GREENWOOD.

THERE is a spot far in the green still wood,
Where Nature reigns in majesty alone,

Where the tall trees for countless years have stood,
And flowers have bloomed and faded all unknown;
Where fearless birds soar through the morning skies,
And fill the air with varied melodies,

While o'er the water's breast dark shadows brood, Flung by the clustering boughs, a glorious solitude!

It is a holy place, so calm and still,

So wrapped in shades of peaceful quietude:
A sense of awe the inmost soul doth thrill,
And tunes the spirit to a higher mood,
When in the precincts of that sacred spot
The busy cares of life are all forgot.
Let not a foot-fall, with irreverent sound,
Startle the echoes of the hallowed ground.

The dead are with us, where green branches wave,
And where the pine boughs cast a deeper gloom;
Yonder a rose-tree marks an early grave,

And there proud manhood sleeps beneath the tomb; The young high heart with vague, bright dreamings Too pure for earth, yet haply now fulfilled, [filled, Lies mute, perchance by his who knew not rest, Until the damp sod pressed his aching breast.

And doth it not seem meet,

That there earth's weary pilgrims should repose, Far from the hurrying tread of eager feet, Where the last sunbeams at the daylight's close Quiver like golden harpstrings mid the trees, While with a spirit's touch the evening breeze Wakens a requiem for the sleepers there,

And Nature's every breath seems fraught with prayer!

And when the twilight, in her robe of gray,
Flings o'er the earth a veil of mystic light,
While as the glow of even melts away,
The stars above grow more intensely bright,
Even as the promise that our God has given,
As fade our hopes on earth, so grow they bright in
heaven:

Might we not deem them holy spirit-eyes,
Their vigils keeping in the silent skies?

Oh, noiseless city of the mighty dead!
Lonely and mute, yet are thy annals fraught
With solemn teachings, and thy broad page spread
With the rich lore of soul-awakening thought;
And when the wanderer on the future shores
Shall seek its hidden mysteries to explore,
Thy hallowed shades, with spirit-voices rife,
May lead him onward to the gates of life.

THOUGHTS IN SPRING-TIME.

FAR in some still, sequestered nook,
Removed from worldly strife,
How calmly, like a placid brook,

Would glide the stream of life!
How sweet in temples God has made
To raise the voice of prayer,
While songsters from the leafy glade
With music fill the air!

Does not the spirit seem to spurn
The fettered thoughts of earth,
And with a holier impulse turn

To things of higher birth?
When in the forests' vast arcade,

Where man has seldom trod, Amid the works that he has made,

We stand alone with God? When gazing on fair Nature's face, Untouched by hand of art,

In every leaf his love we trace,

What feelings thrill the heart!
The diamond dew-drop on the spray,
Each early-fading flower,
The glittering insects of a day-

All show God's wondrous power:
And teach us by their helplessness
Of his unwearied care,
Who gives the lily's vestal dress,
And bids us not despair.
When in the fading light of day
The forest trees grow dim,
And evening comes in sober gray,
How turn our souls to him!

There is no sound upon the air,
All living things are still-
A solemn hush as if of prayer,
Is brooding o'er the hill:

While far above, like spirit-eyes,
The stars their vigils keep,
And smile on the fair stream that lies

Upon earth's breast, asleep.

There is a spell that binds the heart
At this most hallowed hour,
And bids all earth-born thoughts depart,
Beneath its holy power.

And when to all created things

A voice of praise is given, The spirit seems on angel wings To soar aloft to Heaven.

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MISS CAROLINE MAY, a daughter of the Rev. Edward Harrison May, minister of one of the Reformed Dutch churches in the city of New York, is the author of many very graceful and striking poems; and during

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the present year she has published, in Philadelphia, a volume entitled Specimens of the American Female Poets. Miss May has given few of her compositions to the public, and the following, except one, are now first printed.

THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR.

IT is the sabbath of the year;
And if ye'll walk abroad,

A holy sermon ye shall hear,
Full worthy of record.

Autumn the preacher is; and look-
As other preachers do,

He takes a text from the one Great Book,
A text both sad and true.

With a deep, earnest voice, he saith

A voice of gentle grief, Fitting the minister of Death

"Ye all fade as a leaf; And your iniquities, like the wind,

Have taken you away;

Ye fading flutterers, weak and blind,
Repent, return, and pray."

And then the Wind ariseth slow,

And giveth out a psalm-
And the organ-pipes begin to blow,
Within the forest calm;

Then all the Trees lift up their hands,
And lift their voices higher,
And sing the notes of spirit bands
In full and glorious choir.
Yes! 'tis the sabbath of the year!
And it doth surely seem,
(But words of reverence and fear

Should speak of such a theme,)
That the corn is gathered for the bread,
And the berries for the wine,
And a sacramental feast is spread,
Like the Christian's pardon sign.

And the Year, with sighs of penitence,
The holy feast bends o'er;

For she must die, and go out hence

Die, and be seen no more.
Then are the choir and organ still,
The psalm melts in the air,
The Wind bows down beside the hill,
And all are hushed in prayer.
Then comes the Sunset in the west,
Like a patriarch of old,

Or like a saint who hath won his rest,
His robes, and his crown of gold;
And forth his arms he stretcheth wide,
And with solemn tone and clear
He blesseth, in the eventide,
The sabbath of the year.

TO A STUDENT.

GIVE thyself to the beauty
Of this September day!
And let it be thy duty

To treasure every ray

Of the sweet light that streams abroad,
An emblem of its Maker, God!

Oh! put away the learning
Of science and of art;
And stifle not the yearning

That swells within thy heart,
To look upon, and love, and bless,
Departing Summer's loveliness!

Go out into the garden,

And taste the sweetness there—
(Thy books will surely pardon

A pause from studious care)-
Of the still lavish mignonette,
And the few flowers that linger yet.
Go, feel the sweet caressing

Of the south wind on thy cheek-
Kind as the breathed-out blessing
Of one too sad to speak;
And mournful in its music low
As the dim thoughts of long ago.
Lift up thy face in gladness

To the sky so soft and warm,
And watch the frolic madness

Of the changeful clouds, that form
A mimic shape, in every change,
Of something beautiful and strange.
Or go, if thou wouldst rather,
To the distant woods, and see
How surely thou wilt gather
From forest harmony
Sweet themes for present songs of praise,
And hoards of thought for future lays.
Oh! it will make thee better,

More wise, and glad, and kind,
To throw off every fetter,

And go with pliant mind-
Like a free, open-hearted child,
To wander in the forests wild.
The love of Nature heightens

Our love to God and man;
And a spirit, Love enlightens,
Farther than others can,
Pierces with clear and steady eyes
Into the land where true thought lies!

SONNETS.

I. ON A WARM NOVEMBER DAY.

Is this November? It must surely be
That some sweet May day, like a merry girl
With eye of laughing blue, and golden curl,
In the excess of her light-hearted glee,

Has run too far from home, and lost her way; And now she trembles, while upon the air Flutter the rainbow ribands of her hair,

And her warm breath comes quick, for fear her play Should into danger her wild footsteps bring! She sees herself upon the barren heath Where, happily, November slumbereth: What, should he wake, and find her trespassing! Yet, weep not, wanderer! for I know ere night Thou wilt be home again laughing with safe delight.

II. ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

Hear

Now comes the herald of stern Winter.
The blast of his loud trumpet through the air,
Bidding collected families prepare
For the fierce king, without delay or fear;
Not seacoal fires alone, or cordial cheer

Of generous wine, or raiment thick and warm,
Though these may make the bleak and boisterous
A picture for the eye, and music for the ear; [storm
But laws of kindness, simple and sincere,
Patient forbearance, and sweet cheerfulness,
And gentle charity that loves to bless
To hide all faults as soon as they appear.
Without such stores, bought by no golden price,
Winter may freeze the human blood to ice!

III. THOUGHT.

So truly, faithfully, my heart is thine,
Dear Thought, that when I am debarred from thee
By the vain tumult of vain company;
And when it seems to be the fixed design
Of heedless hearts, who never can incline
Themselves to seek thy rich though hidden charms,
To keep me daily from thy outstretched arms-
My soul sinks faint within me, and I pine

As lover pines when from his love apart,
Who, after having been long loved, long sought,
At length has given to his persuasive art
Her generous soul with hope and fear full fraught:
For thou'rt the honored mistress of my heart,
Pure, quiet, bountiful, beloved Thought!

IV. HOPE.

LIKE the glad skylark, who each early morn
Springs from his shady nest of weeds or flowers,
And whether stormy clouds, or bright, are born,
Pierces the realm of sunshine and of showers;
And with untiring wing and steady eye,
And never ceasing song, (so loud and sweet,
So full of trusting love, that it is meet

It should be poured forth at heaven's portals high,)
Bears up his sacrifice of gratitude:

So Hope the one, the only Hope-spreads out Her wings from the heart's tearful solitude, (Shadowed too oft with weeds,) quivers about

The cloudy caves of earth, till sudden strength is

given

To dart above them all, and soar with songs to heaven.

V. MEMORY.

LIKE the full-hearted nightingale,
Who careth not to sing her sad, sweet strain
To open Daylight; but when pale
And thoughtful Evening sheds o'er plain,
And hill, and vale, a quiet sense
Of loneliness unbroken, then she gives
Her soul to the deep influence
Of silence and of shade, and lives
A life of mournful melody

In one short night: so Memory,
Shrinking from daylight's glare and noise,
Reserves her melancholy joys

For the dark stillness of the holy night,
And then she pours them forth till dawning light.

LILIES.

EVERY flower is sweet to me-
The rose and violet,

The pink, the daisy, and sweet pea,
Heart's-ease and mignonette,
And hyacinths and daffodillies:
But sweetest are the spotless lilies.

I know not what the lilies were
That grew in ancient times-
When Jesus walked with children fair,
Through groves of eastern climes,
And made each flower, as he passed by it,
A type of faith, content, and quiet.

But they were not more pure and bright
Than those our gardens show;
Or those that shed their silver light,
Where the dark waters flow;
Or those that hide in woodland alley,
The fragrant lilies of the valley.

And I, in each of them, would see
Some lesson for my youth:
The loveliness of purity,

The stateliness of truth,
Whene'er I look upon the lustre
Of those that in the garden cluster.

Patience and hope, that keep the soul
Unruffled and secure,
Though floods of grief beneath it roll,
I learn, when calm and pure

I see the floating water-lily,
Gleam amid shadows dark and chilly.

And when the fragrance that ascends,
Shows where its lovely face
The lily of the valley bends,

I think of that sweet grace,
Which sheds within the spirit lowly,
A rest, like heaven's, so safe and holy.

TO NATURE.

Rocks, and woods, and water,

I am now with ye!

What a grateful daughter

Ought I not to be!

Alone with Nature-oh, what bliss,
What a privilege is this!

Give me now a blessing,
Help my tongue to speak
The feelings that are pressing

Till my heart grows weak-
Faint with the strange influence
Of this wild magnificence.

I shut my eyes a minute,
Listening to the sound:
Music is there in it,

Stirring and profound!
Wild-voiced waters, babbling breeze,
Telling tales of aged trees:

And the echoes-hearken!
There they chiefly dwell,
Where those huge rocks darken

That green woody dell:
Hearken with what joy they spring,
When the village church bells ring!

Up I look, and follow

With my eyes the sound, Fading in the hollow

Of the hills around;

Then I clasp my hands and sigh,
That so soon the echoes die.

And I think how fleetly
Pleasures that we prize,
Like the echoes, sweetly
Fade before our eyes:
But 'tis well, 't is well for me,
Prone to earth idolatry.

Oh! ye kingly mountains,
With your cedar woods;
Closing diamond fountains
In their solitudes:
In my very soul ye dwell-
Can I love ye then too well?

Oh! ye clouds of glory,
That your crimson throw
On the old rocks hoary,

While the stream below
Sleeps in an unbroken shade:
Can too much of ye be made?

Can I love to linger

In this quiet nook,
Tracing Nature's finger
Reading Nature's book,
Till such lingering be wrong-
Reading, tracing there too long?

If so, 'tis no pity;
For too soon, alas!

To the imprisoning city From these haunts I pass, And this quiet nook will be Seen alone in memory.

Rocks, and woods, and water,
Now I am with ye,

And a grateful daughter
Ever will I be-

Loving ye, e'en when ye are
From my loving heart afar.

THE SUN.

WHEN the bounteous summer-time
Threw the riches of its prime,
Corn and grass, and fruit and flowers,
Upon meadows, fields, and bowers;
When the teeming earth below
Seemed to quiver in the glow
Of the sky, intensely bright
With luxuriant, melting light-
Then we ever tried to shun
The advances of the sun:
Flying from his burning glance,
If he looked at us by chance;
Shutting out his beams, if they
Ever boldly dared to stray
To our dark and fragrant room,
Rendered cool by quiet gloom.
Now the summer time is gone,
And the winds begin to mourn;
Now the yellow leaves fall down,
And the grass is turning brown,
And the flowers are dying fast;
Now the chill, destroying blast,
Seems to whisper in the vine
A sad warning of decline-
We invoke the sun's warm ray,
And we bless it all the day;
Looking up, as to a friend,
When its beams on us descend;
And we watch it down the west,
As it early sinks to rest:
Then, with sorrow at our hearts,
Sigh, "How soon the sun departs!"
So, in brightest summer tide
Of prosperity and pride,

When our friends are kind and warm,
And we dream not of the storm-
Then we hide in our recess
From the Sun of Righteousness,
Closing up our soul and sight

To his strong and piercing light.

But when the autumn blast

Of desertion sweepeth past,
Then we cry-by grief made bold-
"We are desolate and cold!
Let thy beams descend, and heal
The soul-smarting wounds we feel;
Shine upon us, Christ our Sun-
Without thee we are undone!"

ice G. Lee." Since the death of Mr. Neal, in the summer of 1847, Mrs. Neal has continued, in Philadelphia, with much tact and ability, the popular journal of which he was the editor, called Neal's Saturday Evening Gazette. There has been no collection of the writings of Mrs. Neal, and they are scattered through several of the popular literary mis

THE BRIDE'S CONFESSION.

A SUDDEN thrill passed through my heart,
Wild and intense-yet not of pain-

I strove to quell quick-bounding throbs,
And scanned the sentence o'er again.
It might have been full idly penned

By one whose thoughts from love were free, And yet, as if entranced, I read

"Thou art most beautiful to me."

Thou didst not whisper I was loved;

There were no gleams of tenderness,
Save those my trembling heart would hope
That careless sentence might express.
But while the blinding tears fell fast,
Until the words I scarce could see,
There shone, as through a wreathing mist—
"Thou art most beautiful to me."

To thee?-I cared not for all eyes,
So I was beautiful in thine!

A timid star, my faint, sad beams

Upon thy path alone should shine.
Oh, what was praise, save from thy lips?
And love should all unheeded be,
So I could hear thy blessed voice
Say, "Thou art beautiful to me."
And I have heard those very words

Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze—
Though thou perchance hadst quite forgot
They had been said in bygone days:
While clasped hand and circling arm

Then drew me nearer still to thee,
Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear-
"Thou, love, art beautiful to me."
And, dearest, though thine eyes alone
May see in me a single grace,
I care not, so thou e'er canst find

A hidden sweetness in my face.
And if, as years and cares steal on,

Even that lingering light must flee, What matter, if from thee I hear

"Thou art still beautiful to me!"

MIDNIGHT AND DAYBREAK.

I HAD been tossing through the restless night,
Sleep banished from my pillow, and my brain
Weary with sense of dull and stifling pain,
Yearning and praying for the blessed light.
My lips moaned thy dear name, beloved one!
Yet I have seen thee lying stiff and cold,
Thy form bound only by the shroud's pure fold,
For life with all its suffering was done.
Then agony of loneliness o'ercame

My widowed heart; night would fit emblem seem
For the evanishing of that bright dream:
The heavens were dark, my life henceforth the same;
No hope-its pulse within my breast was dead.
Once more I sought the casement. Lo! a ray,
Faint and uncertain, struggled through the gloom,
And shed a misty twilight on the room;
Long watched-for herald of the coming day!
It brought a thrill of gladness to my breast.
With clasped hands and streaming eyes I prayed,
Thanking my God for light, though long delayed;
And gentle calm stole o'er my wild unrest.
"Oh soul!" I said, "thy boding murmurs cease;
Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall,
Thy Father's hand is guiding thee through all;
His love will bring a true and perfect peace.
Look upward once again: though drear the night,
Earth may be darkness, Heav'n will give thee light."

THE CHURCH.

CLAD in a robe of pure and spotless white,
The youthful bride with timid step comes forth
To greet the hand to which she plights her troth,
Her soft eyes radiant with a strange delight.
The snowy veil which circles her around

Shades the sweet face from every gazer's eye, And thus enwrapped, she passes calmly byNor casts a look but on the unconscious ground. So should the Church, the bride elect of HeavenRemembering Whom she goeth forth to meet