FOLLEN.

'Tis something to a heart like mine
To think of thee as living yet;
To feel that such a light as thine
Could not in utter darkness set.

Less dreary seems the untried way
Since thou hast left thy footprints there,
And beams of mournful beauty play
Round the sad angel's sable hair.

Oh! at this hour when half the sky
Is glorious with its evening light,
And fair broad fields of summer lie

Hung o'er with greenness in my sight;

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While through these elm-boughs wet with rain
The sunset's golden walls are seen,

With clover bloom and yellow grain
And wood-draped hill and stream between;—

I long to know if scenes like this

Are hidden from an angel's eyes;

If earth's familiar loveliness

Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies.

For sweetly here upon thee

grew

The lesson which that beauty gave,

The ideal of the Pure and True

In earth and sky and gliding wave.

And it may be that all which lends
The soul an upward impulse here,
With a diviner beauty blends,

And greets us in a holier sphere.

Through groves where blighting never fell,

The humbler flowers of earth may twine; And simple draughts from childhood's well Blend with the angel-tasted wine.

But be the prying vision veiled,

And let the seeking lips be dumb,Where even seraph eyes have failed, Shall mortal blindness seek to come?

We only know that thou hast gone,
And that the same returnless tide
Which bore thee from us still glides on,
And we who mourn thee with it glide.

On all thou lookest we shall look,
And to our gaze erelong shall turn
That page of God's mysterious book
We so much wish, yet dread, to learn.

With Him, before whose awful power

Thy spirit bent its trembling knee,— Who, in the silent greeting flower,

And forest leaf, looked out on thee,

LINES ON CHANNING.

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We leave thee, with a trust serene

Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move,

While with thy childlike faith we lean

On Him whose dearest name is Love!

LINES ON CHANNING.

MRS. L. J. HALL.

WHEN sinks the sun, shall we forget
That but to us his beams are set?
When holy spirits pass away,
Shall we but weep o'er feeble clay?

With aspirations like thine own,
Pure being, whom we dare not mourn,
O let us mark, where dwells "no night,"
A new-born, active, burning light.

Shine on for ever, tranquil star!
Though in far heaven thy glories are,
Their solemn beams shall from this hour
Fall on our souls with added power.

Each thrilling cadence, each mild word
Of love or wisdom we have heard,
From gifted lips now still and cold,
Shall be imbued with
power untold.

Go, Christian sage! Death now hath wrought
On pages glowing with thy thought;

Death, who hath calmed all pain, hath sealed
Thy power on earth, and heaven revealed.

DEATH.

WRITTEN AFTER READING DR. BRAZER'S SERMON ON THE DEATH OF HONORABLE LEVERETT SALTONSTALL.

C. J. FOX.

AND is this death?

His suffering o'er,

Is this but lifeless clay?

Stands the freed soul before the throne
Of endless day?

O human life! mysterious soul!
Breath of the living God!

Its frame has now an angel's power,
Is now a clod!

So calm he lived, without complaint,
We scarce could think him ill;
And the same look he wore in life

Is on him still.

A DEATH-BED.

His heart replete with Christian grace
Found joy in suffering;

To him the grave no victory had,
And death no sting.

May I so live, that, when I feel
Death knocking at my heart,
My faith may bid all fear "Be still!"
As I depart.

A DEATH-BED.

JAMES ALDRICH.

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HER suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise!