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GROUP after group are gathering. Such as press'd
Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast,
Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade,-
Group after group glide on with noiseless tread,
And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet,
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred,
And holy words their ruby lips repeat,
Oft with a chasten'd glance, in modulation sweet.

Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows
Wan poverty hath done the work of care.
Look up, ye sad ones!-'t is your Father's house,
Beneath whose consecrated doom you are;
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare,

And watch the gaudier forms that gaily move,
And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are,

The "coat of many colours" proves His love, Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above.

And ye, bless'd labourers in this humble sphere,
To deeds of saint-like charity inclined,
Who, from your cells of meditation dear,

Come forth to gird the weak, untutor'd mind,-
Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined

Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain,Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind

The rest of earthly Sabbaths.-Be your gain A Sabbath without end, 'mid yon celestial plain. MRS. SIGOURNEY.


FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,

A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have "written strange defeature" there.

And time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates-he can't recall.

And error, gilding worst designs-
Like speckled snake that strays and slimes-
Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot,-
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun-but finish'd not.

And fruitless late remorse doth trace-
Like Hebrew lore, her backward pace-
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed members-sense unknit-
Huge reams of folly-shreds of wit-
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look,
Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book!



COME near to me, my gentle girl,

Come, share a father's parting sorrow,And weep with me those tears to-day,

Nor thou, nor I, may weep to-morrow. Come, lean once more upon my breast,

As when a simple child caressing, For another day, and far away

Wilt thou be from thy father's blessing.

The wind blows fairly for the sea;

The white waves round thy bark are swelling, Thy lover sighs, for the morn to rise,

And make thee a bride, my gentle Ellen:Yet closer, closer round me cling,

Though another claim thy love to-morrow, None, none are here to reprove the tear, That flows to-day for a father's sorrow.

Come, gaze on me, thou darling child,

My fairest and my fondliest cherish'd, That I may trace, in thy placid face,

Thy mother's beauty ere she perish'd. And let me hear thy mother's song

Yet once more from thy sweet lip swelling,— And none again shall sing that strain, The last song of my gentle Ellen.

And say, that when between us lie

Wide lands and many a mountain billow, Thy heart will tend to thine earliest friend, And think in prayer of his aged pillow. For my head is white with winter snow,

No earthly sun away may carry, Until I come to my waiting home,

The last home where the aged tarry.

Then lean once more upon my breast,
As when a simple child caressing,
For another day, and far away

Wilt thou be from thy father's blessing.
Ay, closer, closer round me cling,

Though another claim thy love to-morrow, None, none are here, to reprove the tear That flows to-day for a father's sorrow.



BRILLIANT and beautiful!—And can it be
That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light-
Upon thy cheek no smile?-I little deem'd
At our last parting, when thy cheering voice
Breath'd the soul's harmony, what shadowy form
Then rose between us, and with icy dart
Wrote, "Ye shall meet no more!" I little deem'd
That thy elastic step, Death's darken'd vale
Would tread before me.

Friend! I shrink to say
Farewell to thee. In youth's unclouded morn
We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower,
And win it for our pleasure, or our pride.
But when the stern realities of life
Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms
Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes
A healing essence, and a strengthening charm,
Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love,
Departed and deplored. Talents were thine
Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit,
And that keen glance of intellect which reads,
Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs
Of human action. Yet such meek regard
For others' feelings, such a simple grace
And singleness of purpose, such respect
To woman's noiseless duties, sweetly blent
And temper'd those high gifts, that every heart
That fear'd their splendour, loved their goodness too.
I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls
Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone
Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld
Their bright expansion through each rip'ning year.
To them the sacred name of daughter blent
All images of comforter and friend,

The fire-side charmer, and the nurse of pain,
Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings.
What shall console their sorrow, when young morn

Upriseth in its beauty, but no smile

Of filial love doth mark it?-or when eve
Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone,
So long the treasure of their list'ning heart,
Uttereth no music?

Ah!-so frail are weSo like the brief ephemeron that wheels Its momentary round, we scarce can weep Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share The clay of those we mourn. A narrow point Divides our grief-sob from our pang of death; Down to the mould'ring multitude we go, And all our anxious thoughts, our fever'd hopes, The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage In deep oblivion rest. Then let the woes And joys of earth be to the deathless soul Like the swept dew-drop from the eagle's wing, When waking in his strength, he sunward soars. MRS. SIGOURNEY.


O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie,
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

"Tis like the birthday of the world,
When Earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;

There's crimson buds, and white and blue-
The very rainbow showers

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