Can I pass on,

"with brute unconscious gaze," Nor with one faltering accent whisper praise?

From those bright orbs, which, through the realms of space,
Pursue majestic their unvarying way,

Down through creation, far as we may trace
Of powers almighty the sublime display;
All that I see and feel combine to prove
That power is governed by unbounded love.

What vivid hues the floral tribes adorn!

What fragrance floats upon the gales of even!
What floods of radiance gild the unfolding morn!
And dazzling splendor gems the midnight heaven!
What glorious scenes on every hand impart
A glow of transport to the untainted heart!

How sweet, though transient, man! thy tarriance here!
If peace around thee spread her cheering rays,
If conscience whispers in thy trembling ear
No tale unpleasing of departed days,
Then smile exulting at the lapse of time
Which wafts thee gently to a happier clime.

Saw'st thou the worm his humble path pursue,
To varied dangers, doubts and fears, a prey?
Joy in his cup some sweet ingredients threw,
Yet darkness snatched him from the treat away;
The poor chrysalis, in his lonely grave,
Seemed sinking hopeless in oblivion's wave.

But lo! what magic bursts the dreary tomb!
What voice angelic bids the sleeper rise!
He wakes, arrayed in beauty's living bloom,

His new-born plumage tinged with rainbow dyes;
In air gay floating, while the sunbeam flings

A blaze of splendor o'er his glossy wings.

Thy emblem this! for death must quickly hide
This fair creation from thy raptured eye;

Thy fragile form, to the poor worm allied,
Cold and unconscious in the grave must lie;
But can the shackles of the tomb control
This active spirit, this aspiring soul?

No! there are worlds in bloom immortal drest,
Where love divine in full effulgence glows,
Where, safely centered in eternal rest,

Departed spirits of the good repose;

With powers enlarged their Maker's works explore,

And find, through endless years, new cause to wonder and adore.

"PEACE-BE STILL."'1

When on his mission from his home in heaven,
In the frail bark the Saviour deigned to sleep;
The tempest rose-with headlong fury driven,

The wave-tossed vessel whirled along the deep: Wild shrieked the storm amid the parting shrouds, And the vex'd billows dashed the darkening clouds.

Ah! then, how futile human skill and power-
"Save us! we perish in the o'erwhelming wave,"
They cried, and found, in that tremendous hour,
"An eye to pity, and a hand to save."
He spoke, and lo! obedient to his will,
The raging waters and the winds were still.

And thou, poor trembler on life's stormy sea!
Where dark the waves of sin and sorrow roll,
To Him for refuge from the tempest flee-

To Him, confiding, trust the sinking soul:
For oh! He came to calm the tempest toss'd,
To seek the wandering and to save the lost.

For thee, and such as thee, impelled by love,
He left the mansions of the blest on high;
Mid sin, and pain, and grief, and fear, to move-
With lingering anguish and with shame, to die.
The debt to justice, boundless mercy paid,
For hopeless guilt complete atonement made.

Oh! in return for such surpassing grace,

Poor, blind, and naked, what canst thou impart? Canst thou no offering on His altar place?

Yes, lowly mourner! give him all thy heart:
That simple offering he will not disown-
That living incense may approach his throne.

He asks not herds, and flocks, and seas of oil-
No vain oblations please the all-knowing Mind;
But the poor, weary, sin-sick, spent with toil,
Who humbly seek it shall deliverance find:
Like her, the sufferer, who in secret stole
To touch his garment, and at once was whole.

Oh, for a voice of thunder! which might wake
The slumbering sinner, ere he sink in death;
Oh, for a tempest, into dust to shake

His sand-built dwelling, while he yet has breath!

'Lines occasioned by reading Matt. viii. 24-26.

YEARNINGS FOR HOME.

I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flow'rets so fair!
To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old mansion so dear,
Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear.
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this pure summer-day.

I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, oh 'tis tenderer yet!
There a sister reposes, unconscious, in death-

'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her breath; A father I love is away from me now

Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,

Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call;

But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all.

TO HER SISTER.

Oh thou, so early lost, so long deplored!
Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near!

And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,
Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay;

To thee these simple numbers all belong:
For, though thine earthly form has passed away,
Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute-'tis thine own-
Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er,
Arouse to harmony each buried tone,

And bid its wakened music sleep no more!

Long has thy voice been silent; and thy lyre
Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest;
But, when its last sweet tones were borne away,
One answering echo lingered in my breast.

Oh thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee!

TO HER MOTHER.1

Oh, mother! would the power were mine
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear,
And breathe each trembling new-born thought
Within thy fondly listening ear,

As when, in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wandered free.

But, mother! now a shade hath passed
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapped
The remnant of my brief career:
No song, no echo can I win;
The sparkling fount hath dried within.

The torch of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings no more;
And oh, how vain and trivial seem

The pleasures that I prized before;
My soul, with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife;
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,

The pathway to eternal life!

Then, when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in "days of yore."

I said that Hope had passed from earth—
'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven:
When mine are washed in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell the lay.

When God shall guide my soul above
By the soft chords of heavenly love-
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart,
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise:
And all not offered at his shrine,

Dear mother, I will place on thine.

This was the last poem she ever wrote.

TIMOTHY FLINT, 1780-1840.

THIS early historian and scene-painter of our Western country was born in Reading, Massachusetts, in 1780, and graduated at Harvard College, in 1800. After devoting two years to the study of theology, he became pastor of the Congregational Church in Lunenburg, Massachusetts, where he continued till 1814. His health having by this time become impaired by too sedentary pursuits, he deemed it best to seek a milder climate, and in 1815 became a missionary in the Valley of the Mississippi. After passing a winter at Cincinnati, he journeyed through portions of Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky, and then took up his abode at St. Charles, Missouri, where he remained nearly three years. In 1822, he removed to New Orleans, and the year after, he went to Alexandria, on the Red River, where he took charge of a literary institution. Here he began to write his "Recollections of Ten Years passed in the Valley of the Mississippi," which was published in Boston in 1826; and which at that time was the most important contribution to American geography that had been made. In the following year, he published a novel, entitled "Francis Berrian; or the Mexican Patriot," a story of romantic adventure with the Camanches, connected with the Mexican struggle for independence. This was followed, in 1828, by "Arthur Clenning"-a very hazardous attempt to write one more Robinson Crusoe. "George Mason, the Young Backwoodsman," followed, but without increasing the author's reputation. The last of his novels was "The Shoshonee Valley," published in Cincinnati in 1830, the scene of which was laid among the Indians of Oregon.

In 1832, Mr. Flint published, in Boston, "Lectures upon Natural History, Geology, Chemistry, the Application of Steam, and Interesting Discoveries in the Arts." In 1834, he removed to Cincinnati, and became the editor of the "Western Monthly Magazine," which he conducted with much ability; writing more or less for every number, for three years. He then removed to Louisiana, being in quite feeble health, and hoping to be benefited by that climate. But he was disappointed, and in May, 1840, he resolved to return to his own New England, to see what his native air would do for him. But all was of no avail, and he expired at Reading, Massachusetts, August 18th, 1840. Mr. Flint will always be known as one of the earliest geographers of our country, whose works, from their clear and beautiful descrip