heaven, their beams are imaged there in fulness, and with glow resplendent. Each wave, has caught an image, and holds it up, or bears it down at pleasure, until it seems

"As though the lightnings there had spent their shafts

And left the fragments glittering on the field."

I love the sea, because of its treasures which I have seen, because of those of which I have heard, and because of those of which I have dreamed. I love it for the groves of coral which wave o'er its pavements, and for the halls of amber which glow in its depths. I love it for its myriad gems, which make those depths brilliant, where no sun's light comes; and for those myriad forms of life, which make enduring melody, where no jarring earthly strain can mingle. I love it for its flowers—

66 Spreading their leaves of blue,

Which never are wet with the falling dew."

I love it e'en for its weeds, bowing their tall heads like mourners over the forms of sons and brothers, who go down from the wreck to sleep in its caverns. And I love it for its shell, that comes to me, to tell me in its whispering song, some story of the deep. And when I walk on the sands, by the waves, shall I turn away from the shell, which the last wave has left there, and heed not its strain? It will sing on, though I hear not. I'll take it I'll take it up. I'll bear it to the rude, yet gracious shade of bank, or shrubbery, and there I'll sit me down, and hear the strain, and drink into the spirit of the visitant. How simple and

truthful and confiding is nature. The shell has no fear that a false heart may have prompted a rude hand to grasp it; and it will tell its story in any ear.

I'll commune, even with a shell, and I will learn from it some new thought, and be inspired by it in the presence of some new blessing.

Time is brief, and forms are fading; the soul is impatient of both. The spirit in its brighter dreams, its dearer hopes, and in those momentary triumphs, which are the fore-gatherings of its ultimate and genial range, longs to be fully blest. Now the spirit seems to droop; but it is like the dropping of the eagle, down upon its breast in the lowlands, that it may spread its wings for high-soaring and far-roaming. This province of creation will no longer confine it, but the ranges of the upper and outer universe, will measure its flight, and all the resources thereof will be challenged for its eternal blessing.

T

ASTOR, LENOX AD

TILDEN FOUND

Stanzas.

"I can tune my harp no more, for I am ever sad."

SING on, sweet songstress, though thy lays may be sadness, There's a sweetness in sadness, that few hearts can know; Sing on, for thy plaintive harp, charms e'en to gladness The notes that from sorrow's haunts silently flow.

Like a zephyr-harp, wet with the dew's lonely tears,
From rose-bush to flower-tree, by spirit hands strung,
When stirred by the harsh winds awakening fears,
It turns them to music, as they rustle along.

In the depths of the soul, where fond hopes lay dreaming,
And joys, like sweet infants, were smiling in bloom,

To feel that the vision is robbed of its seeming,
And the joys are all lost in the shadows of gloom,—

To remember the jewel with inner-fire gleaming,
That lighted and cheered the rich casket so fair,
"Now stolen away and despoiled of its beaming,
Leaving nought but the sadness of memory there.