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The pass-word now is lost. To that initiation full and free; Daily we pay the cost

Of our slow schooling for divine degree.

We know no means to feed an undying lamp,—
Our lights go out in every wind and damp.

We wear the Cross of Ebony and Gold,—
Upon a dark back-ground a form of light,
A heavenly hope within a bosom cold,
A starry promise in a frequent night;
And oft the dying lamp must trim again,
For we are conscious, thoughtful, striving men.

Yet be we faithful to this present trust,
Clasp to a heart resigned this faithful Must.
Though deepest dark our efforts should enfold,
Unwearied, mine to find the vein of gold;
Forget not oft to waft the prayer on high ;—
The rosy dawn again shall fill the sky.

And by that lovely light all truth revealed,
The cherished forms which sad distrust concealed,
Transfigured yet the same, will round us stand,
The kindred angels of a faithful band;
Ruby and Ebon Cross then cast aside,—
No lamp more needed, for the night has died.

"Be to the best thou knowest ever true,"
Is all the creed.

Then, be thy talisman of rosy hue,

Or fenced with thorns, that, wearing, thou must bleed Or gentle pledge of love's prophetic view,

The faithful steps it will securely lead.

Happy are all who reach that distant shore,
And bathe in heavenly day;"

Happiest are those who high the banner bore,
To marshal others on the way,

Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn,
By burthens overborne.

JONES VERY.

[Born about 1810. He was Greek Tutor in Cambridge College, Massachusetts; but, becoming imbued with strong feelings of religious enthusiasm, relinquished that position, and wrote some poems, published in 1839].

ENOCH.

I LOOKED to find a man who walked with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old;-

Though gladdened millions on His footstool trod,
Yet none with Him did such sweet converse hold.
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like David turned a willing ear.

God walked alone unhonoured through the earth;
For Him no heart-built temple open stood;
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,

Had hewn Him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinished and in ruins still

The only temple He delights to fill.

THE TREES OF LIFE.

For those who worship Thee there is no death,
For all they do is but with Thee to dwell.
Now, while I take from Thee this passing breath,
It is but of Thy glorious name to tell.

Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find,
But in them both my soul doth ever flow;
They come as viewless as the unseen wind,
And tell Thy noiseless steps where'er I go.
The trees that grow along Thy living stream,
And from its springs refreshment ever drink,
For ever glittering in Thy morning beam,
They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink;
And, as more high and wide their branches grow,
They look more fair within the depths below.

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ALFRED B. STREET.

[Born in 1811, of parents both belonging to distinguished American houses. Mr. Street is a barrister, thoroughly conversant with the wilder scenery and sports of the banks of the Hudson, and of high repute among his countrymen as a descriptive poet in this line].

A FOREST WALK.

A LOVELY Sky, a cloudless sun,

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers,
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won
To the cool forest's shadowy bowers.
One of the paths all round that wind,
Traced by the browzing herds, I choose,
And sights and sounds of human kind,
In Nature's lone recesses lose.
The beech displays its marbled bark,
The spruce its green tent stretches wide,
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark,
The maple's scalloped dome beside:
All weave on high a verdant roof
That keeps the very sun aloof,
Making a twilight soft and green
Within the columned vaulted scene.

Sweet forest-odours have their birth

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth,

Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead, Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern,

With many a wild-flower's fairy urn,

A thick, elastic carpet spread.
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk,
Resolving into soil, is sunk;

There, wrenched but lately from its throne,
By some fierce whirlwind circling past,
Its huge roots massed with earth and stone,
One of the woodland kings is cast.

Above, the forest-tops are bright
With the broad blaze of sunny light.
But now a fitful air-gust parts

The screening branches, and a glow Of dazzling, startling radiance darts

Down the dark stems, and breaks below. The mingled shadows off are rolled, The sylvan floor is bathed in gold: Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen, Display their shades of brown and green: Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss, Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss; The robin, brooding in her nest, Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast. And, as my shadow prints the ground, I see the rabbit upward bound; With pointed ears an instant look;

Then scamper to the darkest nook,

Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, He watches while I saunter by.

tread.

A narrow vista, carpeted
With rich green grass, invites my
Here showers the light in golden dots,
There sleeps the shade in ebon spots,
So blended that the very air

Seems network as I enter there.
The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum
Afar has sounded on my ear,
Ceasing his beatings as I come,

Whirrs to the sheltering branches near;
The little milk-snake glides away,
The brindled marmot dives from day;
And now, between the boughs, a space
Of the blue laughing sky I trace.
On each side shrinks the bowery shade;
Before me spreads an emerald glade;
The sunshine steeps its grass and moss
That couch my footsteps as I cross.
Merrily hums the tawny bee,
The glittering humming-bird I see;
Floats the bright butterfly along;
The insect choir is loud in song.

A spot of light and life, it seems
A fairy haunt for fancy dreams.

Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press,
In luxury of idleness.

Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye;
While murmuring grass, and waving trees,
Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze,
And water-tones that tinkle near,
Blend their sweet music to my ear;
And by the changing shades alone
The passage of the hours is known.

AN AMERICAN FOREST IN SPRING.

Now fluttering breeze, now stormy blast,
Mild rain, then blustering snow:
Winter's stern, fettering cold is past,

But, sweet Spring! where art thou?
The white cloud floats mid smiling blue,
The broad bright sunshine's golden hue
Bathes the still frozen earth.

'Tis changed! above, black vapours roll:
We turn from our expected stroll,
And seek the blazing hearth.

Hark! that sweet carol! with delight
We leave the stifling room!

The little blue-bird greets our sight,
Spring, glorious Spring, has come !
The south wind's balm is in the air,
The melting snow-wreaths everywhere
Are leaping off in showers;

And Nature, in her brightening looks,
Tells that her flowers, and leaves, and brooks,
And birds, will soon be ours.

A few soft, sunny days have shone,

The air has lost its chill,

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