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And laid upon the casement here.-
A withered worm, you thought?

I told you that Almighty power
Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

Look at the chrysalis, my love,-
An empty shell it lies;—

Now raise your wondering glance above,
To where yon insect flies!"

"O, yes, mamma! how very gay
Its wings of starry gold!

And see! it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold.

O, mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,
On golden wings to range,—

How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,

And live with heavenly things!'

Last Prayers.—Mary Ann Browne.

"O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe Forth from a lip that fades with coming death."

I AM not what I was:

My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted; They sprung too early, like the tender grass That by spring-frost is blasted.

But THOU wilt not believe

How very soon my heart-task will be o'er My heart, whose feelings never can deceive, Is withered at its core.

I know the blight is there,

And slowly it is spreading in my youth;
And ever and anon some silver hair
Proclaims that this is truth.

And trembles every limb,

As never trembled they in happier years,
And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim,
Yet not a mist of tears.

Thou dost not know, when pale

My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood
Hath rushed like lava, when a sudden gale
Of terror sweeps its flood.

O, from the laughing earth,

And all its glorious things, I could depart,
Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth,
Save in thy precious heart.

Yet come not when the drear
Last hour of life is passing over me;
I cannot yield my breath if thou art near,
To bid me live for thee.

But come when I am dead:

No terror shall be pictured on my face;
I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed,
Without one passion's trace.

And come thou to my grave:

Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn, When lightly in the breeze the willows wave, And spring's first flowers are born:

Or on a summer's eve,

When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned
To crimson in the west, when waters heave
As if they lived and burned,

Or in the solemn night,

When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep, And when the earth is bathed in starry light,

O, come thou there, and weep.

Weep yet not bitter tears;

Let them be holy, silent, free from pain:
Think of me as a bird who, many years,
Was in a galling chain;

A chain that let it gaze

On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er
It strove to rush away, or fondly raise
Its wing, still bound it there.

And bring sometimes a flower
To scatter on the turf I lie beneath,
And gather it in that beloved bower
That round us used to wreathe.

And whatsoe'er the time

Thou comest, at the morn, or eve, or night,
When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime,
Or in the inoon's pale light,-

Still keep this thought, (for sweet

It was to me when such bright hope was given,) That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet, Ay, surely meet, in heaven.

A Noon Scene.-BRYANT.

THE quiet August noon is come;
A slumberous silence fills the sky,
The fields are still, the woods are dumb,
In glassy sleep the waters lie.

And mark yon soft white clouds, that rest
Above our vale, a moveless throng;
The cattle on the mountain's breast

Enjoy the grateful shadow long.

O, how unlike those merry hours

In sunny June, when earth laughs out; When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout!

When in the grass sweet waters talk,
And strains of tiny music swell
From every moss-cup of the rock,
From every nameless blossom's bell!

But now, a joy too deep for sound,
A peace no other season knows,

Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground-
The blessing of supreme repose.

Away! I will not be, to-day,

The only slave of toil and care; Away from desk and dust, away! I'll be as idle as the air.

Beneath the open sky abroad,

Among the plants and breathing things,
The sinless, peaceful works of God,
I'll share the calm the season brings.

Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see
The gentle meaning of the heart,
One day amid the woods with thee,
From men and all their cares apart.

And where, upon the meadow's breast
The shadow of the thicket lies,
The blue wild flowers thou gatherest
Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes

Come-and when, amid the calm profound,
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek,
They, like the lovely landscape round,
Of innocence and peace shall speak.

Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade,
And on the silent valleys gaze,
Winding and widening till they fade
In yon soft ring of summer haze.

The village trees their summits rear
Still as its spire; and yonder flock,
At rest in those calm fields, appear
As chiselled from the lifeless rock.

One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks,

Where the hushed winds their sabbath keep,
While a near hum, from bees and brooks,
Comes faintly like the breath of sleep.

Well might the gazer deem, that when,
Worn with the struggle and the strife,
And heart-sick at the sons of men,

The good forsake the scenes of life,

Like the deep quiet, that awhile
Lingers the lovely landscape o'er,
Shall be the peace whose holy smile
Welcomes them to a happier shore.

New England's Dead.-I. MCLELLAN, JUN.

"I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Bos ton, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for inde. pendence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever."-Webster's Specch

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured

Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,

By brook and river, lake and rill,

And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,

The honored saviors of the land!

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