Hippicus, Antonia, fall,

Mariamne- and thy wall

Pierced with gates of burnished gold-
And the holy house of old,

Yield unto the dreadful strife.
Heavens the sacrifice of life!

Murder, plunder, leagued in band,
Stalk amid thee, hand in hand; ·
Cedron is a pool of gore,
Olivet is fortress made.
Mercy that the towers of yore
Courts that saw the world adore,
Should in dust and blood be laid!
Who directs the furious war?
He, alone, whose prescience saw
Mightier than Vespasian's son —
He the ruthless fight has won,
He the wine-press here has trod,
HE, the very son of God!

THE CHANGE.

COME to the aged dead, and see
How on that tranquil brow

And placid cheek, the impress lies

Of glorious Childhood now!

'Tis something, not of noon's full beam, Nor sunset's chastened ray,

But like sweet morning, ere it melts

Into the gush of day.

We saw him in his lusty prime;

'Twas sadly ours to scan

The lineaments, which strongly spelt

The stricken, troubled man.

How stern that brow of dark-winged years!

How eloquent that cheek,

And eye, chastised, which ever seemed

Of hopes, all quenched, to speak!

We saw him in the wasting hour,

When strife its work had done;
And sharp disease and eager pain
Their victory had won.

Their victory, in which themselves
Found unretrieved defeat;

Ho, Death! thou art a victim, slain

Beneath thy victim's feet.

Come to the dead, — how changed is he!
The same thou needest not fear;

Sickness and grief, and years are gone, 'Tis life's first freshness here.

The deep-writ characters of time,
The weary words of age,

We read not now; we fondly dwell

On Infancy's sweet page.

A blessed thought, that love's last look
Is pictured on the heart

So faithfully, that with it love

Would willingly not part.

And Death! a mighty power is thine

To blot all present pain,

And with thy cold and gentle touch
To bring the past again.

ORGANIZATION OF THE FIRST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA.

FOR Conscience bold, our sires of old,

A heaven-devoted flock,

Tempting the waves, by Him who saves,
Were led to Plymouth rock.

Stern Winter's sway held shore and bay,
What time they pitched their tent;
And ere Spring's bloom, unto the tomb
Their flower of manhood went.

Want hedged their path; the red man's wrath,
And sickness, too, they met,

And griefs; yet, God! the way they trod,
Thy mercy did beset.

Two hundred years! — those precious tears

And watchings, want and pain,

Hid in that field, now freely yield

A thousand fold again.

Oh, Sire of Grace! we of their race,
To whom their deeds are known,-

Our hopes fulfilled, this church do build

On Jesus Christ alone.

Thy help our stay, be ours the way,

Those ancient fathers trod;

Our zeal like theirs, our toil and prayers,

And ours the Pilgrims' God!

THE OMEN.

A DARK cloud sailed along the sky,
Charged with the thunder and the rain;

Slowly it sailed along, and I

Gazed on the traveller with pain.

Now rising-seeming now to dip,
Proudly, withal, and wondrous fair-
It passed, like some majestic ship,
Along the buoyant paths of air.

I often have beheld the clouds,
In solemn pageant, sweep along,
And gazed, where God himself enshrouds,
And listened to the tempest's song.

But this one was so dread to see,

I looked and shuddered - looked and sighed,—
Yet deemed not grief so near to me ;-
That very night my sweet babe died.

MYSELF.

Less than the least

Of all God's mercies, is my poesy still. George Herbert.

GREAT are thy gifts, my God, vouchsafed to me,
Who am unworthy of the least from thee.

Recipient am I of a gracious store

:

Of good health, reason, food and friends, and more Of comfort, than to many may befal;·

Yet these were poor, Great Giver! were these all. I have much more ;·

- for me, reversion is,

I humbly trust, of joys, to which earth's bliss