While, by the oft-repeated glance,

The soul might scarcely know from whence

The anthems of enchantment sprung
That o'er the heart their influence flung,
Save, that the lips seem'd still to bless
The accents that they did dismiss,
And warn the sense of eye and ear,
That one all but divine was near.

And it was thus that she could thrill
The heart, or bid the heart be still,
And make the trembling soul believe
That hers was song of summer's eve,
Sung in some woodland far away,
Beneath the thorn of tresses grey,
And sun-lit rocks, sublimely piled
Above the valley green and wild,
Awak'ning thought, that still conveys
The feelings of departed days

Back to the bosom's inmost life,
Without their sadness or their strife,

To mar the spell, that seems to melt
All nature into what is felt;

While still the breeze, with fitful sigh,
Awakes a lonesome lullaby,

To charm the flowerets into sleep,
Among the shades that o'er them creep,
And bear with wand'ring wings along
The gentle spirit of the song.

SONG OF THE WIFE OF SHEM.

WHEN the singing of birds still was heard in the land, Awak'ning the light of the dawning to hail,

And the soft falling dews by the breezes were fann’d

That freshen'd the bloom of the flowers of our

vale,

'Twas blissful to stray by the bower and the stream,

When the Spirit of Nature was walking abroad, All gentle and pure as the glow of the beam

That fell on the scenes of the eagle's abode,

And there, still to worship, in faith and in fear, The God of our fathers with them who were dear.

Oh there could the humble of spirit forget

The tales that were told of the workers of woe, And all the dark evils of mankind, ere yet

They slumber'd in death the deep waters below: From the caves of the wild, or the forest's dark gloom, The lurkers no fears to the soul might convey, When the faithful of heart had our guardians become, And watch'd o'er our wand'ring more closely than

they ;

While the words of their love still'd the voices of

crime,

When the star came abroad on the bosom of time.

But now, though the dove be no more on the wing, And the eagle no longer aloft in the sky,

And the breezes, that balm o'er the earth wont to bring,

No more reach the vales where the desolate lie; And the beams but may shine on the breast of the

deep,

That once on the scenes of the wilderness fell,

To brighten the stream that came down from the

steep,

Or the boughs of the grove, or the flowers of the

dell,

Our bosoms a kindness, unbroken, shall prove, And live in the bliss-bringing light of their love.

Oh! waste is the mind that no radiance may know, Though clouded and dark be the glory of day, And cold, cold the heart that may feel not in woe,

When the nations of mankind are melting away: But our souls shall not gather their radiance from time,

Nor our feelings remain in this dwelling below, When we turn to the God who has guarded from

crime,

And shelters us still from the waters that flow; For the ray of his spirit shall dawn o'er the night, And gather our thoughts to the glow of its light.

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