E'en as the sacred memory of the past Illumes life's evening hour!-Again! Again! He proudly comes! and lo! resplendent sight! Bright as a flaming bark, his fiery form Sinks in the cold blue main ! The golden clouds Fade into gray-the broad cerulean tide VI. [NIGHT.] The day-beams slowly fade, and shadowy night, Soft as a gradual dream, serenely steals Over the watery waste. Like low-breathed strains Of distant music on the doubtful ear, When solitude and silence reign around, The small waves gently murmur. Calm and pale A phantom of the sky-the full-orbed moon Hath glided into sight. The glimmering stars In golden swarms, innumerous and bright As insect-myriads in the sunset air. The breeze is hushed, and yet the tremulous sea, Is broken into ripples, crisp and clear In such a scene Of glory and repose, the rudest breast Is pure and passionless,-the holy calm Is breathed at once from heaven, and sounds and thoughts Of human strife a mockery would seem Of Nature's mystic silence. Sacred dreams Unutterable, deep, and undefined, Now crowd upon the soul, and make us feel VII. [LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.] Profusely scattered o'er the fields of air, Now on the vessel's deck, Luxuriously reclined in idle ease, I mark the varied main. From either side Too richly on some regal garment wrought.— And lo! the darker side a prospect shows, For not a sun-beam glances on the sea. The long blue waves seem, cord-like, twisted round, A snow-wreath on the surface; and I hear A low crisp sound, as through the glassy plain VIII. [SUN-SET CHANGES.] Behold that bridge of clouds! Upraised beyond, an air-wrought precipice That mingles on the vest of parting day. Its outline undefined, continues still The same celestial flood, that downward dashed That scene is o'er The hill, the bridge, the stream have passed away! That gleam like seas of gold. Its glorious disk IX. [SEA-FOAM.] The breeze is gentle, yet the gliding ship 'Tis pleasant now, with vacant mind, to watch Remembrance of the pictured map presents The world's irregular bounds of land and wave ! Resplendent as the comet's fiery tail In Heaven's blue realms! Beneath the proud ship's stern A thousand mimic whirlpools chafe and boil, While fitfully up-sent from lucid depths Thick throngs of silver bubbles sparkle bright, ON CHILDREN. Ah! that once more I were a careless child. Coleridge. He plays yet like a young prentice the first day, and is not come to his task of melancholy. Bishop Earle. EVERY thing new or young has a charm for human eyes. The rosy light of dawn-the spring of the year-the haunts of our childhood-our earliest companions and our first amusements, are connected with associations infinitely more enchanting than all later scenes and objects. It is partly owing to this law of our nature, that the sight of children thrills and softens the heart in maturer life with such indescribable sensations of sadness and delight. They remind us of our sweetest hours, revive our most hallowed affections, and bring into our eyes those tears of luxurious tenderness that are more precious than springs in a sandy desert. At the pure smile of childhood the baser impulses and more sordid cares of life suddenly betray their genuine aspects of deformity, and vanish from the heart. "A change comes over the spirit of our dreams." All men of sensibility and imagination, occasionally travel back through the mist of dreams to the scenes of their own happy childhood. The fondly reverted eye is charmed with images of peace and beauty. When contrasted with these delightful retrospections, how dreary and barren seems our onward path! Every step that we take but increases our distance from the regions of enchantment. 'Tis a melancholy journey into unknown landsan eternal exile from the home of innocence and joy. The atmosphere of existence thickens as we advance, and all things assume a sombre aspect, till at last we reach the dread goal of our E |