Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell! With raptured ear,
That uncaged spirit, hovering, lingers near:-
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss,
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this?
The Falls of Niagara.-BRAINARD.
THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him,
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters ;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
O, what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar!
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him,
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?-a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.
At Musing Hour.-THOMAS WELLS.
Ar musing hour of twilight gray,
When silence reigns around,
I love to walk the churchyard way:
To me 'tis holy ground.
To me, congenial is the place
Where yew and cypress grow;
I love the moss-grown stone to trace,
That tells who lies below.
And, as the lonely spot I pass
Where weary ones repose,
I think, like them, how soon, alas !
My pilgrimage will close.
Like them, I think, when I am gone,
And soundly sleep as they,
Alike unnoticed and unknown
Shall pass my name away.
Yet, ah !—and let me lightly tread!-
She sleeps beneath this stone,
That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone!
Her image 'tis-to memory dear—
That clings around my heart,
And makes me fondly linger here,
Unwilling to depart.
WHEN Summer's sunny hues adorn
Sky, forest, hill and meadow,
The foliage of the evergreens,
In contrast, seems a shadow.
But when the tints of autumn have
Their sober reign asserted,
The landscape that cold shadow shows
Into a light converted.
Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth
Will smile upon our sorrow,
And many dark fears of to-day
May be bright hopes to-morrow.
The Flower Spirit.-ANONYMOUS.
I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower;
Mine is the exquisite music that flies,
When silence and moonlight reign over each bower,
That blooms in the glory of tropical skies.
I woo the bird with his melody glowing
To leap in the sunshine, and warble its strain,
And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing,
The songster is paid for his music again.
There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding;
Care is a stranger, and troubles us not;
And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding,
I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot.
They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces,
They drink our warm breath, rich with odor and song,
Then hurry away to their desolate places,
And look for us hourly, and think of us long.
Who of the dull earth that's moving around us,
Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose,
At the opening of spring, our destiny found us
A prisoner until the first bud should unclose;
Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air,
And leap off in joy to the music that won us,
And made us the tenants of climates so fair!
"Man giveth up the Ghost, and where is he?”— CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.
I STAND among the dark-gray stones;
No living thing is near;
Beneath me are the mouldering bones
Of those who once were here.
And here, perhaps, they mused like me,
And heard the grave declare,
On every side, its victory,
And saw how frail they were.
Like me, they felt that sense is nought,
That passion is a dream,
That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught,
Must sink beneath the stream.
And, as the lonely spot I pass
Where weary ones repose,
I think, like them, how soon, alas!
My pilgrimage will close.
Like them, I think, when I am gone,
And soundly sleep as they,
Alike unnoticed and unknown
Shall pass my name away.
Yet, ah!—and let me lightly tread!—
She sleeps beneath this stone,
That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone!
Her image 'tis-to memory dear-
That clings around my heart,
And makes me fondly linger here,
Unwilling to depart.
WHEN Summer's sunny hues adorn
Sky, forest, hill and meadow,
The foliage of the evergreens,
In contrast, seems a shadow.
But when the tints of autumn have
Their sober reign asserted,
The landscape that cold shadow shows
Into a light converted.
Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth
Will smile upon our sorrow,
And many dark fears of to-day
May be bright hopes to-morrow.
The Flower Spirit.-ANONYMOUS.
I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower;
Mine is the exquisite music that flies,
When silence and moonlight reign over each bower,
That blooms in the glory of tropical skies.
I woo the bird with his melody glowing
To leap in the sunshine, and warble its strain,
And mine is the odor, in turn, that bestowing,
The songster is paid for his music again.
There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding;
Care is a stranger, and troubles us not;
And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding,
I woo, and they tenderly glide o'er the spot.
They pause, and we glow in their rugged embraces,
They drink our warm breath, rich with odor and song,
Then hurry away to their desolate places,
And look for us hourly, and think of us long.
Who of the dull earth that's moving around us,
Would ever imagine, that, nursed in a rose,
At the opening of spring, our destiny found us
A prisoner until the first bud should unclose;
Then, as the dawn of light breaks upon us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air,
And leap off in joy to the music that won us,
And made us the tenants of climates so fair!
"Man giveth up the Ghost, and where is he?"CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.
I STAND among the dark-gray stones;
No living thing is near;
Beneath me are the mouldering bones
Of those who once were here.
And here, perhaps, they mused like me,
And heard the grave declare,
On every side, its victory,
And saw how frail they were.
they felt that sense is nought,
That passion is a dream,
That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught,
Must sink beneath the stream.
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