To God, who, from the rocky prison
Where death had bound him, brought his Son,

To God these walls from earth have risen;–
To God, “the high and losty ONE.”

Creator, at whose steadfast word
Alike the seas and seasons roll,

Here may thy truth in Christ our Lord
Shine forth, and sanctify the soul.

Here, where we hymn thy praises now,
Father and Judge, may many a knee

And many a spirit humbly bow
In worship and in prayer to Thee.

And when our lips no more shall move,
Our hearts no longer beat or burn,

Then, may the children that we love
Take up the strain, and, in their turn,

With trump, and pipe, and viol strings
Here pay, with music's sweet accords,

Their tribute to the King of kings,
Their homage to the Lord of lords.

The Indian Summer.—BRAINARD.

WHAT is there sadd’ning in the autumn leaves Have they that “green and yellow melancholy,” That the sweet poet spake of?—Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October’s charms— When the dread fever quits us—when the storms Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a . bow of many colors hung Upon the forest tops—he had not sighed.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along

The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,
Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
“What is there sadd’ning in the autumn leaves?”

—eTo William. Written by a bereaved Father.—PEAbody.

It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high;

And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free, And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee,

Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly,

Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morning sky;

And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair,

Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that Health had painted there.

And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,— Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears; 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy,

That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy.

I listened, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar,

To *: farewell gale that breathes from off his native silore.

So gentle in thy loveliness!—alas! how could it be,
That Death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee *
Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood’s opening bloom,
While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb

Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know

Or why did Heaven so soon destroy my paradise below:

Enchanting as the vision was it sunk away as soon

As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon.

I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; but, ere that day was spent I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head; The woul cloud was gathering there, and life was almost ed.

Days passed; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain;

I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again;

The cheek was pale; the snowy lips were gently thrown apart;

And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the heart.

I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be pressed,
And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my breast;
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seemed moving in the
As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb.

And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my

eye Thy little hand pressed gently mine, in token of reply; To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast, And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed.

I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony, it ought not so to be;
I hoped that thou, within the grave my weary head should'st

lay And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close; And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose;

For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppressed,

And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now; but let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more,

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JPart of the 19th Psalm.—JAMEs WALLIs EAstBurn.

THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow,
And sparkling spheres of golden light,
Jehovah's work and glory show,
By burning day or gentle night.
In silence, through the vast profound, *
They move their orbs of fire on high,
Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound,
Is heard upon the tranquil sky;
Yet to the earth’s remotest bar
Their burning glory, all is known;
Their living light has sparkled far,
And on the attentive silence shone.

God, 'mid their shining legions, rears
A tent where burns the radiant sun:
As, like a bridegroom bright, appears
The monarch, on his course begun,
From end to end of azure heaven
He holds his fiery path along;
To all his circling heat is given,
His radiance flames the spheres among.
By sunny ray, and starry throne,
The wonders of our mighty Lord
To man’s attentive heart are known,
Bright as the promise of his word.

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WHAT is that, mother ?— -
The lark, my child.—
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright'sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker’s ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark’s, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother ?—
The dove, my son.—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow’s moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one’s quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother ?—

The eagle, boy,
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm in his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother ?—

The swan, my love.—
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when Death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. -

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Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson.—
MRs. SIGourn EY.

“His eye spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mrs Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested ou Edward, his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all present to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, * Behold thy Mother l’”—Memoir of Payson, p. 425.

WHAT skip THE EYE *—The marble lip spake not,
Save in that quivering sob with which stern Death
Doth crush life’s harp-strings.-Lo, again it pours
A tide of more than uttered eloquence —
“Son!—look upon thy mother!”—and retires
Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids,
To hide itself forever. 'Tis the last,
Last glance —and mark how tenderly it fell

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