Where dwells eternal May,

And heavenly roses blow,

Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height

Named of the infinite and long sought Good,
And fountains of delight;-

And where his feet have stood

Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,

With all his flock around,

He witches the still air with modulated sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth

Immortal harmonies of power to still

All passions born of earth,

And draw the ardent will

Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,

A wandering breath of that high melody,

Descend into my heart,

And change it, till it be

Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee;

Ah, then my soul should know,

Beloved, where thou liest at noon of day,

And, from this place of wo

Released, should take its way

To mingle with thy flock, and never stray.

The Sunday School.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

GROUP after group are gathering. Such as pressed
Once to their Savior's arms, and gently laid
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast,
Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade,--
Group after group glide on with noiseless tread,

And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet,
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred,
And holy words their ruby lips repeat,
Oft with a chastened glance, in modulation sweet.

Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows
Wan poverty hath done the work of care.
Look up, ye sad ones!-'tis your Father's house,
Beneath whose consecrated dome you are;
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare,
And watch the gaudier forms that gayly move,
And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are,

The "coat of many colors" proves His love,
Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above.

And ye, blessed laborers in this humble sphere,
To deeds of saintlike charity inclined,
Who, from your cells of meditation dear,

Come forth to gird the weak, untutored mind,—
Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined

Of grateful love,-one tear of contrite pain,-
Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind

The rest of earthly Sabbaths.-Be your gain
A Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain.

"They went out into the Mount of Olives."-J. PIERPOINT.

THERE'S Something sweet in scenes of gloom

To hearts of joy bereft,

When hope has withered in its bloom,

When friends are going to the tomb,

Or in the tomb are left.

'Tis night-a lovely night;—and, lo!
Like men in vision seen,

The Savior and his brethren go,
Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,-

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 frowned;
Their dream of thrones has fled;
The table, that his love has crowned,
They ne'er again shall gather round,
With Jesus at their head.

Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
The hope of sins forgiven;-

Then, when our friends the grave devours,
When all the world around us lowers,
We'll look from earth to heaven.

The Lily.-J. G. PERCIVAL.

I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturbed it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily's bloom

When the day was dark and chill:

It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily's bell,

And watched it many a day :

The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell,

And the flower had flown away.

I looked where the leaves were laid,

In withering paleness, by,

And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.

The Last Evening before Eternity.-HILLHOUSE.

By this, the sun his westering car drove low: Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud

Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold:
Along the horizon castled shapes were piled,

Turrets and towers, whose fronts, embattled, gleamed
With yellow light: smit by the slanting ray,
A ruddy beam the canopy reflected;

With deeper light the ruby blushed; and thick
Upon the seraphs' wings the glowing spots
Seemed drops of fire. Uncoiling from its staff,
With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung,
Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits
Cast off, upon the dewy air, huge flakes
Of golden lustre. Over all the hill,
The heavenly legions, the assembled world,
Evening her crimson tint forever drew.

*

Round I gazed,

Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn,
Faded the glories of the dying day.

Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud
The solitary star of evening shone.

While gazing wistful on that peerless light,
Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft

In dreams, strange images will mix,) sad thoughts
Passed o'er my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, Farewell,
Pale, beauteous planet, that display'st so soft,
Amid yon glowing streak, thy transient beam,
A long, a last farewell! Seasons have changed,
Ages and empires rolled, like smoke, away;
But thou, unaltered, beam'st as silver fair
As on thy birthnight. Bright and watchful eyes,
From palaces and bowers, have hailed thy gem
With secret transport. Natal star of love,
And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy,
How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray!
How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green,
Signal of rest, and social converse sweet,
Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheered
The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison!

Wyoming.-F. G. HALLECK.

"Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas."

THOU Com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last,
"On Susquehannah's side, fair Wyoming!"
Image of many a dream, in hours long past,
When life was in its bud and blossoming,
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring
Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes,
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing,

I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies,
The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

I then but dreamed: thou art before me now,
In life, a vision of the brain no more.

I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,
That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er;

And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore,
Within a bower of sycamores am laid;

And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore

The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade,

Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery

With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar :
And there are tales of sad reality,

In the dark legends of thy border war,

With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are.

But where are they, the beings of the mind,

The bard's creations, moulded not of clay,

Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned

Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave-where are they?

We need not ask. The people of to-day

Appear good, honest, quiet men enough,

And hospitable too-for ready pay,—

With manners, like their roads, a little rough,

And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho' tough.