But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,
There's more of heaven's pure beam about her

now;

The angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships glowing on her brow. The smile shall brighten the dim evening star, That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart: The meteor-bearer of our parting breath,

A moonbeam in the midnight-cloud of death.

FITZGREENE HALLECK, 1795—

—American.

HUMAN LIFE.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound.
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale;

So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine:
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping's heard where only joy has been; When by his children borne, and from his door! Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is human Life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,

As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel harps at midnight's witching hour.

SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762-1855.

THINKER AND DOER.

ONE sits at home, with pale impassive brow,
Bent on the eloquence of lifeless letters;

Noting man's thoughts from mind's first dawn, till now, When Truth seems Heaven-inspired, to burst her fetters.

Another plies the force of stalwart limbs,

And keen wit sharpen'd by the whirl of action;

For midnight lore no studious lamp he trims, Curtain'd and muffled from the world's distraction.

Two destinies converging to one end,

The glorious issue of all human labour; Where in harmonious union softly blend

The praise of God, the profit of our neighbour.

Each has his gift-the stamp affix'd at birth,
That marks him for the servant of a Master;
The chosen steward of His realm of Earth;

The shepherd watching for a higher Pastor.

Each has his crown-of earthly laurels here,
Gather'd and woven by the hand of mortals;
And when the spirit-city's towers appear,

Dropp'd on his brow by angels at its portals.

Judge not which serves his mighty Master best,
Haply thou mightst be true worth's detractor;
For each obeys his nature's high behest,--
The close-pent thinker, and the busy actor.

ANONYMOUS.

THE WORLD'S UNCERTAINTY.

THE day was dark and stormy; but the night
Dawns into brightness, and the silvery moon
Pours over sea and land her urn of light,

Making of midnight a most pleasant noon.
The autumn blasts were withering, and their blight
Brought desolation: but a richer boon

The balmy showers and breathing zephyrs bring; And the cold earth, fann'd by the breath of spring, Again shall start into luxuriant life.

Deformity and beauty-storm and calm

The day-dawn and the darkness-quiet and qualm—
Throughout all nature mix and mingle, rife:
Then, why should man expect a fixed state,
Where all is change-or shrink beneath his fate?
ALEXANDER BETHUNE, 1804-1843.

LIFE'S SUNSET.

STORM had been on the hills. The day had worn
As if a sleep upon the hours had crept;
And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn
In dull, impenetrable masses slept ;
And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.
Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue
And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,

And as it wider and intenser grew,
The darkness melted silently away,

And with the splendour of a god, broke through The perfect glory of departing day:

So when this stormy pilgrimage is o'er,

Will light upon the dying Christian pour.

-American.

N. P. WILLIS, 1807

TO-MORROW!

TO-MORROW! Mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!

But think, in one revolving day
How earthly things may pass away!