THE WARNING VOICE.

And yet, a sad and solemn thought intrudes upon my bliss,—
Lord! what am I, that mine should be such happiness as this?

Why, while around on every hand far worthier ones I see

Condemn'd to tread life's sterile wastes, bloom flowers like these for me?

"Wherefore?"—a spirit answers me:-"Thine early hopes were marr'd,
In mercy to thy perill'd soul,—and still thy heart was hard;
Then he who laid thy burden on withdrew His chastening rod,
And sought, by gentle means, to win the sinner to his God!

"But, oh! He will not always strive!-Then, ere the day be spent, And night-a long dread night-steal on, repent, vain man, repent! Lest, when the vineyard's Lord shall come, and still no fruit be found, He say, • Cut down this barren tree!—why cumbereth it the ground?'”

W. H. HARRISON.

Human Life.

BEHOLD,

How short a span

Was long enough, of old,

To measure out the life of man!

In those well-temper'd days, his time was then
Survey'd, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.

How SOON,

Our new-born light

Attains to full-aged noon!

And this, how soon, to gray-hair'd night!
We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast,
Ere we count our days, our days they flee so fast!

FRANCIS QUARLES.

A Mother's Dirge over her Child.

BRING me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair,
With roseless cheek and auburn hair!

Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath:
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,

That I may strew them o'er thy bier,

With long-drawn sigh and gushing tear!

Oh, what upon this earth doth prove

So steadfast as a mother's love!

Oh what on earth can bring relief,

Or solace, to a mother's grief!

No more, my baby, shalt thou lie

With drowsy smile, and half-shut eye,

Pillow'd upon my fostering breast,

Serenely sinking into rest!

A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.

The grave must be thy cradle now;

The wild-flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart, all full of thee,
In widow'd solitude shall be.

No taint of earth, no thought of sin,

E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.

Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.

Methought when years had roll'd away,
That thou wouldst be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see

The boy-the youth-the man in thee!

But thou hast past! for ever gone

To leave me childless and alone,

Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!

Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall

At noon and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year

Revives, upon thy turf appear.

The two leaved doors slide slow apart, before the eastern screen,
As rise the Hebrew harmonies, with chanted prayers between,
And mid the tissued veils disclosed, of many a gorgeous dye,
Enveloped in their jewel'd scarfs, the sacred records lie.

Robed in his sacerdotal vest, a silvery headed man,
With voice of solemn cadence o'er the backward letters ran,
And often yet methinks I see the glow and power that sate
Upon his face, as forth he spread the roll immaculate.

And fervently that hour I pray'd, that from the mighty scroll,
Its light, in burning characters, might break on every soul;
That on their harden'd hearts the veil might be no longer dark,
But be for ever rent in twain, like that before the ark.