Roam they the crystal fields of light,
O'er paths by holy angels trod,
Their robes with heavenly lustre bright,
Their home, the Paradise of God?

Soul of the just! and canst thou soar

Amidst those radiant spheres sublime, Where countless hosts of heaven adore, Beyond the bounds of space or time?—

And canst thou join the sacred choir,

Through heaven's high dome the song to raise, Where seraphs strike the golden lyre In everduring notes of praise?

Oh! who would heed the chilling blast,
That blows o'er time's eventful sea,

If bid to hail, its perils past,
The bright wave of eternity!

And who the sorrows would not bear
Of such a transient world as this,
When hope displays, beyond its care,

So bright an entrance into bliss!

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

AND this is death! how cold and still,

And yet how lovely it appears;

Too cold to let the gazer smile,

But far too beautiful for tears.

The sparkling eye no more is bright, The cheek hath lost its rose-like red; And yet it is with strange delight

I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never look'd so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there,

I wonder not that grief should swell

So wildly upward in the breast,

And that strong passion once rebel
That need not, cannot be suppress'd.

I wonder not that parents' eyes, In gazing thus grow cold and dim,

That burning tears and aching sighs Are blended with the funeral hymn;

The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,

And heaven would scorn the frozen heart, That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet why mourn? that deep repose Shall never more be broke by pain; Those lips no more in sighs unclose, Those eyes shall never weep again.

For think not that the blushing flower Shall wither in the church-yard sod,

'Twas made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far The clouds of death in sorrow fly,

I see thee like a new-born star

Move up thy pathway in the sky:

The star hath rays serene and bright, But cold and pale compared with thine; For thy orb shines with heavenly light, With beams unfailing and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;

Thrice happy-that their infant bears To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs, Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not, soon forget! Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet Thy features calm and mildly sweet; But no, that look is not the last, We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-farewell.

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

THE SONG AT TWILIGHT.

WHEN evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;

When not a murmur, not a sound,
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;—

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,

O, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,

O, sister, sing the song once more,
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.