How less what we may be; the eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave, but like some passing

waves.

KINDRED CONNECTION.
W. P. R.

KINDRED Connection !-chain around our hearts
We all so fondly bind-would that it were
As permanent as precious-but of parts
Material formed, although we thus declare
And sign a compact or whatever arts
We use to cherish it with all our care,
It will at times keep breaking here and there.
A link too worn, too brittle, or too weak,
Will leave it marr'd, as we have seen before,
Till sever'd all; but let us only seek

To bear the sterling stamp they sever'd bore, Then-here though mixed with earth it could but break,

Death will but fine th' imperishable ore,
And formed anew on high, it there will part

no more.

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

Spencer.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succor us that succor want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul friends to aid us militant.
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round us plant;
And all for love and nothing for reward:
Oh! why should heavenly love to man have
such regard?

WOMAN.
Byron.

THE very

first

Of human life must spring from woman's

breast,

Your first small words are taught you from her lips,

Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs

Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them.

THE END OF LIFE.

Mrs. Fry.

WHAT though the moments fly,
Mourn not their speed;

Sweet shall thy portion be
Whither they lead.

Though sorrow count the hours,
Hoping the last,

Let not thy spirit faint,
Ere they be past.

Smile when the moments fly,
Smile when they stay,
Life's longest, shortest night,
Closes in day.

HOPE.

Byron.

WHITE as a white sail on a dusky sea,
When half the horizon's clouded, and half-free
Fluttering between the dim wave and the sky,
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity.

Her anchor parts! but still her snow-white sail
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale,
Though every wave she rides divides us more,
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore.

COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS

FATHER.

Bemans.

TORCHES were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Frontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath;

And light, as noon's broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there;
As if each deeply furrow'd trace
Of earthly years to show;
Alas! that sceptred monarch's race

Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul;

And solemn were the strains they pour'd
Through the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,

As of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavements rang
With a sounding thrill of dread:
And the holy chant was hushed awhile,

As by the torch's flame,

A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear!

But his proud heart, through his breastplate shook

When he stood beside the bier!

He stood there still with a drooping brow
And clasp'd hands o'er it raised;
For his father laid before him low-
It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast;
But there's more in the late repentant love,
Then steel may keep suppress'd!

And his tears break forth at last like rain,
Men held their breath in awe;

For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he reck'd not that they saw.

He look'd upon the dead

And sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, e'en like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.