I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; When my gay purple banners are waving afar; When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star; When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake! Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even; When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, To their far away harbour, all silently driven, Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; When all is in silence and solitude here, Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! But when I steal silently over the lake, Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake! LAKE GEORGE. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. Not in the bannered castle Beside the gilded throne, On fields where knightly ranks have strode, In feudal halls--alone The Spirit of the stately mien, Whose presence flings a spell, Fadeless on all around her, In empire loves to dwell. Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters, Call up the shadows vast That linger in their dim domain, Dreams of the visioned past! As sweep the gorgeous pageants by We watch the pictured train, And sigh that aught so glorious Should be so brief and vain. But here a spell yet deeper Breathes from the woods and sky, Proudlier these rocks and waters speak Of hoar antiquity; Here Nature built her ancient realm While yet the world was young, Her monuments of grandeur Unshaken stand, and strong. Here shines the sun of Freedom For ever o'er the deep, Where Freedom's heroes by the shore In peaceful glory sleep; And deeds of high and proud emprize In every breeze are told, The everlasting tribute To hearts that now are cold. Farewell, then, scenes so lovely, If sunset gild your rest, Or the pale starlight gleam upon The water's silvery breast-- Or morning on these glad, green isles In trembling splendour glows-- A holier spell than beauty Hallows your pure repose! LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. BY W. H. L. BOGART. Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home In the wild regions of the far-off west, And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come, Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.