LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath;

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee!-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season—all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

MRS. HEMANS.

REFLECTIONS ON A SKULL.

If with persuasive mildness bold,
Condemning sin, of grace it told;
That tuneful tongue in realms above,
Shall sing Messiah's reign of love.

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with its envied rubies shine?

To hew the rock or wear the gem,

Can nothing now avail to them;

But if the page of truth they sought,

Or comfort to the mourner brought,

Those hands shall strike the lyre of praise, And high the palm of triumph raise.

Avails not whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of life had trod,
If from the bower of joy they fled,
To soothe affliction's humble bed;
If spurning all the world bestow'd,
They sought the strait and narrow road,
These feet with angel's wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.

ANONYMOUS.

Longing for Heaven.

ISE, my soul, and stretch thy wings,

Thy better portion trace;

Rise from transitory things,

Toward heaven, thy native place.

Sun, and moon, and stars, decay,

Time shall soon this earth remove;

Rise, my soul, and haste away

To seats prepared above.

Rivers to the ocean run,

Nor stay in all their course: Fire ascending seeks the sun

Both speed them to their source.

So a soul new-born of God

Pants to view his glorious face; Upward tends to his abode,

To rest in his embrace.

Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn,

Press onward to the prize: Soon the Saviour will return

Triumphant in the skies.

Yet a season, and you know

Happy entrance will be given,

All our sorrows left below,

And earth exchanged for heaven.