Imatges de pÓgina


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!


Charlotte Glizabeth. BEAUTIFUL baby! art thou sleeping

Ne'er to unclose that beaming eye? Deaf to the voice of a mother's weeping,

All unmoved by a father's sigh? 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 father's voice, and my mother's smile ; Love's infant lesson my heart was learning,

But my spirit was called to heaven the while. • 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

Thou hast passed by their forsaken bed; But, mother, look up, they are not sleeping

They linger not with the silent dead.


• 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.'


Mrs. Demans.
On! how would fancy crown with thee

In ancient days the God of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be

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,

But now are heard no more.

The Roman on the battle plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains

Around the victor's tent.
Yet there, tho’ fresh in glossy green,

Triumphantly thy boughs may wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene

Around the victor's grave:

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,

The bards and heroes of the past, Where through the halls of glory gone,

Murmurs the wintry blast. Where years are hastening to efface

Each record of the grand and fair, Thou, in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb, art there. Thou o'er the shrine of fallen gods

On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes,

And cities of the dead. Deserted palaces of kings,

Arches of triumph long o'erthrown,
And all once glorious earthly things,

At length are thine alone.
Oh! many a temple once sublime

Beneath the blue Italian sky,
With nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry. And reared midst clouds and crags 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of

yore, On mould'ring towers by lovely Rhine,

Cresting the rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down

Those eyries of a banished race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath passed, and left no trace;

But thou art there, thy foliage bright,

Unchanged the mountain storm can brave, Thou that will climb the loftiest height,

And deck the humblest grave.
The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round grandeur's marble halls, The vivid hues of painting thrown

Rich o'er the flowing walls; The acanthus on Corinthian fanes,

In sculptured beauty waving fairThese perish all, and what remains,

Thou, thou alone, art there, 'Tis still the same, where'er we tread,

The wrecks of human power we see,
The marvels of all ages fled,

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.


1011. Gifts are the beads of memory's rosary, Whereon she reckons kind remembrances Of friends, and old affections !

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