And wilt thou not one moment raise
Thy weary head, awhile to see
The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee?

Thy name, thy date, thy life declare-
Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band
A thousand maids have sighed to wear,
The brightest in thy beauteous land-

Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flame of war-
Ah me! do thus thy graces lie

A faded phantom, and no more?

O, not like thee would I remain,
But o'er the earth my ashes strew,
And in some rising bud regain

The freshness that my childhood knew.

But has thy soul, O maid, so long
Around this mournful relict dwelt?
Or burst away with pinion strong,
And at the foot of Mercy knelt?

Or has it, in some distant clime,

With curious eye, unsated, strayed, And, down the winding stream of time, On every changeful current played?

Or, locked in everlasting sleep,

Must we thy heart extinct deplore,
Thy fancy lost in darkness weep,
And sigh for her who feels no more?

Or, exiled to some humbler sphere,
In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,
And, murmuring in the stranger's ear,
Thy tender melancholy tell?

Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains

Shall from the muse a tear demand, Who, wandering on these distant plains, Looks fondly to a distant land.

Song.-ANONYMOUS.

A PALE weeping-willow stands yonder alone,
And mournfully waves in the Zephyr's light breath;
Beneath, in its shadows, is sculptured a stone,

That tells of the maiden who sleeps there in death.

She came to the village,-a stranger unknown,-
Though fair as the first flower that opens in May;
The touches of health from her features had flown,
And she drooped like that flower in its time of decay.

She told not her story, she spoke not of sorrow,

But laid herself down, and, heart-broken, she sighed; And, ere the hills blushed in the dawn of the morrow, Uncomplaining and silent, the sweet stranger died.

Apart and alone, the sad villagers made

A cold, quiet tomb in the heart of the vale;
And many a stranger has wept in the shade
Of yon weeping-willow, to hear of the tale.

The Life of the Blessed.-BRyant.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.

Alma region luciente,

Prado de bien andanza, que ni al hielo, &c.

REGION of life and light!

Land of the good, whose earthly toils are o'er!

Nor frost, nor heat, may blight

Thy vernal beauty; fertile shore,

Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore'

There, without crook or sling,

Walks the good Shepherd; blossoms white and red

Round his meek temples cling;

And, to sweet pastures led,

His own loved flock beneath his eye are fed.

He guides, and near him they

Follow delighted; for he makes them go

Where dwells eternal May,

And heavenly roses blow,

Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height

Named of the infinite and long sought Good,
And fountains of delight;—

And where his feet have stood

Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, Reposing as he lies,

With all his flɔck around,

He witches the still air with modulated sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth

Immortal harmonies of power to still

All passions born of earth,

And draw the ardent will

Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,

A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,

And change it, till it be

Transformed and swallowed up, O love, in thee,

Ah, then my soul should know,

Beloved, where thou liest at noon of day,

And, from this place of wo

Released, should take its way

To mingle with thy flock, and never stray.

The Sunday School.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

GROUP after group are gathering. Such as pressed
Once to their Savior'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 chastened 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!-'tis your Father's house,
Beneath whose consecrated dome you are;
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare,
And watch the gaudier forms that gayly move,
And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are,

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

And ye, blessed laborers in this humble sphere,
To deeds of saintlike charity inclined,
Who, from your cells of meditation dear,

Come forth to gird the weak, untutored 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.

"They went out into the Mount of Olives."-J. PIERPOINT.

THERE'S Something sweet in scenes of gloom

To hearts of joy bereft,

When hope has withered in its bloom,

When friends are going to the tomb,

Or in the tomb are left.

'Tis night-a lovely night;—and, lo!
Like men in vision seen,

The Savior and his brethren go,

Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,

Led by heaven's lamp serene,—

From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream,
To Olivet's dark steep,

There, o'er past joys, gone like a dream,

O'er future woes, that present seem,

In solitude to weep.

Heaven on their earthly hopes has frowned;
Their dream of thrones has fled;
The table, that his love has crowned,
They ne'er again shall gather round,
With Jesus at their head.

Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
The hope of sins forgiven;-
Then, when our friends the grave devours,
When all the world around us lowers,
We'll look from earth to heaven.

The Lily.-J. G. PERCIVAL.

I HAD found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturbed it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily's bloom

When the day was dark and chill:

It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily's bell,

And watched it many a day :

The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell,

And the flower had flown away.

I looked where the leaves were laid,

In withering paleness, by,

And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.

The Last Evening before Eternity.-HILLHOUSE

By this, the sun his westering car drove low: Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud