They said they were my sisters dear,
And they were sent to bear

My spirit to their blessed abode,
To live forever there.

Then think not of the mournful time
When I resigned my breath,
Nor of the place where I was laid,
The gloomy house of death;
But think of that high world, where I
No more shall suffer pain,
And of the time when all of us
In heaven shall meet again.

Colonization of Africa.-BRAINARD.

ALL, sights are fair to the recovered blind;
All sounds are music to the deaf restored;
The lame, made whole, leaps like the sporting hind;
And the sad, bowed-down sinner, with his load
Of shame and sorrow, when he cuts the cord,
And drops the pack it bound, is free again
In the light yoke and burden of his Lord.
Thus, with the birthright of his fellow man,
Sees, hears and feels at once the righted African.

'Tis somewhat like the burst from death to life;
From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven;
From Sin's dominion, and from Passion's strife,
To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven :
When all the bonds of death and hell are riven,
And mortals put on immortality;
When fear, and care, and grief, away are driven,
And Mercy's hand has turned the golden key,
And Mercy's voice has said, “Rejoice—thy soul is free "

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Fable of the Wood Rose and the Laurel.—
Month LY ANTHology.

IN these deep shades a floweret blows,
Whose leaves a thousand sweets disclose;

With modest air it hides its charms,
And every breeze its leaves alarms;
Turns on the ground its bashful eyes,
And oft unknown, neglected, dies.
This flower, as late I careless strayed,
I saw in all its charms arrayed.
Fast by the spot where low it grew,
A proud and flaunting Wood Rose blew.
With haughty air her head she raised,
And on the beauteous plant she gazed.
While struggling passion swelled her breast,
She thus her kindling rage expressed:

“Thou worthless flower,
Go leave my bower,
And hide in humbler scenes thy head:
How dost thou dare,
Where roses are,
Thy scents to shed?

Go, leave my bower, and live unknown;
I’ll rule the field of flowers alone.”

...“And dost thou think”—the Laurel cried,
And raised its head with modest pride,
While on its little trembling tongue
A drop of dew incumbent hung—

“And dost thou think I’ll leave this bower,
The seat of many a friendly flower,
The scene where first I grew
Thy haughty reign will soon be o'er,
And thy frail form will bloom no more;
My flower will perish too.

But know, proud rose,

When winter’s snows
Shall fall where once thy beauties stood,

My pointed leaf of shining green

Will still amid the gloom be seen,
To cheer the leafless wood.”

“Presuming fool!” the Wood Rose cried,

And strove in vain her shame to hide;
But, ah! no more the flower could say;

For, while she spoke, a transient breeze

Came rustling through the neighboring trees,
And bore her boasted charms away.

And such, said I, is Beauty's power!
Like thee she falls, poor trifling flower;
And, if she lives her little day,
Life's winter comes with rapid pace,
And robs her form of every grace,
And steals her bloom away.

But in thy form, thou Laurel green,
Fair Wirtue’s semblance soon is seen.
In life she cheers each different stage,
Spring's transient reign, and Summer's glow,
And Autumn mild, advancing slow,
And lights the eye of age.

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I’ll tell you, friend, what sort of wife,
Whene’er I scan this scene of life,
Inspires my waking schemes,
And when I sleep, with form so light,
Dances before my ravished sight,
In sweet aerial dreams.

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
To captivate my eyes.
Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays
Its feelings as they rise;

Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
The sober thought you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem,
And kind affections round them beam,
But most of all on me ;

*This is a beautiful domestic picture. Without being an imitation, it reminds us of Cotton’s Fireside.—ED.

A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet a something you behold
Unconsciously doth please;
Manners all graceful without art,
That to each look and word impart
A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm,
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
And mind inform the whole;
With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye must show
An all-inspiring soul.

Ah! could I such a being find,
And were her fate to mine but joined
By Hymen's silken tie,
To her myself, my all I’d give,
For her alone delighted live,
For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed,
On the soft pillow of her breast
My aching head I’d lay;
At her sweet smile each care should cease,
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,
And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I’d soften all her care,
Each thought, each wish, each feeling share;
Should sickness e'er invade,
My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;
'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;
And, were its fury hurled,
My bosom to its bolts I’d bare,
In her defence undaunted dare
Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend,
Together humbly would we bend,

To praise the Almighty name; And when I saw her kindling eye Beam upwards to her native sky,

My soul should catch the flame.

Thus nothing should our hearts divide,
But on our years serenely glide,
And all to love be given;
And, when life’s little scene was o'er,
We'd part to meet and part no more,
But live and love in heaven.

-oThe Consumptive.—RocKINGHAM GAzETTE.

No, never more—my setting sun
Hath sunk his evening rays;
And this poor heart is nearly done
With hope of better days.
I feel it in the clay-cold hand,
The hard and fast expiring breath;
For now, so near the tomb I stand,
I breathe the chilling airs of death

No, never more—it all is vain-
But 0, how Memory leans
To see, and hear, and feel again
Its youth-inspiring scenes!
And deep the sigh that Memory heaves
When, one by one, they all are fled,
As autumn gales on yellow leaves,
That wither on their woodland bed.

No, never more—I may not view
The summer vale and hill,
The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue,
The forests, dark and still—
The evening's beauty, once so dear,
That bears the glowing thoughts above,
When nature seems to breathe and hear
The voiceless eloquence of love.

No, never more—when prisoners wait
The death-call to their doom,

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