O, what a glory doth this world put on
For him, that, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves,

Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

THE MAY-FLY.

ANON.

THE Sun of the eve was warm and bright When the May-fly burst from his shell, And he wanton'd awhile in that fair light O'er the river's gentle swell;

And the deepening tints of the crimson sky Still gleam'd on the wing of the glad May-fly.

The colours of sunset pass'd away,

The crimson and yellow-green,

And the evening star's first twinkling ray
In the waveless stream was seen,
Till the deep repose of the stillest night
Was hushing about his giddy flight.

The noon of the night is nearly come---
There's a crescent in the sky :-
The silence still hears the myriad hum
Of the insect revelry:

The hum has ceas'd-the quiet wave
Is now the sportive May-fly's grave.

MES. SIGOURNEY.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On check and lip-be touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness,-a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids For ever. There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow,-Death gazed, and left it there;-he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.

O, what a glory doth this world put on For him, that, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.

THE MAY-FLY.

ANON.

THE Sun of the eve was warm and bright
When the May-fly burst from his shell,
And he wanton'd awhile in that fair light

O'er the river's gentle swell;

And the deepening tints of the crimson sky
Still gleam'd on the wing of the glad May-fy.
The colours of sunset pass'd away,

The crimson and yellow-green,
And the evening star's first twinkling ray
In the waveless stream was seen,
Till the deep repose of the stillest night
Was hushing about his giddy flight.

The noon of the night is nearly come-
There's a crescent in the sky:-

The silence still hears the myriad hum
Of the insect revelry:

The hum has ceas'd-the quiet wave
Is now the sportive May-fly's grave.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip;-he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness,-a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids For ever. There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow,Death gazed, and left it there;-he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.

138

STANZAS WRITTEN IN A CATHEDRAL

HARVEY.

How loud, amid these silent aisles, My quiet footstep falls,Where words, like ancient chronicles, Are scattered o'er the walls: A thousand phantoms seem to rise Beneath my lightest tread, And echoes bring me back replies From homes that hold the dead!

Death's harvests of a thousand years
Have here been gathered in:-
The vintage where the wine was tears,
The labourer was Sin;-

The loftiest passions and the least
Lie sleeping, side by side,

And love hath reared its staff of rest
Beside the grave of pride!

Alike o'er each-alike o'er all,

Their lone memorials wave;
The banner on the sculptured wall,
The thistle o'er the grave,

Each, herald-like, proclaims the style
And bearings of its dead,
But hangs one moral all the while
Above each slumbering head!

And the breeze, like an ancient bard, come!
And touches the solemn chords

Of the harp which death has hung on high,
And fancy weaves the words;

Songs that have one unwearied tone,
Though they sing of many an age,
And tales, to which each graven stone
Is but the title-page!

The warrior here hath sheathed his sword,
The poet crushed his lyre,
The miser left his counted hoard,
The chemist quenched his fire;
The maiden never more steals forth
To hear her lover's lute,
And all the trumpets of the earth
In the soldier's ear are mute!

Here the pilgrim of the hoary head
Has flung his crutch aside,
And the young man gained the bridal bed
Where death is the young man's bride;
The mother is here whom a weary track
Led sorrowing to the tomb,

And the babe whose path from heaven, back,
Was but its mother's womb!

The moonlight sits, with her sad sweet smile,
O'er the heedless painter's rest;

And the organ rings through the vaulted aisle,
But it stirs not the minstrel's breast!
The mariner has no wish to roam

From his safe and silent shore,
And the weeping in the mourner's home
Is hushed for evermore!

My heart is as an infant's still,

Though mine eyes are dim with tears;

I have this hour no fear of ill,

No grief for vanished years! Once more, for this wild world I set My solitary bark,

But-like those sleepers-I shall yet Go up into that ark!

There's quiet in the deep:

Above, let tides and tempests rave,

And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend

With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nur know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.

THERE's beauty in the deep:-
The wave is bluer than the sky;

And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow,
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore;-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away

There's music in the deep.

ART.

SPRAGUE.

Wars, from the sacred garden driven, Man fed before his Maker's wrath, ART left for him her place in heaven, To guide the wanderer's sunless path.

She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noon-tide sunbeam never blazed:-
The thistle shrank-the harvest smiled,
And Nature gladden'd as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command, to him are given;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.

He rends the oak,-and bids it ride,
To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock,-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength, and domes of taste.