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His fiat laid the corner stone,
And heaved its pillars, one by one.

He hung its starry roof on high—
The broad illimitable sky;
He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtained it with morning light.

The mountains in their places stood–
The sea—the sky—and “all was good’”
And, when its first pure praises rang,
The “morning stars together sang.”

Lord, 'tis not ours to make the sea,
And earth, and sky, a house for thee;
But in thy sight our offering stands—
A humbler temple, “made with hands.”

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Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, JMoon, and Stars.-HILLHous E.

AND didst thou fear the queen of night,
Poor mute and musing child?
She who, with pure and silver light,
Gladdens the loneliest wild?
Yet her the savage marks serene,
Chequering his clay-built cabin's scene:
Her the polar natives bless,
Bowing low in gentleness,
To bathe with liquid beams their rayless night:
Her the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps,
Hails, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps,
Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps:
E’en the lost maniac loves her light,
Uttering to her, with fixed eye,
Wild symphonies, he knows not why.—
Sad was thy fate, my child, to see,
In nature’s gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee.

- + + + + + +

Being of lonely thought, the world to thee
Was a deep maze, and all things moving on
In darkness and in mystery. But He,
Who made these beauteous forms that fade anon,
What was He 7—From thy brow the roses fled
At that eternal question, fathomless and dread!

O, snatched from ignorance and pain,
And taught, with seraph eye,
At yon unmeasured orbs to gaze,
And trace, amid their quenchless blaze,
Thine own high destiny!
Forever bless the hands that burst thy chain,
And led thy doubtful steps to learning’s hallowed sane.

Though from thy guarded lips may press No word of gratitude or tenderness, In the starting tear, the glowing cheek, With tuneful tongue, the soul can speak; Her tone is in the sigh, Her language in the eye, Her voice of harmony, a life of praise, Well understood by Him who notes our searching ways.

The tomb shall burst thy fetters. Death sublime Shall bear away the seal of time, So long in wo bewailed ! Thou, who no melody of earth hast known, Nor chirp of birds, their wind-rocked cell that rear, Nor waters murmuring lone, Nor organ's solemn peal, nor viol clear, Nor warbling breath of man, that joins the hymning sphere— Can speech of mortals tell What tides of bliss shall swell, If the first summons to thy wakened ear Should be the plaudits of thy Savior’s love, The full, enraptured choir of the redeemed above 2

—o-
The Land of the Blest.—W. O. B. PEABODY.

O, when the hours of life are past,
And death's dark shade arrives at last,

It is not sleep, it is not rest;
'Tis glory opening to the blest.

Their way to heaven was pure from sin,
And Christ shall there receive them in :
There, each shall wear a robe of light,
Like his, divinely fair and bright.

There, parted hearts again shall meet,
In union holy, calm, and sweet;
There, grief find rest; and never more
Shall sorrow call them to deplore.

There, angels will unite their prayers
With spirits bright and blest as theirs;
And light shall glance on every crown,
From suns that never more go down.

No storms shall ride the troubled air;
No voice of passion enter there;
But all be peaceful as the sigh
Of evening gales, that breathe, and die.

For there the God of mercy sheds
His purest influence on their heads,
And gilds the spirits round the throne
With glory radiant as his own.

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QUEEN of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam,
Alone, and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow, trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way;
And, while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest.

The sufferers of the earth, perhaps, may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,

And the sad children of despair and wo
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.

O, that I soon may reach that world serene,

Poor weary pilgrim in this toiling scene !

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THEY say, that, afar in the land of the west,
Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest,
"Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread,
A fair lake, unruffled and sparkling, is spread;
Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers,
In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;
There the bright eye of nature in mild glory hovers:
'Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green isle of lovers.

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss ;
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover,
On high, with their shade, the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile;
From beauty, there, valor and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,

In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more;

It fleets on the vision, deluding the view ;

Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue :

O, who, in this vain world of wo, shall discover

The home undisturbed, the green isle of the lover'

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The Light of Home.—MRs. HALE.

My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam;

And thou must go; but never, when there,
Forget the light of home.

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray:

Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night,
When thou treadest the lonely way.

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire:

*Twill burn, 'twill burn, for ever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest tost,
And thy hopes may vanish like foam;

But when sails are shivered and rudder lost,
Then look to the light of home;—

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,

Thou shalt see the beacon bright; For never, till shining on thy shroud, Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame, ’twill gild the name;
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;
And fashion’s smiles, that rich ones claim,
Are but beams of a wintry day.

And how cold and dim those beams must be,
Should life’s wretched wanderer come!

But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of home.

—o-
The American Flag.—F. G. HALLEck.

WHEN Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurled her standard to the air,

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