FIRST VOICE. The pilgrim who reaches the valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is launched on the wreck-cover'd river. SECOND VOICE. The traveller, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes for ever! THE DECEASED INFANT. Charlotte Glizabeth. BEAUTIFUL baby! art thou sleeping 'Mother! loved mother! I am not sleeping; Father! look up to the soft blue sky, Where the glittering stars their watch are keeping, Singing and shining there am I. 'Warm was the tender breast that bore me, 'Twas sweet my mother to rest with thee; But I was chosen, thou must restore me To the Saviour's bosom-He bled for me. 'I lingered below 'till almost discerning 'My brothers! my heart would soon have grown fonder, When gazing on each young smiling face, But I go to those others who, sparkling yonder, Waited for me in that beauteous place. 'Oh! many a lonely hour of weeping 'Could I shew thee my brother and sister's dwelling, Could I sing thee the songs they are singing here, Could I tell thee the tales that we are telling, Oh, where, my mother, will be thy tear? For we on glorious wings are sailing, Where rainbow tents surround the throneAnd while bright seraphs their eyes are veiling We see the face of the Holy One. 'And we, when heaven's high arch rejoices, With thundering notes of raptured praise, We, thine own babes, with loud sweet voices, The frequent hallelujah raise. And we, oh, we! are closely pressing Where stands the Lamb for sinners slain; Hark! glory, honor, power, and blessing! Away! we are called to swell the strain. 'Mother! loved mother, we are not sleeping; Father, look up, where the bright stars be; Where all the planets their watch are keeping, Singing and shining there are we.' TO THE IVY. Mrs. Bemans. On! how would fancy crown with thee Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er, Where song's full notes once peal'd around, The Roman on the battle plains, Yet there, tho' fresh in glossy green, Where sleep the sons of ages flown, Where years are hastening to efface Wreath of the tomb, art there. Thou o'er the shrine of fallen gods And cities of the dead. Arches of triumph long o'erthrown, Oh! many a temple once sublime And reared midst clouds and crags 'tis thine High from the fields of air look down But thou art there, thy foliage bright, The breathing forms of Parian stone, 'Tis still the same, where'er we tread, Left to decay, and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength; Days pass, thou ivy never sear, And all is thine at length. GIFTS. Anon. GIFTS are the beads of memory's rosary, Whereon she reckons kind remembrances Of friends, and old affections! |