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78 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

but for the public, Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands. An interesting volume under this title, was published soon after her return from England. She resides still at Hartford, Connecticut. Her Select Poems, from which some of the following have been taken, have passed through five or six editions, which tells plainly the wide admiration they have won, by their mild dignity and harmony, good sense, and pure religion. Memory, and Dew-drops, have been kindly sent us by the authoress, as an express contribution for this volume. 

SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY.

I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot
Of the crown'd Alleghany, when he wrapp'd 
His purple mantle gloriously around,
And took the homage of the princely hills, 
And ancient forests, as they bow'd them down,
Each in his order of nobility.
—And then in glorious pomp, the sun retired
Behind that solemn shadow. And his train 
Of crimson, and of azure and of gold,
Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint,
And ray on ray, till all the concave caught 
His parting benediction

          But the glow
Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank 
In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood
In awful state, like dread ambassador
'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown'd severe
Upon the world beneath, and lifted up
The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky,
To witness 'gainst its sins. And is it meet 
For thee, swoln out in cloud-capp'd pinnacle,
To scorn thine own original, the dust
That, feebly eddying on the angry winds,

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 79

Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee,
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach
This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root 
Draws depth and nutriment?

          But lo! a star, 
The first meek herald of advancing night,
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe 
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence
Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star!
Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world,
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach 
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes 
Thee light, and man salvation

           Not to mark
And treasure up his follies, or recount
Their secret record in the court of Heaven,
Thou com'st. Methinks thy tenderness would shroud, 
With trembling mantle, his infirmities.
The purest natures are most pitiful.
But they who feel corruption strong within,
Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace 
Of their own image, in another's breast.
—So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies
His own mad visage, furiously destroys 
The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star!
Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls,
While race on race their circles mark,
And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, 
Who through this evening scene may wander on,
And from yon mountain's cold magnificence
Turn to thy milder beauty, point to all,
The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth,
A silent teacher of its boundless love.

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