To God, who, from the rocky prison Where death had bound him, brought his Son, Creator, at whose steadfast word Here, where we hymn thy praises now, In worship and in prayer to Thee. And when our lips no more shall move, With trump, and pipe, and viol strings 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 charmsWhen 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 bright 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 Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, To 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 morn ing 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 taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be, Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know? 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 mournfu! cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled. 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 gloom, 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 ; I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee, 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 Part of the 19th Psalm.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow, By burning day or gentle night. Yet to the earth's remotest bar Their burning glory, all is known; God, 'mid their shining legions, rears A tent where burns the radiant sun: He holds his fiery path along; What is that, Mother ?-GEORGE W. Doane. WHAT is that, mother?— The lark, my child. The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, 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, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, What is that, mother? The eagle, boy, Proudly careering his course of joy, What is that, mother?— The swan, my love. He is floating down from his native grove, Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson.— "His eye spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mrs Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested or Edward, his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by ail nres ent to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple. 'Behold thy Mother!'"-Memoir of Payson, p. 425. WHAT SAID THE EYE?-The marble lip spake not, |