To weave a garland, will not let it wither;-
Wond'ring, Ilisten to the strain sublime,
That fiows, all freshly, down the stream of time,
Wafted in grand simplicity along,
The undying breath, the very soul of song.

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“The spider’s most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man’s tender tie
On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.”

ANoTHER ’tis a sad word to the heart,
That one by one has lost its hold on life,
From all it loved or valued, forced to part
In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife
That cuts at once and kills: its tortured strife
Is with distilled affliction, drop by drop
Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife
With grief and sorrow ; all that we would prop,
Or would be propped with, falls; when shall the ruin stop

The sea has one, and Palestine has one,
And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid
Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone,
And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid—
And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid,
Turn to some other monument—nor know
Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read;
Whose loved and honored relics lie below;
Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo.

There is a world of bliss hereafter—else
Why are the bad above, the good beneath

The green grass of the grave The Mower fells
Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe
(When he his desolating blade shall sheathe,

And rest him from his work) in a pure sky,
Above the smoke of burning worlds;–and Death

On scorched pinions with the %. shall lie,

When Time, with all his years and centuries, has passed by.

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AGAIN 'twas evening.—Agnes knelt,
Pale, passionless, a sainted one:
On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt
The last beams of the setting sun.
Alone—the damp and cloistered wall
Was round her like a sepulchre;
And at the vesper's mournful call -
Was bending every worshipper.
She knelt—her knee upon the stone
Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye,
As it were sin to gaze upon
The changes .#the changeful sky.
It seemed as if a sudden thought
Of her enthusiast moments came
With the bland eve—and she had sought
To stifle in her heart the flame
Of its awakened memory:
She felt she might not cherish, then,
The raptures of a spirit, free
And passion.ate as hers had been,
When its sole worship was, to look
With a delighted eye abroad;
And read, as from an open book,
The written languages of God.

How changed she kneels —the vile, gray hood,
Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair;
And where the jewelled silk hath flowed,
Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire.
And wherefore thus 2 Was hers a soul,
Which, all unfit for Nature's gladness,
Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl,
And drain with joy its draught of madness?
Read ye the secret, who have nursed
In your own hearts intenser feelings,
Which stole upon ye, at the first,
Like bland and musical revealings
From some untrodden Paradise,
Until your very soul was theirs;
And from their maddening ecstasies
Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers.

But she is sometimes happy now—
And yet her happiness is not
Such as the buoyant heart may know—
And it is blended with her lot
To chasten every smile with tears,
And look on life with tempered gladness,
That, undebased by human fears,
Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness,
Like sunshine on the falling rain,
Or as the moonlight on the cloud;—
Nor would she mingle once again
With life's unsympathising crowd;—
But, yielding up to earnest prayer -
Life’s dark and mournful residue,
She waiteth for her summons where
The pure in heart their faith renew.

The Torn Hat.—N. P. WILLIs.

THERE's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness—
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay, .
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all—
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now—
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,

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And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there—
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace,
Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on these golden wings
Which time has fettered now—
Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
&nd left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess—
When foot and hand, and ear and eye, *
Are all with ardor straining high—
. . How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all;
And on its silent wing,
How with the clouds he’ll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they !

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Thou too, blest Raikes—philanthropist divine—
Who, all unconscious what thy hands had done,
Didst plant that germ, whose glorious fruit shall shine
When from his throne doth fall yon darkened sun,
The Sabbath bell, the Teacher’s hallowed lore,
The countless throng from childhood's snares set free,
Who in sweet strains the Sire of Heaven adore,
Shall point in solemn gratitude to thee.

Who was with Martyn, when he breathed his last,
A martyr pale, on Asia’s burning sod 2
Who cheered his spirit as it onward past
From its frail house of clay ?—The hosts of God.
Oh! ye who trust, when earthly toils shall cease,
To find a home in heaven's unfading clime,
Drink deeper at the fountain head of peace,
And cleanse your spirits for that world sublime!

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“She flung her white arms around him—Thou art all
That this poor heart can cling to.”

I could have stemmed misfortune’s tide,
And borne the rich one’s sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.
I could have smiled on every blow
From Life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be “alone.”

I could—I think I could have brooked,
E’en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked
With less of love than now ;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been “alone.”

But thus to see, from day to day,
Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thv life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;-
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I’ll be “ alone;”—

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,

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