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Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea: and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,

Thy father, any thing to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense,
In spots like these it is we prize

Our memory,-feel that she hath eyes;
Then why should I be loath to stir ?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!

THE CITY OF JERUSALEM.

BY JAMES A. HILLHOUSE.

How beautiful is Zion!-Like a queen, Arm'd with a helm, in virgin loveliness Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,

Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Waved their dark beauty round the tower of

David.

Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrasures of alabaster shine;

Hail'd by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah's mart with orient merchandise.
But not, for thou art fair and turret-crown'd,
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and bless'd
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern
law

Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch,
And where the glory hovers, here I war.

D

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

BY WILSON.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth,
Whose happy home is on our earth!
Does human blood with life imbue
These wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent;

Or, art thou, what thy form would seem
The phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou art,

I feel it at my beating heart,

Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence!
Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love:
Thoughts from the living world intrude
Even on her deepest solitude:

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