STORM IN HARVEST. A FRAGMENT.

BY CHARLOTTE C. RICHARDSON, AUTHOR OF "LUDOLPH," &c.

'Tis past mid-day-the sun withdraws his beams,
And sultry and oppressive is the air;

While in the dark'ning south, still darker clouds
Their fearful aspect show. The reapers gaze
Silent, and trembling, on the frowning skies;
A sudden flash the wonted signal gives,
And loud, and long, the dreadful crash is heard;
Quicker the lightnings glance,-th' increasing storm
Approaches nearer :--mute the rustics stand.
The master casts a pensive look around;

Then upward turns his eyes ;-a look that speaks,
"Much corn is yet abroad; a few days more,
And all had been secure:-but, gracious heaven!
Thy will be done." Nearer the tempest comes;
To shun the torrents of a threat'ning cloud,
They seek the shelter of an aged oak,

Whose friendly boughs some shelter might afford,
But, ere they reach it, a tremendous flash

The knotty centre cleaves! amaz'd, they shrink,
As o'er their heads the dread explosion bursts,
And rolls in awful majesty along.

Deep in the bosom of the hollow vale
Affrighted Echo murmurs her reply.
Closer the reapers croud; for solemn fear
Prevails in every breast!

The gleaners fly
With speed, and in the neighb'ring thicket hide :
And woe to him, who, with dishonest hand,
Has oft in secret from the sheaf purloin'd
The tempting ear; doubtless, for him alone
The lightnings glare; and on his guilty head

The fatal bolt must fall! Thus conscience speaks,
While innocence itself, alarm'd, beholds
A scene so terrible! but the same power
At whose command the fiery tempests rise,
Can still them too. Then hush'd be every fear;
The God of harvest comes not to destroy!

Lightly the show'r descends: the thunder rolls
On the far distant shores; the op'ning skies
In lovely azure glow, and all around
The setting sun a soften'd lustre throws.
Refreshing breezes fly across the plains,
And dash the moisture from the drooping corn.
'Tis mildness all,—and nature smiles again
In sweet serenity,-then sinks to rest.

A DREAM.

I dreamt a dream, a vision of youth,
When fancy dominates o'er the brain;
It was of honor, of love, and truth,

And oh! could I dream that dream again!

It told of a world, whose fairy hues

Were ting'd with the rays of hope's sweet light;
Of cloudless days, and sweet evening dews,
And golden moments so purely bright.

But that glitt❜ring vision was roughly broke
By stern reality's magic breath;

For clouds I saw not in thunder spoke,
And friends I lov'd were the prey of death.

And could it then be delusion? ah, no!
As the star of hope it was kindly given
To cheer this dark path of sublunar woe,
With a partial glimpse of the joys of heaven.
Birmingham.

J. R.

THE ZEPHYR.

Mid' the bells of the lily, the buds of the rose,
Where the violet lurks, where the eglantine grows,
Where forest boughs wave, when the summer is nigh,
There, there is my home-for a zephyr am I.

In the caves of the mountain, the birth-place of streams,
On the waves of the sea, in the sun's dying beams,
Mid' the dews of the morn, when Aurora is nigh,
My dwelling is found-for a zephyr am I.

Round the bright form of beauty I gently unfold
My wings, fringed with light and bespangled with gold,
Kiss the cheek where young blushes for ever are nigh,
And lives but for bliss--for a zephyr am I.

99 66

BENHADAR.

46

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE SPANISH GIRL OF THE CORDILLERAS, THE EVE OF ST. JOHN," THE LITTLE DUTCH SENTINEL, COBUS YERKS," &c.

A certain bashaw of Smyrna, being on his way to Constantinople, by order of the commander of the faithful, with his retinue of janissaries and servants mounted on fifty camels, arrived about noonday at a fine grove of oranges, in the midst of which a pure spring bubbled forth from beneath a rock, and wandered about like a snake in the grass, diffusing a richer tint of green wherever it passed. The camels hesitated, pricked their ears, and looked wistfully towards the gurgling waters and cooling fountains. "Halt here," said the bashaw to his troop," and let us rest in this shade." The bashaw sat down on a rich cushion of silk, ordered his pipe to be brought, and, crossing his legs, directed his poet, or storyteller, to relate some tale to pass away the time. The poet bowed his head, and began as follows:

A merchant of Balsora, who was called Benhadar, one day sat smoking his pipe under the shade of the pomegranates in his garden, and amusing himself with summing up the items of his wealth. "Let me see-I have fifty thousand piastres in merchandize with the caravan which will soon be here; I have twice that sum invested in my two ships coming from the Indies with rich spices and silks; I have eighty thousand owing to me by the great bashaw, Albacil; and my house and gardens are worth as much more. Truly, Benhadar, thou art rich; enjoy thyself, and be happy." He was interrupted by a messenger, who came, in breathless haste, to inform him that the caravan, which was bringing his merchandize, had