TYRE,

IN thought, I saw the palace domes of Tyre;
The gorgeous treasures of her merchandise;
All her proud people in their brave attire,
Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice.
I saw the precious stones and spiceries;
The singing girl with flower-wreathed instrument;
And slaves whose beauty ask'd a monarch's
price.

Forth from all lands all nations to her went,
And kings to her on embassy were sent.

I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail,
Her ships that of the sea had government:

Oh gallant ships! 'gainst you what might prevail? She stood upon her rock, and in her pride Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied.

I look'd again-I saw a lonely shore,

A rock amid the waters, and a waste

Of trackless sand:-I heard the bleak sea's roar, And winds that rose and fell with gusty haste. There was one scath'd tree, by storm defac'd, Round which the sea-birds wheel'd with scream

ing cry.

Ere long came on a traveller, slowly pac'd; Now east, than west, he turn'd with curious eye, Like one perplex'd with an uncertainty.

Awhile he look'd upon the sea, and then Upon a book, as if it might supply

The things he lack'd:-he read, and gaz'd again; Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought,

He might not deem this shore the shore he sought.

Again I saw him come :

-'twas eventide ;

The sun shone on the rock; amid the sea The winds were hush'd; the quiet billows sigh'd With a low swell;-the birds wing'd silently Their evening flight around the scathed tree: The fisher safely put into the bay,

And push'd his boat ashore ;—then gather'd he His nets, and hasting up the rocky way,

Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray,
I saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene;
"And this was Tyre!" said he: "how has decay
Within her palaces a despot been!

Ruin and silence in his courts are met,

And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net!"

Mary Howitt,

THE GLOW WORM.

If on some balmy breathing night of spring
The happy child, to whom the world is new,
Pursues the evening moth of mealy wing,

Or from the heath-flower beats the sparkling dew,

He sees before his inexperienc'd eyes,

The brilliant Glow-worm like a meteor shine On the turf bank: amaz'd and pleas'd he cries, "Star of the dewy grass, I make thee mine!" Then, ere he sleeps, collects the moisten'd flower, And bids soft leaves his glitt'ring prize unfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower; Yet with the morning shudders to behold

His lucid treasure rayless as the dust:

So turn the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust.

Mrs. C. Smith.

ON PLANTING A TULIP ROOT.

HERE lies a bulb, the child of earth,
Buried alive beneath the clod,
Ere long to spring, by second birth,
A new and nobler work of God.

'Tis said, that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling folds descry
The infant image of the flower,

Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This vernal suns and rains will swell,
Till from its dark abode it peep,
Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.
Two shapely leaves will first unfold,
Then, on a smooth elastic stem,
The verdant bud shall turn to gold,
And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race

A form more perfect can display; Art could not feign more simple grace, Nor nature take a hue away.

Yet rich as morn of many a hue,

When flushing clouds through darkness strike,

The tulip's petals shine in dew,

All beautiful, but none alike.

Kings on their bridal might unrobe,
To lay their glories at its foot;

And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe;
Exchange for blossom, stalk and root.

Here could I stand and moralize:
Reader! I leave that part to thee!
Be thy next birth in Paradise-
Thy life to come-Eternity!

J. Montgomery,

THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF
THE NILE.

In sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt's awful flood;

The cradle of that mighty birth,

So long a hidden thing to earth!

He heard its life's first murmuring sound,
A low mysterious tone;

A music sought, but never found,

By kings and warriors gone:
He listen❜d—and his heart beat high-
That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror's mood
Rush'd through his burning frame ;-
The depths of that green solitude
Its torrents could not tame;

There stillness lay, with eve's last smile-
Round those far fountains of the Nile.

Night came with stars :-across his soul
There swept a sudden change,
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal,
A shadow dark and strange

Breath'd from the thought, so swift to fall
O'er triumph's hour-and is this all?

No more than this! What seem'd it now
First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow
Bath'd his own mountain land!
Whence far o'er waste and ocean track
Their wild sweet voices call'd him back.

They call'd him back to many a glade,
His childhood's haunt of play,

Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanc'd away:

They call'd him, with their sounding waves,
Back to his fathers' hills and graves.

But darkly mingling with the thought
Of each familiar scene,

Rose up a fearful vision, fraught
With all that lay between;

The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride?
The spirit born to roam?

His alter'd heart within him died
With yearnings for his home!
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.

He wept!-the stars of Afric's heaven
Behold his burning tears,

E'en on that spot where fate had given
The meed of toiling years!

-Oh, happiness! how far we flee

Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!

Mrs. Hemans.