From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child!
That dreadful shriek again,—sharp, sharp, and wild!
It ceased. With speed o' th' lightning's flash,
A loose-robed form, with streaming hair,
Shoots by.-A leap!-a quick, short splash!
'Tis gone!—and nothing there!

The waves have swept away the bubbling tide.
Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ride!
She's sleeping in her silent cave,

Nor hears the loud, stern roar above,
Nor strife of man on land or wave.

Young thing! her She soon has reach'd! They harm'd her not!

home of love

Fair, unpolluted thing,
Was dying suffering?

Oh, no! To live when joy was dead;
To go with one lone, pining thought,―
To mournful love her being wed,-

Feeling what death had wrought;

To live the child of woe, nor shed a tear,

Bear kindness, and yet share not joy or fear;
To look on man, and deem it strange

That he on things of earth should brood,
When all the throng'd and busy range

To her was solitude,

Oh, this was bitterness! Death came and press'd
Her wearied lids, and brought the sick heart rest.

THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE.

Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold,
As once ye did in your young day of love,
On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays,
Its silent meditations and glad hopes,
Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies;
Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss
Full, certain, and possess'd. Domestic cares
Call you not now together. Earnest talk

On what your children may be moves you not.
Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence;

Not like to that in which ye rested once

Most happy,-silence eloquent, when heart

With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames,
Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat

Touch'd the soft notes of love.

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love?
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds

Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds,
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought,-
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?

And do our loves all perish with our frames?
Do those that took their root and put forth buds,

And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth

Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers?

Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech,
And make it send forth winning harmonies,

That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance,-
Are these the body's accidents ?-no more?-
To live in it, and, when that dies, go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?

Oh, listen, man!1
A voice within us speaks the startling word,
"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices
Hymn it around our souls; according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality;

Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

Oh, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in

From all the air! Tis in the gentle moonlight;
Is floating in day's setting glories; Night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears:

Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,

As one great mystic instrument, are touch'd

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.

The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth

Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

Why is it that I linger round this tomb?
What holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn.
They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes,
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell
In love, their God's and angels'. Mutual love,
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech
For full communion; nor sensations strong,
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy.

I thank thee, Father,

That at this simple grave on which the dawn
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath
No close, thou kindly unto my dark mind

Hast sent a sacred light, and that away

1"We scarcely know where, in the English language, we could point out a finer extract than this, of the same character. It has a softened grandeur worthy of the subject; especially in the noble paragraph commencing 'Oh, listen, man?" -Rev. G. B. CHEEVER.

From this green hillock, whither I had come

In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy.

THE DEATH OF SIN AND THE LIFE OF HOLINESS.

Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath,
Uncall'd by God. We look, and name it death.
Mad wretch! the soul hath no last sleep; the strife
To end itself but wakes intenser life

In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er!
Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more?
What! life destroy itself? Oh, idlest dream,
Shaped in that emptiest thing,— -a doubter's scheme!
Think'st in a universal soul will merge

Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge?
Or, scarce less skeptic, sin will have an end,
And thy purged spirit with the holy blend
In joys as holy? Why a sinner now?

As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou.

God's Book, rash doubter, holds the plain record.
Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word?
Or palter with it in a quibbling sense?

That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence.
Then, with thy spirit from the body freed,

Then shalt thou know, see, feel, what's life indeed.

Bursting to life, thy dominant desire

Shall upward flame, like a fierce forest fire;
Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash,-
Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash
A wild disaster round, like its own woe,-
"Woe forever!" in its flow,
And then pass on,-from far adown its path
Send back commingling sounds of woe and wrath,—
Th' indomitable Will shall know no sway;

Each wave cry,

God calls,-man, hear him; quit that fearful way!

Come, listen to His voice who died to save
Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave;
From darkness show'd a path of light to heaven;
Cried, "Rise and walk: thy sins are all forgiven."

Blest are the pure in heart.
He'll cleanse thy spotted soul.

Wouldst thou be blest?

Wouldst thou find rest?

Around thy toils and cares he'll breathe a calm,

And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm,

From fear draw love, and teach thee where to seek
Lost strength and grandeur,-with the bow'd and meek.

Come lowly; he will help thee. Lay aside

That subtle, first of evils,-human pride.
Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid
To call aught poor or low that he has made.
Fear naught but sin; love all but sin; and learn
In all beside 'tis wisdom to discern

His forming, his creating power,-and bind
Earth, self, and brother to th' Eternal Mind.

THE MOTHER AND SON.

"The sun not set yet, Thomas?" "Not quite, sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yonder as if their branches were all on fire."

Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and, with his hat still over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes toward the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in it that, except in relation to his own home, there were the same vague notions in his brain, concerning the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign land.

He had passed the night between tumultuous grief and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his sick-chamber for the first time, he began his way homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars that were here and there over the sky seemed to look down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light upon him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as the last faded from his sight, it was as if something good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in the east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in full glory. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockery of his sorrow.

Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went on talking in a low, monotonous tone; but Arthur only heard something sounding in his ears, scarcely heeding that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisomeness from the motion of the carriage; but in all things else the day passed as a melancholy dream.

Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he shuddered and turned pale, for he knew the hill near him. As they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near his home. The river before him, reflecting the rich evening sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine; and the birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, bursting into short, gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful, and so near his own home, too. His horses' hoofs struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to his heart; for it was here his mother took her last leave of him, and blessed him.

As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of strangeness that every thing should be just as it was when he left it. An undefined thought floated in his mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change in whatever he had been familiar with. But the boys were at their noisy games in the street, the laborers returning together from their work, and the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He concealed himself as well as he could, and bade Thomas hasten on.

As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in about it, and there was a melancholy gusty sound in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb. He entered the parlor. There was the gloom and stillness of a deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, cautious step overhead. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. She hurried down, and threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon as he could speak, he asked, "Is she alive?" he could not say, my mother. "She is sleeping," answered his sister, "and must not know to-night that you are here she is too weak to bear it now." "I will go look at her, then, while she sleeps," said he, drawing his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy had made him shed the first tears which had fallen from him that day, and he was more composed.

He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon him; and, as he drew near his mother's bedside, and looked on her pale, placid face, he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should disturb the secret communion that the soul was holding with the world into which it was soon to enter. His grief, in the loss which he was about to suffer, was forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of invisible spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's lips moved slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke. It was the same gentle voice which he had known and felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left him, he sunk down,-and his sorrow went over him like a flood.

The next day, as soon as his mother became composed enough to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She stretched out her feeble hand, and turned toward him, with a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt at being spared to see him before she died. My dear mother," said Arthur, but he could not go on. His voice choked, and his eyes filled. "Do not be so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss of me. We are not to part forever. Remember, too, how comfortable and happy you have made my days.

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