Though round her pinks and violets slept, Unto the dewy air; And, like a desolate bride, she waits Oh, then arise, fair sister, dear! Awake, beloved Day! For many a silent trembling tear In grief for thy delay, From the rosy bowers of the orient skies. ODE TO WASHINGTON. Mrs. Annis Bondinot Stockton, of New Jersey, author of "The Triumph of Mildness," and who wrote in the latter half of the eighteenth century, addressed some of her poetry to Washington, whose reply, from which the following is an extract, shows he was not so anstere that he could not indulge, on occasion, in the playful gallantry of the old school: "Rocky Hill, September 24, 1783. "You apply to me, my dear madam, for absolution, as though I were your father-confessor. If it is a crime to write elegant poetry, and if you will come and dine with me on Thursday, and go through the proper course of penitence, I will strive hard to acquit you of your poetical trespasses. "Your most obedient and obliged servant, "To MES. STOCKTON." "GEORGE WASHINGTON. The following lines, thongh they may lack the ideal graces of the modern school, are superior to much that passed as poetry a hundred years ago, when Darwin and Hayley ruled the popular taste. With all thy country's blessings on thy head, Revered by thousands as you pass along, But thy last legacy, renowned chief, REQUIESCAM. This remarkable little poem, said to have been found under the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal (1864), is the production of an Americau lady, Mrs. Robert S. Howland. I lay me down to sleep, With little thought or care Me here or there. A bowing, burdened head, My good right hand forgets To march the weary march I am not eager, bold, Nor strong all that is past; My half day's work is done, I give a patient God My patient heart, And grasp his banner still, Though all its blue be dim; THE DEPARTED GOOD. ISAAC WILLIAMS (ENGLAND-1802-1865). The good-they drop around us, one by one, To faith they gleam; and blessed be sorrow's night Hath decked thy brow with honors more sub- Divinely dwell in memory; while life's sun lime : Twined in thy wreath the Christian's firm belief, Declining, bids us for the night prepare; That we, with urns of light, and our task done, Grant freedom to the children in this joyous spring: Children, come forth to play :— Better men, hereafter, Shall we have, for laughter Worship the God of nature in your childhood; Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring. Worship him in your sports; worship him ever; Send the children up To the high hill's top, Or deep into the wood's recesses, To woo Spring's caresses. See, the birds together, Worship him in the wild wood; Worship him amid the flowers; In the greenwood bowers; Pluck the buttercups, and raise Your voices in his praise. In this splendid weather, Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as men); And each feathered neighbor Euters on his labor,- Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the wren. As the year advances, Trees their naked branches Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green apparel. Insect and mild beast Keep no Lent, but feast; Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy is increased, And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud carol. Ah, come and woo the spring! List to the birds that sing; Pluck the primroses; pluck the violets; Pluck the daisies, Sing their praises; Friendship with the flowers some noble thought begets. MY TREASURES. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). Let me count my treasures, all my soul holds dear. Given me by dark spirits whom I used to fear:Through long days of anguish and sad nights did Pain Forge my shield Endurance, bright and free from stain. Doubt, in misty caverns, 'mid dark horrors sought, Strife, that racked my spirit without hope or rest. "I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY."-JOB vii. 16. The Rev. William Augustus Muhlenberg, a great-grandson of Henry Melchoir Muhlenberg, who was the founder of the German Lutheran Church in America, was born in Philadelphia in 1796, and died in 1877. The great charities of St. Luke's Hospital and St. Johnland remain as enduring monuments of his untiring energy and Christian spirit. His "Life and Works" were published by the Messrs. Harper in 1880. We subjoin his popular hymn as it appears in his latest revision. I would not live alway: I ask not to stay, Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way: Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around, Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gloom of the plumage that bears him away. I would not live alway-thus fettered by sin, I would not live alway: no, welcome the tomb; Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. There too is the pillow where Christ bowed his head Oh, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night, Who, who would live alway, away from his God, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; That heavenly music! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. And see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold, The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! Oh, give me--oh, give me the wings of a dove! Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above; Ay, 'tis now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. THE BEAUTIFUL. E. H. BURRINGTON (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). Walk with the Beautiful and with the Grand, I hear thee say, "The Beautiful! what is it?" Ay, love it; 'tis a sister that will bless, Then love the Beautiful. Some boast its presence in a Grecian face, Some, in a favorite warbler of the skies; But be not fooled! whate'er thine eye may trace, Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise; Then seek it everywhere. Thy bosom is its mint; the workmen are Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee: believing The Beautiful exists in every star, Thou mak'st it so, and art thyself deceiving Dost thou see beanty in the violet's cup? They will obey thy word. One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold; |