THE TROUBADOUR.

BY FREDERIC MELLEN.

*

He leaned beneath the casement, and his gaze Went forth upon the night, as if his thoughts Held dark communion with its secret shadows; And as the light stole in among the leaves, There might be traced upon his marble brow The lines that grief, not time, had written there. He rested on his harp, and as his hand

Swept lightly o'er the strings, its sadden'd tone Seem'd like the echo of some spirit's moan.

Lady! the dark long night

Of grief and sorrow,

That knows no cheerful light,

No sun-bright morrow,

Is gathering round my heart,
In gloom and tears,

That will not, can not part,

For long, long years.

Oh! would that thought could die;

And memory

Pass, like the night-wind's sigh,

Away from me.

There is a resting place,

Cold, dark, and deep;

Where grief shall leave no trace,

And misery sleep.

Would I were slumbering there,

From life's sad dream;

The tempest's cold, bleak air,

My requiem.

Lady my harp's sad song

Hath wing'd its flight;

But still, its chords along,

Murmurs my last 'good night!'

-The melody had ceased,-the harper gone; And, silent all, the waning night pass'd on.

NIGHT IN THE WOODS.

BY EPHRAIM PEABODY.

"Through the openings in the leafy vaults looked down the stars from far above this world." MARY'S JOURNEY.

The unfathomable cope of heaven!
The deep and silent sky!

Through the narrow forest opening,
Looks down its peaceful eye.

The tranquil stars pass o'er me one by one-
The silver clouds rise up-float o'er-are gone.

The forest pines which circle round

Like dark towers at my side,

But show the depths of the dim vault,
Where the holy stars abide.

Unsounded void! yet deepening whilst I gaze,

Till the eye swims that through thy clear deep strays.

The night is hushed like sleep; the roar
Of the great wilderness is still;

The breeze is sleeping midst its leaves,
The brook beneath its hill;

On branch and leaf and in their gloomy shade,
The silence of eternity is laid.

The moving heavens !-the Spirit's power

In glory bids them roll;

The music of the many spheres

'Tis sounding through the soul ! The Vast! the Beautiful!-in mystery, Deep in the soul's abyss unseen they lie.

Sea-heavens-ye settled hills that lift
Your brows into the blue,

Like altars reared to God-the soul

Is mightier than you,

Yea, gives you all your glory—gives the light, Which lifts you up from nothingness and night.

Oh God! who breathed into the soul
A power from thine own power,
Teach me to know the uncounted worth
Of this celestial dower :

Oh may I ne'er defile with earth and sense
This image of thine own Omnipotence.

ANDRE.

BY CHARLES W. UPHAM.*

BESIDE his path the beauteous Hudson rolled
In silent majesty. The silvery mist,
Like the soft incense of an eastern fane,
Went sparkling upward, gloriously wreathing
In the sun-light. And the keen-eyed eagle,
From his high aerie mid the crags, looked down
In majesty, where stood the lonely one,

In silence, musingly

'Would it were thus

With me. My spirit shares not now, as wont,
In the wild majesty of nature here.

Methinks there is some weight within, sinking
My better thoughts. Would now that I might lead
Some gallant battle charge-where the wild trump
Enkindles valor, and the free winds swell
My country's banner.'