Bury Me with my Fathers.-ANDREWS NORTON. O NE'ER upon my grave be shed That mourns its cherished comforts dead, When, through the still and gazing street, Lead, with slow steps, the churchyard way. "Tis a dread sight-the sunken eye, Ne'er may a mother hide her tears, As the mute circle spreads around, Ne'er may she know the sinking heart, Nor, entering in my vacant room, As if the dampness of the tomb O welcome, though with care and pain, To bid a parent's joys remain, And life's approaching ills depart. Redemption.-W. B. TAPPAN. HARK! 'tis the prophet of the skies The right of death and bondage flies, Zion, from deepest shades of gloom, Her desert wastes with verdure bloom, To heal her wounds, her night dispel, From Salem's towers, the Islam sign, 'Tis there IMMANUEL's symbols shine, The gladdening news, conveyed afar, Again in Bethlehem swells the song, While Jordan's shores the strains prolong, On the Close of the Year.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. 'Tis midnight-from the dark blue sky, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly, And when the pyramids shall fall, *Missionaries to Palestine. Shine on! shine on! with you I tread O, what concerns it him, whose way Or one more year of life has fled? Swift years, but teach me how to bear, And speed your courses as ye will. When life's meridian toils are done, That shines not here-on things below. But sorrow, sickness, death-the pain The fondness of a parent's care, The changeless trust that woman gives, The smile of childhood-it is there, That all we love in them still lives. Press onward through each varying hour; Saturday Afternoon.-N. P. WILLIS I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years ; And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, I'm old, and " I 'bide my time;" Play on, play on; I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, Fall of Tecumseh.-NEW YORK STATESMAN. WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, To the war-blast indignantly tramping? Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, The steel bit impatiently champing. 'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain, From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, And nought but the war-whoop given; The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As if by the lightning riven. The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, In the mist that hung over the field of blood, That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight, The moment was fearful; a mightier foe Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him; O ne'er may the nations again be cursed Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, |