We gaz'd on the scenes while around us they glow'd,
When a vision of beauty appear'd on the cloud;
'Twas not like the sun when at mid-day we view,
Nor the moon that rolls nightly through star-light

and blue.

Like a spirit it came in the van of the storm,

And the eye and the heart hail'd its beautiful form;
For it look'd not severe like an angel of wrath,
And its garment of brightness illum'd its dark path.

In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood,
O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood;
And river, field, village, and woodlands grew bright,
As conscious they felt, and afforded delight.

'Twas the bow of Omnipotence bent in his hand, • Whose grasp at creation the universe spann'd; "Twas the presence of God in a symbol sublime, His vow from the flood to the exit of time.

Not dreadful as when in the whirlwind he pleads, When storms are his chariot, and lightning his steeds;

The black clouds his banner of vengeance unfurl'd; And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world.

In the breath of his presence where thousands expire, And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire;

And the sword and the plague-spot with death

strew the plain,

And vultures and wolves are the graves of the slain.

Not such was the Rainbow, that beautiful one, Whose arch was refraction, its key-stone the sun; A pavilion it seem'd which the Deity graced, And justice and mercy met there and embraced.

Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom, Like Love on a death-couch, or Hope o'er the tomb;

Then left the dark scene whence it slowly retir'd, As Love had just vanish'd, or Hope had expir'd.

I gaz'd not alone on that source of my song;
To all who beheld it, these verses belong;
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord,
Each full heart expanded, grew warm, and ador’d.

Like a visit, the converse of friends and a day,
That Bow from my SIGHT pass'd for ever away;
Like that visit, that converse, that day on my heart,
That Bow from REMEMBRANCE shall never depart.

'Tis a picture in memory distinctly defin'd With the strong and imperishing colours of mind; A part of my being beyond my control,

Beheld on that cloud, and transcrib'd on my soul.

TO THE SCENTLESS VIOLET.

DECEITFUL plant, from thee no odours rise,

Perfume the air, nor scent the mossy glade, Although thy blossoms wear the modest guise Of her, the sweetest offspring of the shade.

Yet not like hers, still shunning to be seen,
And by their fragrant breath alone betray'd;
Veil'd in the vesture of a scantier green,
To every gazer are thy flowers display'd.

Thus, Virtue's garb Hypocrisy may wear,
Kneel as she kneels, or give as she has given;
But ah! no meek, retiring worth is there,

No incense of the heart exhales to heaven!

M.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

BY CLARE.

WELCOME, pale Primrose! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that strew The sunny lawn, the wood, and coppice through, Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green :

How much thy presence beautifies the ground! How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride

Glows on the sunny bank, and wood's warm side! And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, The schoolboy roams enchantedly along,

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight: While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight; O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning spring.

A CHURCH-YARD SCENE.

How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverend steps, from stone to stone,
In a small village church-yard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move!

And as we read the names unknown,
Of young and old to judgment gone,
And hear in the calm air above
Time onwards softly flying,

To meditate, in Christian love,
Upon the dead and dying!

Such is the scene around me now:
A little church-yard on the brow
Of a green pastoral hill;

And faintly here is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill;

A place where all things mournful meet,
And yet the sweetest of the sweet,
The stillest of the still!

With what a pensive beauty fall

Across the mossy, mouldering wall

That rose-tree's cluster'd arches! See

The robin-redbreast warily,

Bright through the blossoms, leaves his nest:
Sweet ingrate! through the winter bless'd
At the firesides of men; but shy
Through all the sunny summer-hours,
He hides himself among the flowers
In his own wild festivity.

What lulling sound, and shadow cool
Hangs half the darken'd church-yard o'er,
From thy green depths so beautiiul,
Thou gorgeous sycamore!