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It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!

And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, "Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

HYMN.

For my Brother's ordination.

By LONGFELLOW.

CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet one thing more;
If thou wouldst perfect be,

Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor,
And come and follow me!"

Within this temple Christ again, unseen,

Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been
Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his

way,

The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm, and say,
"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,
To make the scene more fair;

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane
Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!
Like the beloved John,

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,
And thus to journey on!

VOICES OF POESIE.

From the anonymous volume already cited.

Ir is thy way of telling: in the woods,
The meadows, and the hilly solitudes,

Thou speakest thus, and choosest for thy voice,
The little throats that raise the piping noise
Which rings on summer days among green trees;
The coy leaves that with the frolicsome breeze,
Hold courtship i' th' forest, or to themselves
Tell whispering tales of fairy-land, and elves
That haunt their own wood in its dreamy places;
The joyous stream that through the meadow chases
Its own thought, like a child; the voice that comes
To his ear among the hills, when the poet roams,
Wrapt up in visions. Many a tongue beside
Thou tak'st from nature; but all mystified
They come to us—most musical in tone,
But dim in meaning, save to those alone
Who are thy gifted; their fine ear receives
The meaning which thy voice in mystery gives.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.

By N. P. WILLIS.

'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.

Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,
And for her step we listen, and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel

That she will no more come-that from her cheek
The delicate flush has faded, and the light
Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,

That was so exquisitely pure, the dew
Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so loved,
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up

Such treasures of affection? She was loved
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere-the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish! It is like
The melting of a star into the sky
While you are gazing on it, or a dream
In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.

AN OLD MAID'S RETROSPECTIONS.

From a recent number of Chambers's Journal.

I LOOK into the dreamy past, and see-what do I see?
They look like visions now, but then, how real were they

to me!

I see my girlhood full of hope, my lover true and brave;
In fancy still I hear his vow, as a pledge of truth he gave.
It was a ring: he smiling said: ""Twill serve to guard the

space

Upon thy finger, till I put another in its place."

That first love-gift, see, here it is—Oh, what a slender band Though tethered by a golden chain to this poor wither'd hand.

And it was in that girlish time when I perchance might see A youthful mother's glance of pride at the babe upon her

knee.

I envied her that happiness, and oh, my heart beat wild That I might one day be the matron mother of his child. 'Twas woman's nature in me spoke; but scarcely had the thought

Been form'd, ere maiden pride and shame a mingled colour brought:

Vain was the guiltless blush, for though these hopes of mine might seem

So near fulfilment then, alas, they proved indeed a dream.

Too poor to wed, my lover true, left his own native strand, Thinking to win a home for me in a far distant land.

Years pass'd, he wrote that silver threads were mingling with his hair.

They were in mine-those fruits, from seed sown by the hand of Care.

Now, whiter than the snow-clad hill, or foam that crests the

wave,

Are my thin locks; his weary head rests in a foreign grave. Ay, maidens, you may sigh; God grant that happier be your lot;

For me, no power could make me wish this true-love dream forgot.

But after all my pains, my fears, my visions of the past,
One ever-present hope of mine will be fulfill'd at last;
And I am happy, for I know my bridal draweth nigh—
A union, purer, holier far in realms beyond the sky.
In every dream by night and day I hear again his voice;
I fancy that he beckons me, and calls me to rejoice;
That, when my eyes to earth are closed, my truly-loved
will be

The first by the Eternal sent to meet and welcome me.

THE TWO APRILS.

Contributed to Frazer's Magazine, by the author of a poem called Reverberations.

YOUNG April treads light in the woodland,
And smiles through her tears in the lane,
And the sun of the old, old spring-tide
Falls warm on the cheek again.

The breath of the old dead breezes,
That blew in the face of the boy,
Creeps back from my life's faded meadows
With whispers of hope and of joy.

The larks that I heard in my childhood,
Hid deep in the bending blue,
Sing yet of the same old heaven,
Till that heaven comes almost true.

VOL. VI.

N

89

Sing yet of the loving and longing
For the beauty of far-off skies,
Of the pleasures that spring like flowers
Round the steps of the gentle and wise.

And I wake from my dread despairing
Like a trembling child at night,
And lo! through the darkness of sorrow,
Hope walks with her calm glad light.

And still as she passes by me,

I see my pale dreams revive,

And the joy and the courage of spring-time
Make the dead, cold heart revive.

O world! thou art surely youthful ;
But the sapling shall grow a tree,
Thou too hast a soft green April

Shall bring the great summer to thee.

TO AN ABSENT CHILD.

From an old periodical, where it appeared anonymously.

WHERE art thou, bird of song?

Brightest one, and dearest !

Other groves among,

Other nests thou cheerest;

Sweet thy warbling skill

To each ear that heard thee,
But 'twas sweetest still

To the heart that rear'd thee.

Lamb where dost thou rest?
On stranger bosoms lying?
Flowers thy path that drest

Now uncropp'd are dying.
Streams where thou didst roam
Murmur on without thee;
Lovest thou still thy home?

Can thy mother doubt thee?

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