And when, with me, all thoughts refuse

To pass again the quivering lip, – And spirit in those upper dews

Its mounting wing prepares to dip,Give me to hear that word below, The last ere nature's flutterings ceaseFrom tears and toil and empty show To truth and smiles, Depart in peace.

WISDOM FROM ALL.

My bed itself is like the grave,

My sheets the winding sheet;

My clothes the mould which I must have

To cover me most meet. -The Good Night.

'Tis well for giddy man to pause

Along his pilgrim way;

And note what these that round him lie

In council to him say.

For he may find a precept couched

In every homely thing,

And household gear, and nature's gifts,

May sure instruction bring.

I wot the roof that shelters him,

The table for his meat,

The summer's shade, the winter's hearth, May rich discourse repeat.

I guess if he attentive ear

Lend to the peeping flower,

The germ may to his patience read
Lessons of truth and power.

I guess if to the full ripe corn

He for direction look,

The tasseled corn may show him good

Not found in Dulness' book.

The small bird in its cunning nest,

The honey bee in flight,

May teach him; yea, the groping mole

May give his darkness light.

The cradle where his cries were hushed,

The rattle, bells, and ball,

Mute playthings of his infant hours

Have to his age a call.

The brook by which his boyhood played,

The hill that seemed so high,

Are homilies, when scans he them,

With manhood's sobered eye.

And so, if pride no hindrance give,
Food for all thought, profound,

The wise in heart may always pluck
From things that lie around.

THE EARLY DEAD.

Think of youth

Smitten amidst its playthings. - Ion.

THINK, mother! of the babe that clung
In weakness closely to thy love;
Round whom thy arms were warmly flung,
While blessings for it rose above,
With every panting of thy breast,

With every kiss, a whispered prayer
That on it happy dew might rest,
That this sweet bud might aye be blest,
And Heaven's shielding favor share-
Where is that infant? Where?

Think, mother of thy prattling girl,

Whose sunny eyes have gladdened thee,

Whose bird-like voice, 'mid care's wild whirl, Hath charmed thee with its melody;

Whose airy step within thy hall

Was signal still of pleasure there;

Bright creature! who embodied all
That we perfection fondly call,

Or dream the pure blest spirits are:-
Where is that daughter! Where?

Think, mother! of thy noble boy,
Who stood before thee in the pride
Of strength and beauty; no alloy
Thy fond maternal hopes to chide,
As his clear eye and open brow

Thou soughtest, and within his hair
Of careless curls, thy fingers thou

Delightedly wast wont to place, And mark the father in his face, And see thy image mimicked thereWhere is that boy? Oh, where?

That infant is a seraph now!

That daughter kneels before the throne! That beauteous boy, with harp and crown, Exulting, spreads his silver wings.

Thou almost hear'st those perfect strings
Whose music is to thee unknown-
Sound where the glad immortals bow.

Where children cast their honors down;

Where elders and apostles meet

At Jesus' feet.

Think, mother! while sweet tears are shed, How blessed are the Early Dead!

WHAT IS MAN?

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are ;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Even such is man. - Henry King.

I COURT retirement's hour,
That I may gladly look
Away from fantasies of earth,
And study nature's book.

I court relief from care;

I covet better things

Than this same creeping, carking care;

My spirit asketh wings!

It spurneth prison walls,

And soars, in spite of chain, Where mind with mind expatiates, And is at home again.

I weary of the strife

Men wage by night and day, An honorable straw to win, — A heap of yellow clay,