All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? Mary Magdalen.-BRYANT. From the Spanish of Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola. BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! Thou weepest days of innocence departed; The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel down to him who came from heaven, It is not much, that to the fragrant blossom Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, But come and see the bleak and barren mountains The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies. Be humble.-JONES. TRIUMPH not, frail man; thou art Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence; Triumph not, though nothing warns Of vigor waning fast; A pleasant morn, a sultry noon, Triumph not, though fortune sends If then thou countest many friends, But triumph not: that gold may go; And friends will fly in hour of wo. And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek, But triumph not: a single week, And cold those lips may lie, Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove, And leave thee, for another love. But triumph, if thy soul feels firm If wo bids flourish love's warm germ, Sabbath Evening Twilight.—ANONYMOUS, DELIGHTFUL hour of sweet repose, Of hallowed thoughts, of love, of prayer! I love thy deep and tranquil close, For all the Sabbath day is there. Each pure desire, each high request That burned before the temple shrine,The hopes, the fears, that moved the breast,All live again in light like thine. I love thee for the fervid glow Thou shed'st around the closing day,Those golden fires, those wreaths of snow, That light and pave his glorious way! Through them, I've sometimes thought, the eye May pierce the unmeasured deeps of space, And track the course where spirits fly, On viewless wings, to realms of bliss. I love thee for the unbroken calm, Yet sets the soaring fancy free,— I love those joyous memories, That rush, with thee, upon the soul,- That o'er the spell-bound spirit roll. Yet holier is thy peaceful close, For vows love left recorded there ;- Ere yet despair's eternal shroud When these deep purpling shades came down, We swore, that, whether fate should crown Still finds thee constant at our shrine, Still witnesses thy fervent prayer Ascending warm and true with mine! Faithful through every change of wo, My heart still flies to meet thee there: "Twould soothe this weary heart to know That thine responded every prayer. The Burial of Arnold.*—N. P. WILLIS. YE'VE gathered to your place of prayer Your ranks are full, your mates all there- He was the proudest in his strength, Why lies he at that fearful length, Ye reckon it in days, since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, * A member of the senior class in Yale College. Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung Whose laugh of victory loudest rung- Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, On now-his requiem is done, Slow for our thoughts dwell wearily Tread lightly, comrades!-we have laid Rest now!-his journeying is done- Ay-turn and weep--'tis manliness For the grave of earth's best nobleness Lines to a Child on his Voyage to France, to meet his Father.-HENRY WARE, JR. Lo, how impatiently upon the tide The proud ship tosses, eager to be free! Her flag streams wildly, and her fluttering sails |