The broad high cliffs above us,
Like giant columns stand;

As in their grandeur stationed there,
The guardians of their land.

Yon purple clouds are drooping
Their banners from on high,

And brightly through their waving folds
Gleams forth the azure sky.
And sunset's beams are tinting

The mountain's lofty crest;

Yet fails their golden light to reach

The silent river's breast.

The eagle soars around us;

His home is on the height,

To which with eager, upward wing,
He shoots in airy flight.

The rough night blast high o'er us,
Assails the beetling verge;

And through the forests' tangled depths
Murmurs like ocean's surge:
The foliage trembles to his breath,

The massive timbers groan
But we, his might defying, pass
In sheltered silence on.

Onward! dim night is gathering;
Those gilded summits fade-
And darkly from the thickets brown
Extends the deep'ning shade:
It shrouds us, but we pause not:
With light and graceful sweep,
Shadowy and swift, our vessel breaks
The waters' glassy sleep.

Their rocky barrier past at length,
We feel the cool fresh air;

Yon light is beaming from our home,
And welcome waits us there.

WORLDLY CARES.

THE waves that on the sparkling sand
Their foaming crests upheave,
Lightly reced ng from the land,
Seem not a trace to leave:

Those billows in their ceaseless play,
Have worn the solid rocks away.

The summer winds, which wandering sigh

Amid the forest bower,

So gently, as they murmur by,

Scarce lift the drooping flower;

Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom,
Spring's withered beauties to the tomb.

Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne, Their impress leave behind;

And spirits, which their bonds would spurn, The blighting traces find;

Till altered thoughts and hearts grown cold, The change of passing years unfold.

IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH?

Is this a day of death?

The heavens look blithely on the laughing earth,
And from her thousand vales a voice of mirth

And melody is springing; with the breath
Of smiling flowers, that lift their joyous heads,
Bright with the radiant tears which evening sheds.

Hath sorrow's voice been heard

With her low plaint, and broken wail of woe?—
Hark to the play of waves!-and glancing now

Forth from his leafy nest th' exulting bird
Pours his wild carol on the fragrant gale,
Bidding the sun-bright woods and waters hail!

Hath happiness departed

From this glad scene? Is there a home-a hearth
Made desolate ? Alas! the tones of earth

Sound not in concert with the broken-hearted!
Yon sea-the gorgeous sun-the azure sky-
Were never meant to mourn with things that die!

SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.

Ir is no very easy matter to introduce one's own" Sketch," or decide on the relative merit of one's own performances. That I have written some things not unworthy a place in this collection, I certainly believe; nor could I see that there would be more presumption in thus including them among the poems of my sister authoresses, than in publishing mine in a separate volume. But whether to preface them or not, was the question. I flattered myself that those who were interested in my writings, might regret the omission of any notice of the writer: to speak of myself in the third person savored too much of affectation; still there is great discretion required in using the great I. -- Finally, I decided to confine my remarks chiefly to the influences which have made me what I am;- as thus, it appeared to me, my history might be of some benefit or consolation to those who are suffering similar sorrows, or struggling with similar difficulties; and such of my readers as are happily exempt from these, may find, in their "halcyon lot" the reason that their talents have never been directed to literary pursuits. Few females are educated for authorship; and as the obstacles which oppose the entrance of woman on the fields of literature are many and great, it requires, usually, a powerful pressure of outward circumstances to

develop and mature her genius.—It may be truly said of her, that

Strength is born

In the deep silence of long suffering hearts,
Not amidst joy."

My family name was Buell, and my birth-place Newport, now a pretty village nestled among the " green hills" of New-Hampshire. My parents were originally from Saybrook, Connecticut, which they left soon after the close of the revolutionary war, carrying with them to the then wilderness of the North, that love of learning and those strict religious observances which distinguished the inhabitants of the "Charter State." But goo schools could not at once be established in the new settlements; and I owe my early predilection for literary pursuits to the teaching and example of my mother. She had enjoyed uncommon advantages of education for a female of her times-possessed a mind clear as rock-water, and a most happy talent of communicating knowledge. She had read many of the old black-letter chronicles and romances of the days of chivalry; and innumerable were the ballads, songs and stories with which she amused and instructed her children-for she always contrived to teach us some serious truth, while she charmed us by these legends. We did not need the "Infant School" to make us love learning.

The books to which I had access were few, very few, in comparison with those given to children now-a-days; but they were such as required to be studied, and I did study them. Next to the Bible and Pilgrim's Progress, my earliest reading was Milton, Johnson, Pope, Cowper, and a part of Shakspeare-I did not obtain all his works, till some years after. The first regular novel I read, was The Mysteries of Udolpho," when I was about seven years of age. I name it on account of the influence it exercised over my mind. I had remarked, that of all the books I saw,