And calm them with a power divine. TO THEMIRA. BY WILLIAM LEGGETT. [_Written with French chalk[Q] on a pane of glass in the home of a friend._] On this frail glass, to others' view, No written words appear; They see the prospect smiling through, Nor deem what secret's here. But shouldst thou on the tablet bright A single breath bestow, At once the record starts to sight Which only thou must know. Thus, like this glass, to stranger's gaze My heart seemed unimpress'd; In vain did beauty round me blaze, It could not warm my breast. But as one breath of thine can make These letters plain to see, So in my heart did love awake When breath'd upon by thee. EVENING. [_From the Backwoodsman._] BY JAMES K. PAULDING. 'Twas sunset's hallow'd time--and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky: Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, While hands unseen, or chance directs their way; Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, The subject world slipt from his dotard rule. Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, And deeper hues the ruddy skied invade; The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds. Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm, The silent dews of evening dropt like balm; The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies, To chase the viewless insect through the skies; The bat began his lantern-loving flight, The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear; The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie, With idle hum, and careless blundering eye; The little trusty watchman of pale night, The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, And took his merry airy circuit round The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew, In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew. THOUGHTS ON PARTING. BY JOHN INMAN.