The joys that death-beds always turn to stings!
Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste

To dance along the path that always brings
Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste
Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced!

Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake.

Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms,
Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence,
Men come and go like vegetable forms,
Though heaven appoints for them a work immense,
Demanding constant thought and zeal intense,
Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room
For rest to mortals in the dread suspense,
While yet they know not if beyond the tomb
A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom.

What matter whether pain or pleasures fill
The swelling heart one little moment here?
From both alike how vain is every thrill,
While an untried eternity is near!
Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career;
The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside
Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer
Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide,
Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide.

Dedication Hymn.—PIERPONT.

WITH trump, and pipe, and viol chords,
And song, the full assembly brings

Its tribute to the Lord of lords,

Its homage to the King of kings.

To God, who, from the rocky prison

Where death had bound him, brought his Son,
To God these walls from earth have risen ;-
To God, "the high and lofty ONE."

Creator, at whose steadfast word
Alike the seas and seasons roll,
Here may thy truth in Christ our Lord
Shine forth, and sanctify the soul.

Here, where we hymn thy praises now,
Father and Judge, may many a knee
And many a spirit humbly bow

In worship and in prayer to Thee.

And when our lips no more shall move,
Our hearts no longer beat or burn,
Then, may the children that we love
Take up the strain, and, in their turn,

With trump, and pipe, and viol strings
Here pay, with music's sweet accords,
Their tribute to the King of kings,
Their homage to the Lord of lords.

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 charms-
When 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
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
"What is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves?"

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 morning 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,
That Death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee?
Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood's opening bloom,
While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb?

Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy my paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was it sunk away as soon

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 mournful 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;
To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed.

I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony, it ought not so to be;

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,
And sparkling spheres of golden light,
Jehovah's work and glory show,

By burning day or gentle night.
In silence, through the vast profound,
They move their orbs of fire on high,
Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound,
Is heard upon the tranquil sky;
Yet to the earth's remotest bar

Their burning glory, all is known;
Their living light has sparkled far,
And on the attentive silence shone.

God, 'mid their shining legions, rears

A tent where burns the radiant sun:
As, like a bridegroom bright, appears
The monarch, on his course begun,
From end to end of azure heaven

He holds his fiery path along;
To all his circling heat is given,
His radiance flames the spheres among.
By sunny ray, and starry throne,

The wonders of our mighty Lord
To man's attentive heart are known,
Bright as the promise of his word.

What is that, Mother?-GEORGE W. DOANE.

WHAT is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,

When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

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,