Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime, In worship to the rising sun; But Sorrow loves the calmer time, When the day-god his course hath run; When night is on her shadowy car, Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep; And guided by the evening star, She wanders forth to muse and weep. Joy loves to cull the summer flower, And wreath it round his happy brow; But when the dark autumnal hour Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; When the frail bud hath lost its worth, And Joy hath dashed it from his crest; Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, To wither on her withered breast. TO THE EVENING STAR. BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. Thou brightly-glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven, Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee. How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine! Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost. There, beings pure as Heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys together share; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. There cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights; There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul. Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, How swiftly will I soar to thee When this imprisoned soul is free. THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear. No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight, No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight; Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved. But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode, Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform, And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm; All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came, Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame, While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears, And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears: With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade;-- Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene. He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low; He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow; He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave, And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.