WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;

Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm;

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame,
While the noise of the war-hoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:

With a glance of disgust, he the landscape survey'd,
With its fragrant wild flowers; its wide waving shade ;-
Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,
So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since roll'd in the long lapse of time—
Cultivation has softened those features sublime;

The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade,
And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,

Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.

S. GRAHAM.

A HOME EVERYWHERE.

HEAVE, mighty ocean, heave,
And blow, thou boisterous wind;
Onward we swiftly glide, and leave
Our home and friends behind.

Away, away we steer,

Upon the ocean's breast;

And dim the distant heights appear,

Like clouds along the west.

There is a loneliness

Upon the mighty deep;

And hurried thoughts upon us press,

As onwardly we sweep.

Our home-O, heavens-that word!

A name without a thing! We are e'en as a lonely bird,

Whose home is on the wing.

My wife and little one
Are with me as I go ;

And they are all, beneath the sun,
I have of weal or woe.

With them, upon the sea,
Or land, where'er I roam,
My all on earth is still with me,
And I am still at home.

Heave, mighty ocean, heave,

And blow, thou boisterous wind: Where'er we go, we cannot leave Our home and friends behind.

Then come, my lovely bride,

And come, my child of woe; Since we have nought on earth beside, What matters where we go?

We heed not earthly powers,

We heed not wind nor weather;

For, come what will, this joy is oursWe share it still together.

And if the storms are wild,

And we perish in the sea,

We'll clasp each other and our child :

One grave shall hold the three.

And neither shall remain

To meet, and bear alone,

The cares, the injuries, the pain,
That we, my love, have known.

And there's a sweeter joy,
Wherever we may be ;

Danger nor death can e'er destroy
Our trust, O God, in thee.

Then wherefore should we grieve?

Or what have we to fear?

Though home, and friends, and life, we leave, Our God is ever near.

If He who made all things,
And rules them, is our own,
Then every grief and trial brings
Us nearer to his throne.

Then come, my gentle bride,

And come, my child of love;

What if we've nought on earth beside?
Our portion is above.

Sweep, mighty ocean, sweep;

Ye winds, blow foul or fair;

Our God is with us on the deep,
Our home is everywhere.