Never can one grain be found, Howe'er we anxious search around! Then, Daughters, since this truth is plain, AN EVENING IN CUBA. The clearness and brilliancy of the heavens, the serenity of the air, and the soft tranquillity in which nature reposes, contribute to harmonize the mind, and produce calm and delightful sensations. Edwards's West Indies. BY LEGH. How lovely was that eve! the moon shone clear; TO THE MORNING. Written during Illness. BY H. K. WHITE. BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, Tir'd with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, number'd night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes That round my rural casement twine: The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; It fans my feverish brow, it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-lumes the lambent flame of life. The lark has her gay song begun; She leaves her grassy nest, And soars till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. Now let me leave my restless bed, And o'er the spangled uplands tread; Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend: By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'erhead the wild briers bend, Till, on the mountain's summit grey, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh, Heaven! the soft refreshing gale My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee, the buskin'd chase, Above, below, what charms unfold The mists, which on old Night await, Along the fine cerulean sky The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. F And hark! the thatcher has begun His whistle on the eaves, And oft the hedger's bill is heard The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds; The driver's voice, his carol blithe, Who would not rather take his seat And catch the healthy breeze, Than on the silken couch of Sloth Luxurious to lie? Who would not, from life's dreary waste, Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy? To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close, To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. THE RETURN HOME. ANONYMOUS. I LOVE to hear, at mournful eve, I love to see the misty moon, And wind the darksome homeward lane, When all is hush'd and still. From way thus distant, lone, and drear, While every lowly lattice shines Along the village street, Where round the blazing evening fire |