Look out and love when the departing sun Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical In his last splendour, and reflects upon Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?" Or giving back those tints indefinite, Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch Whereon the angel-spirits of the light Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march, When sank the whelming waters, and again Left the green islands to the sons of men? Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw Its growing shadow on the sinking tide, How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue, As its new lustre told that wrath had died, Till the blue waves within their limits curled, And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world. Gaze yet again, and you may see on high The opposing hosts that mutter as they form Their stern battalions, ere the artillery Bids the destroying angel guide its storm; If you have heard on battle's eve the low Defiance quickly uttered to the foe, When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow, Pulsations which perchance may be their last, Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud; If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud. How from the bosom of its blackness springs The cleaving lightning kindling on its way, Flinging such blinding glory from its wings, That he who looks grows drunk with its array Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim, And dazzling darkness overshadows him. Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known The wondrous workings of thy firmament, Thine untold majesty, around whose throne They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent In light or darkness on their destined path, Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath. Then here, in this thy lower temple, here We kneel to thee in worship; what to these Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear Are painted domes or priestly palaces; On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere, We call on thee to commune and to bless, And see in holy fancy each pure sigh Ascend like incense to thy throne on high. THE ISLE OF REST. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. _Some of the islands where the fancied paradise of the Indians was situated, were believed to be in Lake Superior._ That blessed isle lies far away-- 'Tis many a weary league from land, Where billows in their golden play Dash on its sparkling sand. No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar, Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.