THE CHURCH OF ST. LAWRENCE IN THE
ISLE OF WIGHT.

By THEODORE ELBERT, a young Swede.
THE humble building rises fair,
Beneath the cliff above the sea,
As if it had grown upward there,
A temple for the heart to be:
Its quiet beauty blesseth me
With thrills of inmost gladness,
And e'en its lowly mounds leave nought
To raise a single aching thought,
Or throb of bitter sadness.

The little bell against the sky,

The low grey walls, the printless sodThe roof through which, with fearless eye, We look with faith to find our GodThe churchyard small, so seldom trod, Whence wandering folly flees;

In holy beauty all is calm:

O kneel, and raise a grateful psalm,—
God gave in love for these.

The main below, the heavens above,

Speak not of God more plain than thou;
Around thee breathes a voice of love,
And humble strength is on thy brow:
Methinks thy narrow floor e'en now,
The Mighty Presence fills;

And thou art earth's most fitting place,
For man to commune face to face,
With him his life who wills.

I LOVE THE LAND.

By WILLIAM KENNEDY.

I LOVE the land!

I see its mountains hoary,

On which time vainly lays his iron hand;

I see the valleys robed in sylvan glory,

And many a lake with lone, romantic strand;

And streams, and towers, by immortal story
Ordained heart-stirring monuments to stand:
Yet tower, stream, lake, or valley could not move me,
Nor the star-wooing mountain, thus to love thee,
Old, honour'd land!

I love the land!

I hear of distant ages

A voice proclaiming that it still was free; That from the hills where winter wildest rages Swept forth the rushing winds of liberty; That blazon'd broadly on the noblest pages

E'er stamp'd by Fame its children's deeds shall be. O! poor pretender to a poet's feeling

Were he who heard such voice in vain appealing:
I love the land!

I love the land!

My fathers lived and died there;

But not for that the homage of their son;
I found the spirit in its native pride there-
Unfetter'd thoughts-right actions boldly done :
I also found-(the memory shall preside here,

Throned in his breast, till life's tide cease to run)
Affection tried and true from men high-hearted.
Once more as when from those kind friends I parted,
God bless the land!

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

By HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

AH! well it is, since she is gone,

She may return no more,
To see that face so dim and wan,
That was so warm before.

Familiar things would all seem strange,
And pleasures past be woe;

A record sad of ceaseless change
Is all the world below.

The very hills, they are not now
The hills that once they were,—
They change as we are changed, or how
Could we the burden bear?

Ye deem the dead are ashy pale,
Cold denizens of gloom;

But what are ye that live, and wail,
And weep upon the tomb?

She pass'd away like morning dew,
Before the sun was high;

So brief her time, she scarcely knew
The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
Sweet love around her floated;
Beloved she grew, while mortal doom
Crept on, unfelt, unnoted.

Love was her guardian angel here;
But Love to Death resigned her:

Though Love was kind, why should we fear
But holy Death is kinder?

TO MY INFANT.

By ALARIC A. WATTS.

WELCOME! thrice welcome to my heart, sweet harbinger of

bliss!

How have I look'd, till hope grew sick, for moment bright as this;

Thou hast flash'd upon my aching sight when fortune's clouds are dark,

The sunny spirit of my dreams-the dove unto mine ark!

Oh no, not even when life was new, and love and hope were young,

And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze I

hung,

Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep,

That stir my bosom's inmost strings as I watch thy placid sleep!

Though loved and cherish'd be the flower that springs 'neath summer skies,

The bud that blooms 'mid wintry storms more tenderly we prize;

One does but make our bliss more bright, the other meets

our eye

Like a radiant star, when all beside have vanish'd from on

high.

Sweet blossom of my stormy hour-star of my troubled heaven!

To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing light is

given;

And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that

thou,

A messenger of peace and love,—art sent to cheer me now.

What though my heart be crowded close with inmates dear though few,

Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a niche for you!

And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a place, Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as fair a face!

I listen to thy feeble cry, till it wakens in my breast The sleeping energies of love-sweet hopes, too long represt!

For weak as that low wail may seem to other ears than

mine,

It stirs my heart like a trumpet's voice, to strive for thee and thine!

It peals upon my dreaming soul, sweet tidings of the birth Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth; And, strengthening many a bright resolve, it bids me do

and dare

All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy sojourn fair!

I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may

fling

O'er all the promise of thy youth-the visions of thy

spring

For I would not warp thy gentle heart-each kindlier impulse ban,

By teaching thee-what I have learned-bow base a thing is man!

I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh is heir;

But I can arm thee with a spell, life's keenest ills to bear. I may not fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee pray For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take away!

From alter'd friendship's chilling glance-from hate's envenom'd dart ; 66 true love's "

Misplaced affection's withering pang-or

wontéd smart,

I cannot shield my sinless child; but I can bid him seek Such faith and love from heaven above, as will leave earth's malice weak.

But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird

his care,

And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill could

bear,

Will still His guiding arm extend, his glorious plan pursue, And, if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee courage

too!

Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the last! 'Tis sweet to deem what thou may'st be, when long, long years have past;

To think, when time hath blanch'd my hair, and others leave my side,

Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing and my

pride.

And when the world has done its worst-when life's fever

fit is o'er,

And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it more;