And laid upon the casement here,- I told you that Almighty power Look at the chrysalis, my love,- Now raise your wondering glance above, "O, yes, mamma! how very gay O, mother, now I know full well, How beautiful will brother be, And live with heavenly things!" Last Prayers.-MARY ANN BROWNE. "O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe Forth from a lip that fades with coming death." I AM not what I was: My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted; They sprung too early, like the tender grass That by spring-frost is blasted. But THOU wilt not believe How very soon my heart-task will be o'er My heart, whose feelings never can deceive, Is withered at its core. I know the blight is there, And slowly it is spreading in my youth; And trembles every limb, As never trembled they in happier years, Thou dost not know, when pale My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood O, from the laughing earth, And all its glorious things, I could depart, Yet come not when the drear But come when I am dead: And come thou to my grave: Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn, When lightly in the breeze the willows wave, And spring's first flowers are born; Or on a summer's eve, When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned Or in the solemn night, When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep, And when the earth is bathed in starry light, O, come thou there, and weep. Weep yet not bitter tears; Let them be holy, silent, free from pain: A chain that let it gaze On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er And bring sometimes a flower And whatsoe'er the time Thou comest, at the morn, or eve, or night, Still keep this thought, (for sweet It was to me when such bright hope was given,) That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet, Ay, surely meet, in heaven. A Noon Scene.-BRYANT. THE quiet August noon is come; And mark yon soft white clouds, that rest O, how unlike those merry hours In sunny June, when earth laughs out; When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout!— When in the grass sweet waters talk, But now, a joy too deep for sound, Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground- Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care; Away from desk and dust, away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see And where, upon the meadow's breast, Come-and when, amid the calm profound, Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, The village trees their summits rear One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, Where the hushed winds their sabbath keep, Well might the gazer deem, that when, The good forsake the scenes of life,— Like the deep quiet, that awhile Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, New England's Dead.-I. McLELLAN, JUN. "I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever."-Webster's Specch. NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, By brook and river, lake and rill, The land is holy where they fought, For by their blood that land was bought, Then glory to that valiant band, |