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The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies.

Be humble.-JONES.

TRIUMPH not, frail man; thou art
Too weak a thing to boast;
Thou hast a sad and foolish heart;
Misdeeds are all thou dost.

Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence;
Thou sinn'st e'en where thou want'st pretence.

Triumph not, though nothing warns

Of vigor waning fast;
Remember roses fade, but thorns
Survive the wintry blast.

A pleasant morn, a sultry noon,
Foretell the tempest rising soon.

Triumph not, though fortune sends
The riches of the mine;

If then thou countest many friends,
It is good luck of thine.

But triumph not: that gold may go;

And friends will fly in hour of wo.

And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek,

And woo a tender eye:

But triumph not a single week,

And cold those lips may lie,

Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove,
And leave thee, for another love.

But triumph, if thy soul feels firm
In faith, and leans on God;
If wo bids flourish love's warm germ,
And thou can'st kiss the rod;
Then triumph, man; for this alone
Is cause for an exulting tone.

Sabbath Evening Twilight.—ANONYMOUS,

DELIGHTFUL hour of sweet repose,

Of hallowed thoughts, of love, of prayer! I love thy deep and tranquil close,

For all the Sabbath day is there.

Each pure desire, each high request

That burned before the temple shrine,

The hopes, the fears, that moved the breast,All live again in light like thine.

I love thee for the fervid glow

Thou shed'st around the closing day,Those golden fires, those wreaths of snow, That light and pave his glorious way! Through them, I've sometimes thought, the eye May pierce the unmeasured deeps of space, And track the course where spirits fly,

On viewless wings, to realms of bliss.

I love thee for the unbroken calm,

That slumbers on this fading scene,
And throws its kind and soothing charm
O'er "all the little world within."
It trances every roving thought,
Yet sets the soaring fancy free,-
Shuts from the soul the present out,
That all is musing memory.

I love those joyous memories,

That rush, with thee, upon the soul,-
Those deep, unuttered symphonies,

That o'er the spell-bound spirit roll.
All the bright scenes of love and youth
Revive, as if they had not fled;
And Fancy clothes with seeining truth
The forms she rescues from the dead.

Yet holier is thy peaceful close,

For vows love left recorded there ;— This is the noiseless hour we chose

To consecrate to mutual prayer. 'Twas when misfortune's fearful cloud Was gathering o'er the brow of heaven,

Ere yet despair's eternal shroud
Wrapped every vision hope had given.

When these deep purpling shades came down,
In softened tints, upon the hills,

We swore, that, whether fate should crown
Our future course with joys or ills,-
Whether safe moored in love's retreat,
Or severed wide by mount and sea,—
This hour, in spirit, we would meet,
And urge to Heaven our mutual plea.

O, tell me if this hallowed hour

Still finds thee constant at our shrine, Still witnesses thy fervent prayer

Ascending warm and true with mine! Faithful through every change of wo,

My heart still flies to meet thee there: 'Twould soothe this weary heart to know That thine responded every prayer.

The Burial of Arnold.*—N. P. WILLIS.

YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer
With slow and measured tread:

Your ranks are full, your mates all there-
But the soul of one has fled.

He was the proudest in his strength,
The manliest of ye all;

Why lies he at that fearful length,

And ye around his pall?

Ye reckon it in days, since he

Strode up that foot-worn aisle,
With his dark eye flashing gloriously,
And his lip wreathed with a smile.
O, had it been but told you, then,
To mark whose lamp was dim,
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men,
Would ye have singled him?

* A member of the senior class in Yale College.

Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung
Defiance to the ring?

Whose laugh of victory loudest rung-
Yet not for glorying?

Whose heart, in generous deed and thought,
No rivalry might brook,
And yet distinction claiming not?
There lies he-go and look!

On now-his requiem is done,
The last deep prayer is said-
On to his burial, comrades-on,
With the noblest of the dead!
Slow-for it presses heavily-
It is a man ye bear!

Slow for our thoughts dwell wearily
On the noble sleeper there.

Tread lightly, comrades!-we have laid
His dark locks on his brow-
Like life-save deeper light and shade:
We'll not disturb them now.
Tread lightly-for 'tis beautiful,

That blue-veined eye-lid's sleep,
Hiding the eye death left so dull-
Its slumber we will keep.

Rest now!-his journeying is done-
Your feet are on his sod--
Death's chain is on your champion—
He waiteth here his God!
Ay-turn and weep-'tis manliness
To be heart-broken here-

For the grave of earth's best nobleness
Is watered by the tear.

Lines to a Child on his Voyage to France, to meet his Father.-HENRY WARE, JR.

Lo, how impatiently upon the tide

The proud ship tosses, eager to be free!

Her flag streams wildly, and her fluttering sails
Pant to be on their flight. A few hours more,

And she will move, in stately grandeur, on,
Cleaving her path majestic through the flood,
As if she were a goddess of the deep.
O, 'tis a thought sublime, that man can force
A path upon the waste, can find a way
Where all is trackless, and compel the winds,
Those freest agents of almighty Power,

To lend their untamed wings, and bear him on
To distant climes. Thou, William, still art young,
And dost not see the wonder.

Thou wilt tread

The buoyant deck, and look upon the flood,
Unconscious of the high sublimity,

As 'twere a common thing-thy soul unawed,
Thy childish sports unchecked; while thinking man
Shrinks back into himself,-himself so mean
'Mid things so vast,-and, rapt in deepest awe,
Bends to the might of that mysterious Power,
Who holds the waters in his hand, and guides.
The ungovernable winds. 'Tis not in man
To look unmoved upon that heaving waste,
Which, from horizon to horizon spread,
Meets the o'er-arching heavens on every side,
Blending their hues in distant faintness there.

'Tis wonderful!--and yet, my boy, just such
Is life. Life is a sea as fathomless,
As wide, as terrible, and yet, sometimes,
As calm and beautiful. The light of heaven
Smiles on it, and 'tis decked with every hue
Of glory and of joy.. Anon, dark clouds
Arise, contending winds of fate go forth,
And Hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck.

And thou must sail upon this sea, a long,
Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck,
The foolish must. O, then, be early wise;
Learn from the mariner his skilful art

To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze,
And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path,
'Mid countless dangers, to the destined port
Unerringly secure. O, learn from him
To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm,
To guard thyself from Passion's sudden blasts,
And make Religion thy magnetic guide,

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