Where’er its light has been, But for a moment, twilight will remain; Before whose ray, the night-born thoughts of sin Cease from their torture of the maddened brain. The spirit, deepest fallen, it can win To better thoughts again! ’Tis for the young a star, Beckoning the spirit to the future on— Shining with pure and steady ray afar, The herald of a yet unbroken dawn, Where every fetter that has power to bar In its warm glow is gone! Who ne’er hath oped his heart To that dove-messenger on life’s dark sea, Binds down his soul, in cold, mistaken art, When vainly hoping he has made it free! In earth’s great family he takes no part— He has not learned _to be_! Who longs to feel its glow, And nurtures every spark unto him given, Has instincts of the rapture he shall know When from its thralling dust the soul is riven. He breathes, so long it blesses him below, The native air of Heaven! * * * * * SOLITUDE. BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. Oh! what a solitude doth mind create! A solitude of deep and holy thought— Alone with that Ideal good and great, Which never yet companionship hath sought; E’en as the eagle, when he highest soars, Leaves the dim earth and shadows all behind— Alone, the thunder-cloud around him roars, And the reft pinion flutters in the wind— Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep, And the calm ether knows nor storm nor cloud— And thus the soul its heavenward way must keep, Despite the tempest raging long and loud; Alone, to God bear up its earthly weight Of human hope and fear, nor feel all desolate. * * * * * MUSA; OR THE PILGRIM OF TRUTH. BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE,” ETC.