THE CHURCH OF ST. LAWRENCE IN THE By THEODORE ELBERT, a young Swede. The little bell against the sky, The low grey walls, the printless sodThe roof through which, with fearless eye, We look with faith to find our GodThe churchyard small, so seldom trod, Whence wandering folly flees; In holy beauty all is calm: O kneel, and raise a grateful psalm,— The main below, the heavens above, Speak not of God more plain than thou; And thou art earth's most fitting place, I LOVE THE LAND. By WILLIAM KENNEDY. I LOVE the land! I see its mountains hoary, On which time vainly lays his iron hand; I see the valleys robed in sylvan glory, And many a lake with lone, romantic strand; And streams, and towers, by immortal story I love the land! I hear of distant ages A voice proclaiming that it still was free; That from the hills where winter wildest rages Swept forth the rushing winds of liberty; That blazon'd broadly on the noblest pages E'er stamp'd by Fame its children's deeds shall be. O! poor pretender to a poet's feeling Were he who heard such voice in vain appealing: I love the land! My fathers lived and died there; But not for that the homage of their son; Throned in his breast, till life's tide cease to run) ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. By HARTLEY COLERIDGE. AH! well it is, since she is gone, She may return no more, Familiar things would all seem strange, A record sad of ceaseless change The very hills, they are not now Ye deem the dead are ashy pale, But what are ye that live, and wail, She pass'd away like morning dew, So brief her time, she scarcely knew As round the rose its soft perfume, Love was her guardian angel here; Though Love was kind, why should we fear TO MY INFANT. By ALARIC A. WATTS. WELCOME! thrice welcome to my heart, sweet harbinger of bliss! How have I look'd, till hope grew sick, for moment bright as this; Thou hast flash'd upon my aching sight when fortune's clouds are dark, The sunny spirit of my dreams-the dove unto mine ark! Oh no, not even when life was new, and love and hope were young, And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze I hung, Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep, That stir my bosom's inmost strings as I watch thy placid sleep! Though loved and cherish'd be the flower that springs 'neath summer skies, The bud that blooms 'mid wintry storms more tenderly we prize; One does but make our bliss more bright, the other meets our eye Like a radiant star, when all beside have vanish'd from on high. Sweet blossom of my stormy hour-star of my troubled heaven! To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing light is given; And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that thou, A messenger of peace and love,—art sent to cheer me now. What though my heart be crowded close with inmates dear though few, Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a niche for you! And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a place, Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as fair a face! I listen to thy feeble cry, till it wakens in my breast The sleeping energies of love-sweet hopes, too long represt! For weak as that low wail may seem to other ears than mine, It stirs my heart like a trumpet's voice, to strive for thee and thine! It peals upon my dreaming soul, sweet tidings of the birth Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth; And, strengthening many a bright resolve, it bids me do and dare All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy sojourn fair! I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may fling O'er all the promise of thy youth-the visions of thy spring For I would not warp thy gentle heart-each kindlier impulse ban, By teaching thee-what I have learned-bow base a thing is man! I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh is heir; But I can arm thee with a spell, life's keenest ills to bear. I may not fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee pray For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take away! From alter'd friendship's chilling glance-from hate's envenom'd dart ; 66 true love's " Misplaced affection's withering pang-or wontéd smart, I cannot shield my sinless child; but I can bid him seek Such faith and love from heaven above, as will leave earth's malice weak. But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird his care, And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill could bear, Will still His guiding arm extend, his glorious plan pursue, And, if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee courage too! Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the last! 'Tis sweet to deem what thou may'st be, when long, long years have past; To think, when time hath blanch'd my hair, and others leave my side, Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing and my pride. And when the world has done its worst-when life's fever fit is o'er, And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it more; |