SONG OF THE STARS.

WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,
And the empty realms of darkness and death
Were moved through their depths by his mighty
breath,

And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame,
From the void abyss, by myriads came,
In the joy of youth, as they darted away,
Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung;

And this was the song the bright ones sung :

"Away, away! through the wide, wide sky,The fair blue fields that before us lie,

Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll,
Each planet, poised on her turning pole,
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

"For the Source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides.
Lo, yonder the living splendors play :
Away, on our joyous path away!

"Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass! How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!

And the path of the gentle winds is seen,

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods

lean.

"And see where the brighter day-beams pour,
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews;
And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round!

"Away, away!-in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, love is brooding, and life is born,
And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

"Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years.
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent
To the farthest wall of the firmament,-
The boundless visible smile of Him,

To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim."

-THAT YE, THROUGH HIS POVERTY, MIGHT BE RICH."

Low in the dim and sultry west
Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky;
The evening's grateful hour of rest,
Its hour of feast and joy, is nigh.

But he, with thirst and hunger spent,
Lone, by the wayside faintly sinks;
A lowly hand the cup hath lent,

And from the humble well he drinks.

The gloom of twilight gathers fast, And o'er the waters drearily

Sweeps the bleak evening blast.

The weary bird hath left the air,
And sunk into his shelter'd rest;
The wandering beast hath sought his lair,
And laid him down to welcome rest.

Still, near the lake, with weary tread,
Lingers a form of human kind;
And, from his lone, unshelter'd head,
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind.

Why seeks not he a home of rest?

Why seeks not he the pillow'd bed?

Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest;-
He hath not where to lay his head!

Such was the lot he freely chose,

To bless, to save the human race;
And through his poverty there flows
A rich, full stream of heavenly grace.

DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN.

THOU art gone to the grave,—but we will not deplore thee;

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, The Savior has pass'd through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the

gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave,—we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to infold thee, And sinners may hope, since the sinless has died.

Thou art gone to the grave, and its mansion forsaking,

Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt linger'd long; But the sunshine of heaven beam'd bright on thy waking,

And the song which thou heardst was the seraph

im's song.

Thou art gone to the grave,-but 't were wrong to deplore thee,

When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy

guide;

He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Savior hath died.

THE THUNDER-STORM.

Ir thunders! sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of Days! thou speakest from above!
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace, and joy, and love.
Almighty! trembling like a timid child,

I hear thy awful voice—alarm'd—afraid—
I see the flashings of thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.

Lord! what is man? up to the sun he flies

Or feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust:
There is he lost 'midst heaven's high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost.

Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea,
Like a poor sailor-by the tempest toss'd
In a frail bark-the sport of destiny,

He sleeps—and dashes on the rocky coast.

Thou breathest; and the obedient storm is still :
Thou speakest; silent the submissive wave:
Man's shatter'd ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hush'd billows roll across his grave.