Nor shadows cast of fear or doubt,
That sunny days would soon run out.
A heart by nature softened much,
Could not but feel the slightest touch;
And as it sailed in Fancy's car,
Raised flattering hopes for time to mar.
Sweet vale! with thee in science too,
I first attained, what falls to few,
With Newton, Leibnitz, and Lagrange,
With Kepler and his laws, could range,
Series expand, on roots dilate,
A difference find or integrate.
A friend to them, and they to me,
I found a mind enlarged and free.
Sweet vale! that nursed my early years,
How oft I think of thee with tears.

Here smiling Broadway waves on high, And decks the blue empyreal sky, 'Mid herbage soft,-'mid parting rocks, How calmly browse the fleecy flocks, Which ever lend, sweet vale! to thee A grace than sweeter none can be. See yonder stream, it gently glides, And laves the thirsty meadows' sides; See fruitful orchards scattered lie, And country seats invite the eye: Here healthy towns compact and clean, There smoking hamlets paint the scene. Many a copse and shady dale, With cooling brooks that never fail; And many a church of olden days, Placed here and there to mend our ways. To left, if I but turn me round,

There's Bredon somewhere to be found ;

Yes there she lies old monument!

Thou canst need no lengthy comment.

How often have I stood by thee
And view'd the lovely scenery:
And more, if time have not effaced,
My name upon thee may be traced.
There Malvern soars with loftier head.
And much on this might now be said;
But here description must be closed,
For reasons to myself proposed.
Sweet vale! that nursed my early years,
I leave thee-yes- again with tears.

MOUNT LIBANUS.

THY name, O Libanus! awakes a thought,
And strikes a chord which vibrates on
Of Israel's happy days
When first the Temple rose.

Thy snowy head looks white as if by time,
Thy stately cedars * still convey the truth
Of their magnificence

And thy productiveness.

Tho' snows may crown, yet is thy blood not cold, For on thy wilds the tenderest shrub will grow, Not stinted-frozen-shaped,

But plants of Liberty.

Who can paint thy scenery, sweet mountain steeps!
Where wild Astragalus†, with purple flowers,
Or Amaryllis sweet

Blend their beauteous tints.

* Seven of the most ancient cedars still remain, which, being considered coeval with Solomon, are held most sacred. Rude altars have been erected near them, and an annual Christian festival is held, where worship is performed beneath their venerable branches. The number of cedars altogether may be reckoned to amount to 343.

+ Astragalus tragacanthoides displays clusters of purple flowers.

Here lilies rise with white or golden hues,
And here the humble primrose sweetly scents,
With elegance itself,

The beech-leaved cherry.

These scenes majestic — rich, as setting sun
A golden vesture throws across thy sides,
With all the magic glow

Of ancient hallowed time.

Rest thee in peace nor may polluted hands
Disturb thy present or thy future growth;
And sacred rites be thine,
Till Israel comes again.

THE LOTUS.

LOTUS, with petals closed and drooping head,
Soon as the evening shades invite to bed,
We find thee gently dropping out of sight,
And cradled deep in waters sleep the night.
Soon as the morning wakes with sunny ray,
'Tis then again we see thee hail the day,
Forsake thy watery couch and hasten up,
And shake the pearl-drop from thy opening cup.

* See the Amoenitates Academiæ, vol. iv., by Linnæus, who has noticed the habit of the Nymphæa alba, or whiteflowering water-lily, which is well known to close its flowers in the afternoon, and lay them on the surface of the waters till the morning, when it raises and expands them to a height of several inches above the water. Theophrastus writes also, 300 years B. C., of the Egyptian Lotus: :-"It is reported that in the Euphrates, the head and flowers keep sinking till midnight, when they are so deep in the water as to be out of reach of the hand, but towards morning they return, and still more as the day advances. At sunrise they are already above the surface with the flower expanded; after which they rise high above the water."

Thy lily cousin chaste, with pallid face,
Touch'd with the same affections of thy race,
Contented on the surface droops to sleep,
Nor dares to venture on the hidden deep.
What is this mystic power - come, Lotus, tell?
Is it that warm'd by suns thy fibres swell,
Infusing life within thy chilling veins?

Or, now contracting as the cold obtains?
Whate'er this secret be, what laws be thine,
We mark the proofs of wisdom and design,-
One Great Creator clearly comprehend,
And trace the means adapted to the end.

LINES TO A SNOWDROP.

FIRST flower of Spring that peeps above the ground,

Rock'd to and fro and nursed in hardship's lap,
It grieves to leave thee here

Bleach'd by blustering winds.

White is thy lily cup, emboss'd with green :
My pretty flower! I feel you must be cold,
I would remove thee hence,

And give thee warmer soil.

Yet still thou seem'st to bloom nor droop with pain,

Nor biting cold to chill thy pallid face;

Did Winter plant thee here,

Or Snow, thy kinder nurse?

Sir, smiled the Flower, your sympathy I feel,
I thank you-would that all possess'd your heart;
Yet humble as I seem,

I'm happy in my lot.

Winter, indeed, close press'd my tender form, And softer snows produced me, as you see, And nurtured thus I feel

Nor cold, nor blustering winds.

Here would I rest, and undisturb'd my root,
Securely brave each element of strife:
So leave me, stranger, here,

I'm happy where I am.

Transplanted, die I might, with jealous care,
Nor breathe so freely in your warmer soil.
Nature hath made me thus,
She will be kind to me.

Transplanted-and my mother told me this:

Our natures change

- our purity is lost : So, stranger, not for worlds Would I exchange my state.

Here let me rest-nor let thy kindness move This little spot where I was safely born, Where I would live my time,

And, dying, drop my

leaves.

Would that we always found in humble life This noble virtue of contentment lie, Although surrounding ills

May tempt to gayer scenes.

Thus pure in heart-of health secure,
Would simplest flowers, though hard their lot,
Breathe out a life of peace

And happy usefulness.