To God, who, from the rocky prison Where death had bound him, brought his Son, Creator, at whose steadfast word Here, where we hymn thy praises now, In worship and in prayer to Thee. And when our lips no more shall move, With trump, and pipe, and viol strings The Indian Summer.-Brainard. WHAT is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves? Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, The moon stays longest for the hunter now: The bright blue sky above him, and that bends Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, To William. Written by a bereaved Father.PEABODY. It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high; And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free, And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee. Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morning sky; And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that Health had painted there. And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears, 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years. Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy,That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy. I listened, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be, Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know? As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon. I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; but, ere that day was spent, I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled. Days passed; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain; I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again; The cheek was pale; the snowy lips were gently thrown apart; And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the heart. I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be pressed, And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my breast; Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seemed moving in the gloom, As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb. And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my eye, Thy little hand pressed gently mine, in token of reply ; I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee, I hoped that thou, within the grave my weary head should'st lay, And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close; And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose; For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppressed, And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest. Yes, I am sad and weary now; but let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more. Part of the 19th Psalm.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow, By burning day or gentle night. Their burning glory, all is known; God, 'mid their shining legions, rears A tent where burns the radiant sun: He holds his fiery path along; What is that, Mother?-GEORGE W. DOANE. WHAT is that, mother? The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, mother? The dove, my son. And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, What is that, mother?— The eagle, boy, Proudly careering his course of joy, What is that, mother?— The swan, my love. He is floating down from his native grove, He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Live so, my love, that when Death shall come, Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson.— "His eye spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mrs. Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on Edward, his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all present to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, 'Behold thy Mother!' "—Memoir of Payson, p. 425. WHAT SAID THE EYE?-The marble lip spake not, |