FROM "THE SEXTON'S DAUGHTER."

STILL hope! still act ! Be sure that life,
The source and strength of every good,
Wastes down in feeling's empty strife,
And dies in dreaming's sickly mood,

To toil in tasks, however mean,

For all we know of right and true,In this alone our worth is seen;

'Tis this we were ordained to do.

So shalt thou find in work and thought
The peace that

sorrow cannot give ;

Though grief's worst pangs to thee be taught,
By thee let others noblier live.

O wail not in the darksome forest,
Where thou must needs be left alone!

But, e'en when memory is sorest,
Seek out a path, and journey on.

Thou wilt have angels near above,

By whom invisible aid is given; They journey still on tasks of love,

And never rest, except in heaven.

STERLING,

THE CLOUD VOICE.

MORTAL! on our azure pathway
Speed we where our errand lies;
Each our urn of treasures bearing,
Freshening earth with glad supplies.

By no will of ours we rose here,
By no choice of ours we live;
Powers, far, far above our scanning,
Laws inevitable give.

Our snowy forms, in mid-day air,
Our sunset tints of fire,
Our lightning-flash, our thunder-roar,
Obey a mandate higher.

Our sky-course run, our mission wrought,
Wasted forms we sink to earth,
Till that same great power recalls us
To another new air-birth.

Thus far onward we together;—
For the forms of good and ill,
The events which cluster round thee,
These exist not through thy will.

Yet within thy human bosom

Dwells a force creative too;

Outward circumstance it fashions,
All invests with its life-hue.

And thy glory lies in using,

Right and true, this wondrous strength; Soaring where thy chains permit thee, Not murmuring for more length.

In the pride of human reason

Thou hast spurned a finite power, And sought the Eternal Cause of all grasp in life's short hour.

To

Not to scan thy Father's counsels,
But perform them, is thy task;
Duty finished-then the why
Of thy being thou'lt not ask.

Puzzle thee the paths of duty

As their varied course they run?
O linger not in wilds of doubt !
Strike into the nearest one.

"Twill lead thee to some fairer height,
Radiant with celestial glow,
Where the prospect all before thee
Brighter, clearer, still shall grow.

Then whilst thou art upward hastening,
New visions from new heights to gain,
No more shall how onward vex thee ;-
Duty done, life's path is plain.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my

childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild

wood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

Low spake the knight to the peasant girl,

"I tell thee sooth — I am belted earl;

Fly with me from this garden small,

And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall.