And see, beyond their dungeon gate,
The scaffold and the tomb,

On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven,
Their gaze how fervently ăy cast!

So death to life a charm hath given,
And made it loveliest at the last.

No, never more—and now, farewell!
The bitter word is said;
And soon, above my green-roofed cell
The careless foot will tread.
My heart hath found its rest above;
#. cares of earth are passing by;
And, O, it is a voice of love,
That whispers—It is time to die!

-QLines to the Western JMummy.—W. E. GALLAUDET.

O stranger, whose repose profound
These latter ages dare to break,

And call thee from beneath the ground
Ere nature did thy slumber shake!

What wonders of the secret earth
Thy lip, too silent, might reveals

Of tribes round whose mysterious birth
A thousand envious ages wheel !

Thy race, by savage war o'errun,
Sunk down, their very name forgot;

But ere those fearful times begun,
Perhaps, in this sequestered spot,

By Friendship's hand thine eyelids closed,
By Friendship's hand the turf was laid;

And Friendship here, perhaps, reposed,
With moonlight vigils in the shade.

The stars have run their nightly round,
The sun looked out, and passed his way,
And many a season o'er the ground
Has trod where thou so softly lay.

And wilt thou not one moment raise
Thy weary head, awhile to see

The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee *

Thy name, thy date, thy life declare— Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band

A thousand maids have sighed to wear, The brightest in thy beauteous land—

Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flame of war—

Ah me ! do thus thy graces lie
A faded phantom, and no more ?

O, not like thee would I remain,
But o'er the earth my ashes strew,

And in some rising bud regain
The freshness that my childhood knew.

But has thy soul, O maid, so long
Around this mournful relict dwelt

Or burst away with pinion strong,
And at the foot of Mercy knelt?

Or has it, in some distant clime,
With curious eye, unsated, strayed,

And, down the winding stream of time,
On every changeful current played?

Or, locked in everlasting sleep,
Must we thy heart extinct deplore,

Thy fancy lost in darkness weep,
And sigh for her who feels no more ?

Or, exiled to some humbler sphere,
In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,

And, murmuring in the stranger's ear,
Thy tender melancholy tell?

Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains
Shall from the muse a tear demand,

Who, wandering on these distant plains,
Looks fondly to a distant land.

Song —ANo NYMoUs.

A PALE weeping-willow stands yonder alone,
And mournfully waves in the Zephyr's light breath;

Beneath, in its shadows, is sculptured a stone,
That tells of the maiden who sleeps there in death.

She came to the village, a stranger unknown,
Though fair as the first flower that opens in May;

The touches of health from her features had flown,
And she drooped like that flower in its time of decay.

She told not her story, she spoke not of sorrow,
But laid herself down, and, heart-broken, she sighed;

And, ere the hills blushed in the dawn of the morrow,
Uncomplaining and silent, the sweet stranger died.

Apart and alone, the sad villagers made
A cold, quiet tomb in the heart of the vale;

And many a stranger has wept in the shade
Of yon weeping-willow, to hear of the tale.

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REGIon of life and light!
Land of the good, whose earthly toils are o'er:
Nor frost, nor heat, may blight
Thy vernal beauty; fertile shore,
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore

There, without crook or sling,
Walks the good Shepherd; blossoms white and red
Round his meek temples cling;
And, to sweet pastures led,
His own loved flock beneath his eye are fed.

He guides, and near him they
Follow delighted; for he makes them go

Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height
Named of the infinite and long sought Good,
And fountains of delight;-
And where his feet have stood
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,

With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with modulated sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth
Immortal harmonies of power to still
All passions born of earth,
And draw the ardent will
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,

And change it, till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee;
Ah, then my soul should know,
Beloved, where thou liest at noon of day,
And, from this place of wo
Released, should take its way
To mingle with thy flock, and never stray.

The Sunday School.—MRs. SIGourn Ey.

Gaoup after group are gathering. Such as pressed Once to their Savior's arms, and gently laid

Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade,-

Group after group glide on with noiseless tread,

And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet,
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred,

And holy words their ruby lips repeat,
Oft with a chastened glance, in modulation sweet.

Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows
Wan poverty hath done the work of care.
Look up, ye sad ones!—’tis your Father's house,
Beneath whose consecrated dome you are;
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare,
And watch the gaudier forms that gayly move,
And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are,
The “coat of many colors” proves His love,
Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above.

And ye, blessed laborers in this humble sphere,
To deeds of saintlike charity inclined,
Who, from your cells of meditation dear,
Come forth to gird the weak, untutored mind,-
Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined
Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain,_
Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind
The rest of earthly Sabbaths.-Be your gain
A Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain.

—o“They went out into the Mount of Olives.”—J. PIERPoint.

THERE's something sweet in scenes of gloom
To hearts of joy bereft,

When hope has withered in its bloom,

When friends are going to the tomb,
Or in the tomb are left.

'Tis night—a lovely night;-and, lo!
Like men in vision seen,

The Savior and his brethren go,

Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,
Led by heaven’s lamp serene,—

From Salem’s height, o'er Kedron's stream,
To Olivet's dark steep,

There, o'er past joys, gone like a dream,

O'er future woes, that present seem,

In solitude to weep.

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