Bathe where thy own light is springing-
All my yearnings to be free
Are as echoes answering Thee!

Seldom upon lips of mine

Father! rests that name of thine-
Deep within my inmost breast,
In the secret place of mind,
Like an awful presence shrined,
Doth the dread idea rest!
Hushed and holy dwells it there-
Prompter of the silent prayer,
Lifting up my spirit's eye

And its faint, but earnest cry,
From its dark and cold abode,
Unto thee, my Guide and God!

THE FEMALE MARTYR.

[MARY G, aged 18, a "SISTER OF CHARITY," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.]

"BRING out your dead!" the midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet

Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheetHer coffin and her pall.

What-only one!" The brutal hackman said, As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead.

How sunk the inmost hearts of all,

As rolled that dead-cart slowly by,
With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall!
The dying turned him to the wall,
To hear it and to die !—

Onward it rolled; while oft its driver stayed, And hoarsely clamored, "Ho!-bring out your dead."

It paused beside the burial-place;

"Toss in your load!"—and it was done.With quick hand and averted face, Hastily to the grave's embrace

They cast them, one by one

Stranger and friend—the evil and the just,
Together trodden in the churchyard dust!

And thou, young martyr !-thou wast there-
No white-robed sisters round thee trod-
Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer
Rose through the damp and noisome air,
Giving thee to thy God;

Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave
Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave!

Yet, gentle sufferer !—there shall be,

In every heart of kindly feeling,

A rite as holy paid to thee

As if beneath the convent-tree

Thy sisterhood were kneeling,

At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping

For thou wast one in whom the light

Of Heaven's own love was kindled well.
Enduring with a martyr's might,
Through weary day and wakeful night,
Far more than words may tell :
Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown-
Thy mercies measured by thy God alone!

Where manly hearts were failing,—where
The throngful street grew foul with death,
O high-souled martyr!-thou wast there,

Inhaling from the loathsome air,

Poison with every breath.

Yet shrinking not from offices of dread
For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead.

And, where the sickly taper shed

Its light through vapors, damp, confined,
Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread-
A new Electra by the bed

Of suffering human-kind!

Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay,
To that pure hope which fadeth not away.

Innocent teacher of the high

And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy,

As thy low prayers were given;

And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features-a deliverer's smile!

A blessed task!-and worthy one

Who, turning from the world, as thou,
Before life's pathway had begun

To leave its spring-time flower and sun,
Had sealed her early vow;

Giving to God her beauty and her youth,
Her pure affections and her guileless truth.

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here
Could be for thee a meet reward;

Thine is a treasure far more dear-
Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear
Of living mortal heard,―

The joys prepared-the promised bliss above-
The holy presence of Eternal Love!

Sleep on in peace. The earth has not

A nobler name than thine shall be.

The deeds by martial manhood wrought,
The lofty energies of thought,

The fire of poesy

These have but frail and fading honors ;—thine
Shall Time unto Eternity consign.

Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down,
And human pride and grandeur fall,—
The herald's line of long renown-

The mitre and the kingly crown-
Perishing glories all!

The pure devotion of thy generous heart
Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part

THE FROST SPIRIT.

He comes he comes-the Frost Spirit comes You may trace his footsteps now

On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow.

He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes he comes the Frost Spirit comes!— from the frozen Labrador

From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er

Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below

In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes-he comes-the Frost Spirit comes on the rushing Northern blast,

And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.

With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow

On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes he comes-the Frost Spirit comes !— and the quiet lake shall feel

The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to

the skater's heel

And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,

Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes-he comes-the Frost Spirit comes!let us meet him as we may,

And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil

power away;

And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,

And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 38

"OH, lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare

The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen might wear;

And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant light they vie;

I have brought them with me a weary way,—will my gentle lady buy?"