My soul grows faint with fear;

Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move- -the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night

That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! 'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn gladd'ning light!

No outward thing is changed;

Only the joy of purity is fled,

And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.

Therefore, the calm abode,

By the dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!

The night-flowers round that door, Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?—

Hark, hark!—it is my mother's voice I hearSadder than once it seem'd-yet soft and clearDoth she not seem to pray?

My name!-I caught the sound!

Oh! blessed tone of love-the deep, the mild-
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!

A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.

We receive but what we give,

And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd;
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth-
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element.

Coleridge.

GREEN spot of holy ground!

If thou couldst yet be found,

Fai in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath

Of time, or change, or death

Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers;

Might our tired pilgrim-feet,

Worn by the desert's heat,
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there

Through heaven's transparent air,

And rest on colours of the immortal rose?

Say, would thy balmy skies

And fountain-melodies

Our heritage of lost delight restore?
Could thy soft honey-dews

Through all our veins diffuse

The early, child-like trustful sleep once more?

And might we, in the shade
By thy tall cedars made,

With angel voices high communion hold?
Would their sweet solemn tone

Give back the music gone,

Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old?

Oh! no-thy sunny hours
Might come with blossom showers,

All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill;
But we -should we not bring

Into thy realms of spring

The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?

What could thy flowers and airs

Do for our earth-born cares?

Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free? No!-past each living stream,

Still would some fever dream

Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee!

Should we not shrink with fear,

If angel steps were near,
Feeling our burden'd souls within us die?
How might our passions brook

The still and searching look,
The star-like glance of seraph purity?

Thy golden-fruited grove

Was not for pining love;

Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies!
Oh! Thou wert but a part

Of what man's exiled heart

Hath lost-the dower of inborn Paradise!

LET US DEPART.

It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previously to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence."

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers,
And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around.
The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace, as if the Holy One
Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard

In that old fane's deepest heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,

And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"

Within the fated city

E'en then fierce discord raved,

Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword

Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,

Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
"Let us depart!"

But within the fated city

There was revelry that night; The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet light.

The footsteps of the dancer

Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer

Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,

As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
"Let us depart!"