SYMPATHY.

ARTS glittering domes and towers must fall,
Gay cities crumble with the dead;
All things must yield to Time's stern call,
Thus the Omnipotent hath said.

But mark the sympathetic breast,

That melts when misery's sons are nigh; In golden palace with the blest

His name shall brightly shine on high.

TO A VIOLET,

PRESENTED BY A LADY.

GEM from the mountain side,

Fade not too soon away;

Unfold thy petals wide,

And lend a cheering ray.

Live for the maiden fair,

Who bade me cherish thee;

Her of the silken hair,

Of spirit blithe and free.

Bright flow'ret of the vale,

With face of azure smile;

I list thy pleasant tale,

Thy language hath no guile.

The friend of gentle heart,
Who cull'd thee for my view,
May far away depart

To clime she never knew;

But I'll not deem it wrong

To string my cheerful lyre,
And bid my harp prolong
Her praise on every wire.

Gem from the mountain side,
Droop not too soon away;
Unfold thy beauties wide,
And smile with me to-day.

TO IANZA.

SAY not, Ianza, it is rude in me,

Το gaze so oft with eyes intent on thee.

On thy fair brow, oh, give not frowns a place!
Why blight the orbs that beam upon thy face?

I learn'd the lesson on my mother's knee,
To prize whate'er is beautiful to see.

I've sought bright orange groves and myrtle bowers,
Amid whose charms I've dream'd away sweet home.

I've watch'd the bright rose spread its petals fair,
And quaff'd its incense with the balmy air;

I've roam'd the blossom'd woods, through verdant lawn,
To breathe among the flowers at early dawn.

And I would ask, Ianza, if 'tis wrong,

When nature smiles, to breathe her praise in song?
Say, if before me charming objects rise

And I admire, should I be deem'd unwise?

BOOKS

WHAT are books but the embodiment of ideas-the registered thoughts of men, regarding past, present, and future time, circumstance, and things connected with life, death, and immortality? Some books, like some men, are of inestimable value; while others, on the contrary, are but the emissaries of evil, calculated only to tarnish and destroy the symmetry of the world's physical and moral beauty. To discriminate between the two classes and place a proper value where it rightly belongs, is not a difficult task. Perhaps it were better never read at all, than read without discrimination.

He will stand as an "unmoved rock," who shall, with intelligent pen, appeal to the best feelings of the heart; whose chosen themes shall be the beautiful in nature and the attributes of nature's God.

Fearless may be the pen which courts the fair goddess Truth, though that pen be not moistened with the fluid of deepest learning, or wear the magic of wealth or fame.

THE RURAL PIC-NIC.

Being one of the party I thus tuned my harp in the Sagamore woods.

THE hour we had sighed for, to meet in the grove,

Dawned on us with beautiful smile;

And many were dreaming, soon thither to rove,
To dispel gloomy care for awhile.

The light fleecy clouds high up o'er the earth,
Floated gaily along the blue sky;

And the soft breathing zephyrs just summoned to birth,
From the westward came playfully by.

The birds were attuning their harps in the shade,
Of the tangled and sweet perfumed wood;
And the lamb and its yew were at play in the glade,
Near the spot where the feast table* stood.

Fine coaches were out on the innocent race,
With steeds gaily harness'd by fours;
And merrily on, for the "Sagamore Place,”
Joyous bosoms were gliding by scores.

But not in delusion, going thither to die
'Neath a Juggernaut's merciless wheel;—

'Tis Temp'rance they follow, with bright, eager eye;
At the shrine of this genius they kneel.

*Pic-Nic table.

They enter with song of delight, the green bower
Near the banks of the bright Sagamore,

And tall waving pines, and the wild running flower,
Such a gathering ne'er witness'd before.

Beneath the cool shade of the high, festoon'd trees,
The loaded feast table stands by;

And fann'd by the summer's delectable breeze,
Are the happy hearts, lingering nigh.

On the moss-covered rock, where the savage once trod
With the tomahawk grasp'd in his hand,
Stands the orator firm in the name of his God,

Proclaiming good news in the land.

The old woods that once shook to the Indian's rude tramp
And re-echoed the dismal war-cry-

Now joyfully wave o'er the peacemaker's camp,
For the Savage and Rum are not nigh.

Sweet voices are blended of maiden and swain,
And matron, and stranger, in song;

While the woods sweetly echo the notes back again,
And thus the sweet music prolong.

The gay smiling damsels of volatile air,

And eyes beaming clear as the sun,

Are seeking bright flow'rets to bind in their hair,
E'er the banquet is broken and done.

Come husband and lady, come belle and come beau,
Flies a voice through the green wood along;
Oh come, partake freely,—then homeward we'll go,
Singing gaily a temperance song.