TO THE ORGAN. C. P. W. Utterer of many thoughts which else were still, How oft have I Evoked thy harmony, The voiceless void in my poor heart to fill. Sweet solace of my loneliness or grief, It is to thee And thy grand minstrelsy That I resort for pleasure or relief. Thy diapason tones' deep, distant swell, Or songs from sea-shell's core, Waken fine chords deep hid in fancy's cell. Oft-times at even, when my mind is fraught Or some strange fantasy, Thy glowing tones give utterance to my thought. Devotion gains from thee a warmer tone, Thine undersong Carries the soul along, Until it seems to reach the Eternal Throne. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. BYRON. She walks in beauty, like the night Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! NEVER DESPAIR. W. C. RICHARDS. HIS motto I give to the young and the old, No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot, Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be, When the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea, But see him amid the fierce strife of the waves, How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare! Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea, Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright, Shrink not from the storm, tho' it come in its might; Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare, Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair. TO THE EVENING WIND. W. C. BRYANT. ["The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this,-we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression,-ornament enough, but not in profusion or display,-imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly soothing,-select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza,-gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy." - Geo. B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 265.] PIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee Nor I alone- -a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound |