THE JUBILEE. LEVITICUS Xxv. 8-13. THE trumpet's voice The Sabbath of the jubilee announced; The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land, From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs, Free is the bondman now; each one returns At length, the hill from which a farewell look, And still another parting look, he cast On his paternal vale, appears in view. The summit gained, throbs hard his heart, with joy And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more. Instant his eager eye darts to the roof Where first he saw the light. His youngest born Onward he wends: near and more near he drawsHow sweet the tinkle of the palm-bower'd brook! The sunbeam, slanting through the cedar grove, ALL THINGS TO BE CHANGED. I LOVE to see the falling leaf, I love to cherish the belief That all will change so soon. I love to see the beauteous flowers I love the rushing wind to hear O'er joys that changed like these. I love to think the glorious earth Whence man to an immortal birth That nothing in its bosom dies, On this fair couch then rest thy head Changed, as the saints and angels are, "THEY WENT OUT INTO THE MOUNT OF OLIVES." THERE's something sweet in scenes of gloom To hearts of joy bereft ; When hope has wither'd in its bloom, When friends are going to the tomb, Or in the tomb are left. "Tis night-a lovely night :-and lo! The Savior and his brethren go, Led by heaven's lamp serene, From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream, To Olivet's dark steep; There o'er past joys, gone like a dream, O'er future woes, that present seem, In solitude to weep. Heaven on their earthly hopes has frown'd: The table, that his love has crown'd, Blast not, O God, this hope of ours, THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead, They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister hood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the sum mer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the |