We view the Heaven's broad expanse; the cloudless realms afar Are eloquent; we hear a voice in every shining star; And sweetly falls that silent voice which speaks of Hope and Love, Like gentle dews upon the heart from Heaven's full urn above. The voiceless flowers have each a tone that through Creation rings, The silent brook a pleasant song that still of Nature sings; The light and shade-the passing years-the seasons, as they roll Mysterious are their voices, but they sink into the soul. We turn toward the glowing East, we mark the fading West; The silent voice still speaks to us, in labor or in rest. Along the mighty ocean borne, upon the flow'rclad sod, That sound unceasing speaks to us-that silent Voice is God! HOHENLINDEN. T. Campbell. ON Linden, when the sun was low, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, Of Iser rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn!-but scarce yon level sun, Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens! On, ye brave! And charge with all thy chivalry. Few! few, shall part where many meet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. MELROSE. Walter Scott. Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die, And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave Then go-but go alone the while- VILLAGE BELLS. M. A. Brownr. THERE's a charming sound on the morning air, Looking the shrine of holy peace. They are ringing again, and in their sound Triumph and glory are scattered around; What mean the banners that float on the wind? What mean the wreaths that these bright helmets bind? Whose are the troop that in warlike array Sweep down the valley, their homage to pay At the altar of Him who alone can break Ring out, sweet bells, for the triumph is won! Again they are ringing in calmer peal, Yet dearer and sweeter those notes we feel; 'Tis the sabbath morn, and the humble and proud Together are thronging, in mingled crowd; Coming from many a differing abode, There's their sound again - but it's not the same As once on that summer morning came; |