There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,-the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA.

"HAST thou seen that lordly castle,
That Castle by the Sea?
Golden and red above it

The clouds float gorgeously.

"And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirror'd wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow.”

"Well have I seen that castle,
That Castle by the Sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly."

"The winds and the waves of ocean,

Had they a merry chime?

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?”

"The winds and the waves of ocean,

They rested quietly;

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye."

"And sawest thou on the turrets
The king and his royal bride;

And the wave of their crimson mantles,
And the golden crown of pride?
"Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there?
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?"
Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe,
No maiden was by their side!

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall-stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stair way,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old moustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeons
In the round tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you for ever,
Yes, for ever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Rev. Robert Montgomery.

{

Born 1807.

Died 1855.

LITTLE is known of his early history, and he first appears before the public in his nineteenth year, as the author of "The Inspector," a weekly publication. After the publication of some minor pieces, in 1828 appeared "The Omnipresence of the Deity," and in 1829, "Satan," &c., both of which had considerable popularity. Encouraged by his success as an author, Robert Montgomery studied for the church, and was ordained in 1835 curate of Whittington, in Shropshire. He removed in 1836 to Percy Street Chapel, London, and from thence to St Jude's Episcopal Church, Glasgow. He was very popular there, and drew large audiences. In 1843 he returned to Percy Street Chapel, where he continued till his death, on 3d December 1855. Besides the poems already referred to, he is a voluminous theological writer.

FROM "SATAN."

THEN, is there not a spirit-world?—The blind
May question, and the mocking idiot laugh,
But in her, round her, wheresoe'er she moves,
Mortality might reap immortal faith,

And feel what cannot in the flesh be known-
In the wild mystery of Earth and Air,
Sun, moon, and star, and the unslumbering sea,
There is a meaning and a power, commixt
For thought, and for undying fancy tuned.
And by thy panting for the unattained

On earth; by longings which no language speaks;

By the dread torture of o'ermastering doubt;
By thirst for beauty, such as eye ne'er saw,
And yet, is ever mirror'd on the mind;
By Love, in her rich heavenliness arrayed;
By Guilt and Conscience-that terrific pair
Who make the dead to mutter from their tombs,
Or colour nature with the hues of hell,
By all the fire and frenzy of the soul,
And Revelation's everlasting voice—Oh man
Thou art immortal as thy Maker is!

Now is mine hour, the hour of conflict come,
When the dark future over nature frowns
Like destiny; now Spirit is herself

Again, and Thought, within her cell retired,
Doth hold dim converse with eternal things.

James Ballantine.

Born 1808.

AN Edinburgh poet, and author of some of the most exquisite songs in the Scottish dialect ever written. In 1856 he collected and published them in one volume. Mr Ballantine is also author of some amusing prose pictures of Scottish life. He is a master house-painter, and has gained great credit by his stained glass transparencies, and the art displayed in house decoration.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS.

CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind,

Though pressed an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye'll win through,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles, nae doubt ye've been,

Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae

your een,

Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store

for you,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and clud

less sky

Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parch'd and dry,

The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring

anew,

And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine, we should feel owre proud and hie,

An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,

Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or how,

But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

THE bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in the ase,
Glowerin in the fire wi' his wee round face;
Laughin' at the fuffin' lowe-what sees he there?
Ha! the young dreamer's biggin' castles in the air!

His wee chubby face, an' his tousy curly pow,
Are laughin' an' noddin' to the dancin' lowe,
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
Glow'rin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,
He sees little sodgers pu'in' them a' doun;
Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, bleezin' wi' a flare,
Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air!

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?
He's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men,
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,
There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld;
His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak him auld
His brow is brent sae braid, so pray that Daddy Care
Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by Night; Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare,

Hearts are broken-heads are turned-wi' castles in the air.