But to the careless world around,

Oh why should I proclaim,

That though with wreaths my hair be bound, The brain within is flame?

I would not have thee think of me
As fickle, vain, or gay;

I would not thou shouldst ever see
To what I am the prey.

Ah, no! to all the world beside
My secret should be free;

If I could think the world would hide
My heart, my love, from thee.

STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

BORN but to die! like some fair flower
Ere it hath drunk the dewy gem,
Just opening to the vernal shower,

Torn rudely from its parent stem:
Ere it hath shed its fragrance round,
Cast, soil'd and withering, to the ground.

Was it for this the mother mild,
Delighted, fondly loved to trace

Each feature of her slumbering child,
Each beauty of its infant face;
And from its cheek the tear to steal
With rapture none but mothers feel?

Was it for this, when sickness dread
Dimm'd the mild lustre of its eye,
She sadly watch'd its midnight bed?

Sought meaning in each senseless cry?
Observed each look with anxious care,

Now dropp'd a tear, now breathed a prayer?

Yet had'st thou lived, sweet Babe, to tread Life's rugged paths, its wilds forlorn, Thou'dst lived to mourn hope's vision fled, And for the rosebud grasp'd the thorn: Thou'dst lived the thousand pangs to prove Of friendship frail, more fragile love.

But happier thou! for thou art gone Where love and peace eternal dwell: To yon bright bless'd abode thou'rt borne, Whose joys no mortal tongue may tell! Pure to its God thy soul is given :

Pure as it left its native heaven!

P.

LADY JANE GREY.

BY THE REV. JAMES WHITE.

MEEKLY and low she bows her gentle head,
While her wrapt soul ascends to God in pray'r-
And round her breast a hallowing calm is spread,
For Faith is there!

Faith, pure and strong, which o'er that sinless heart
Sheds its warm sunshine and sustaining power;
And Hope and Love to that lone maid impart
One tearless hour!

Little knows she what life has yet in store!
But her young days have been one peaceful dream
Of all things fair-the glorious land of yore-
The mount-the stream-

Hallow'd by sage and minstrel ! For their sake
The world around has pass'd unheeded by-
Oh! must she now in life's dark storms awake,
To mourn-and die?

I

Yes, hapless Jane! the lightning's lurid flame,
That brightens ere it slays, around thee shone,
And, as in fitful glares its beamings came,
Revealed a throne.

And on that tottering throne, a moment seen,
While gathering clouds around it darkly swept,
Thou trembling sat'st, a victim and a queen,
Sat'st there, and wept.

The dungeon holds thee! He, the young, the brave, Thy love, thy husband, pours his life-blood free, And well thou know'st, the same uniting grave

Now waits for thee!

But ceased thy weeping now, and sooth'd thy fears, Faith, hope, and virtue cheer thy spotless mind,— And thou dost scorn that throne,-assum'd in tears, In blood resign'd!