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He came :-Thy burthen on him laid,

He meekly bow'd his head :-'Twas done,
While shrunk in deep mysterious shade,

The beam of heayen’s affrighted sun.
Justice !-command thy storm to roll,-

Yet Sinai's thunder speaks in vain;
Powerless to rouse the torpid soul,

Enslaved by sin's unyielding chain.
But, Lamb of God! one glance at Thee,

Thy welling side, -Thy mournful brow,
The bonds are burst!—The slave is free!

The heart of ice is melted now.
For thee, my soul, though nature fail,

And death shall still this heart of mine,
That man of woe, that sufferer pale,

Thy glory, and thy life shall shine.




'Tis morning's earliest dawn; The dark grey clouds grow rosy in the east,

And cast a crimson glow of shining light
Upon the surface of the broad lake's breast.

Slowly and silently
The day-king lifts his ray-encircled brow

Above the mountain top and forest tree,
And with his smile irradiates all below.

And hark! a low soft hum
Of gently murmured music now is heard,

Too near the earth to be the wild lark's song,
Too tremulous for the woods by soft winds stirred.

It is the mountain bee
Deep hidden in the purple fox-glove's bell,

Making it ring a sweet-toned matin chime
Above the flow'rets in the emerald dell.

Anon those tones are still,
And then he revels on the nectar there,

He takes his fill, rings out another tune,
Then floats away upon the morning air.

Now on a bed of thyme
He folds his silver wings—but not to sleep.

He culls delicious food for coming hours,
When dreary winter round his reign shall keep.

He pauses not for rest,
He loiters not, but works throughout the day,

A living lesson, passing eloquent,
To those who idly wile life's precious hours away.

But see, the sun goes down
His parting rays are gilding tower and tree,

The flowers have closed their eyes, and homeward comes Laden with honey sweets, the wearied mountain bee. Winchester.



Gently they passed away

In the full glory of their youthful prime, And sought in the far distant land of day

A more congenial clime. They found an early tomb;

Their life was like the fragrance of a flower, Fleeting but beautiful; their radiant bloom

Faded in one short hour.
Life's summer morning broke

In glorious beauty, but its brilliant skies
Were soon cloud-shadowed, so they slept, and woke

In sunny Paradise.
Why should we mourn their loss ?

Or think it hard that they so soon should die.
They gained the crown, but scarcely bore the cross,

And now they rest on high.

Death with its sable wing

May darken all that's bright and lovely here, But never can his blighting shadows fling

On what is lovely there. Here shall they spotless bloom

In everlasting beauty, while the night Shall never shadow with its cheerless gloom,

Those flow'rets of the light.
No blighting winter's breath

Shall ever sweep across that garden fair,
But housed from every storm and safe from death,
The buds shall blossom there.

E. E.


ERE, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,

That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-

The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made

The valleys sick with heat ?

Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;
Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forest glad?
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! 'twere a lot too blest
For ever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amidst the kisses of the soft south-west

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.


“Deep calleth unto deep.” And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
0, 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 thine 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.


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