before they suspected they had changed their place. The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their countenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy langor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, as they glided down the stream of insignificance; a dark and sluggish water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where startled passengers are awakened by the shock, and the next moment buried in the gulf of Oblivion. Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of science, none seemed less able to return than the followers of indolence. The captives of appetite and passion would often seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape from their enchantment; but the dominion of indolence was constant and unremitted; and seldom resisted, till resistance was in vain. But After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilarating, the path shaded with laurels and evergreens, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of science seemed to shed a glory round her votaries. Happy, said I are they who are permitted to ascend the mountain! while, with uncommon ardor, I was pronouncing this exclamation, I saw standing beside me, a form of diviner features, and a more benign radiance. 'Happier,' said she, 'are they whom Virtue conducts to the Mansions of Content.' 'What,' said I, 'does Virtue then reside in the vale?' 'I am found,' said she, 'in the vale, and I illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence; and to him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science may raise thee to eminence; but I alone can guide thee to felicity! While Virtue was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her, with a vehemence which broke my slumber. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened homeward; and resigned the night to silence and meditation. THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. WELL do I love those various harmonies If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss How rich the varied choir. The unquiet finch With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes, In the last days of Autumn, when the corn The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad Lone whippoorwill, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings. Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot, The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock, Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down, And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones TO A HUMMING BIRD. BIRD of the Summer bower! Thou seemest to Fancy's eye An animated blossom born in air; Which breathes and bourgeons in the golden sky Thou seem'st a rainbow hue Thou art not born of Earth! The green and spangled dell, For thee diffuses its sweet scent and hue: I love, sweet bird! to see Thy crimson plumage in the morning clear. How thou art full of life How art thou joyous thro' thy transient hour— For thee, the morning air with sweets is rifeFor thee blooms the May bower. Go forth, on thy glad way! The Eagle of an hundred years, is not SPRING. WHILE beauty clothes the fertile vale, And fragrance breathes in ev'ry gale, How kind the influence of the skies! O let my wond'ring heart confess, The bounteous hand that deigns to bless That bounteous hand my thoughts adore, Inspir'd to praise, I then shall join THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD. 'Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead?'-BYRON. In the beginning of the fine month of October, I was traveling with a friend in one of our northern states, on a tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation; and, with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes before the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered a neat little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of at intervals an hour before, as our road made an unexpected turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in an unknown country |