The Dying Girl.-MRS. HALE'S MAGAZINE,
SISTER, death's veil is gathering fast;
The chilly seal has marked my brow;
This young heart's mournful dream is past;
The golden cords are severing now.
The spirit of the tear-gemmed throne
Bounds o'er me with angelic light;
And Mercy, on Love's wings, hath flown
To guide my soul's mysterious flight.
I leave thee, sister,-thee, the last,
A lone one, drooping 'mid the dead-
A bud, o'er whose pale leaf is cast
The blight, from Sorrow's pinion shed.
If from the blessed realms of light,
Love still may own its mortal birth,
May soften still Affliction's night,
Thou shalt not, sister, pine on earth.
For where the young buds' dewy fold
Flings hallowed incense on the air,
Where they once met who now are cold,
This soul of mine shall meet thee there.
Kneel thou beside my lonely grave,
When summer breezes o'er it sweep,
When yon proud orb, that gilds the wave,
Sinks glorious to his ocean sleep.
Knee!, and the vow thou breathest there,
At that lone hour, shall float on high,-
Spirits of light shall bless thy prayer,
The dead, the crowned, shall greet thy sigh
And now, farewell! Strange music floats,
Like angel breathings, round my heart.
Are those the Avenger's awful notes?
The signal tones, that life must part?
Yes, yes, the One, the God, who sways
Creation's depths, hath bid me come
To seek the realms that hymn His praise,
The franchised soul's eternal home.
THE dying year! the dying year!
The heaven is clear and mild;
And withering all the fields appear
Where once the verdure smiled.
The summer ends its short career;
The zephyr breathes farewell;
And now upon the closing year
The yellow glories dwell.
The radiant clouds float slow above
The lake's transparent breast;
In splendid foliage all the grove
Is fancifully dressed.
On many a tree the autumn throws
Its brilliant robes of red;
As sickness lights the cheeks of those
It hastens to the dead.
That tinge is flattering and bright,
But tells of death like this;
And they, that see its gathering light,
Their lingering hopes dismiss.
O, thus serene, and free from fear,
Shall be our last repose;
Thus, like the sabbath of the year,
Our latest evening close.
Spring. PEABODY.
WHEN brighter suns and milder skies
Proclaim the opening year,
*This piece, and some others in this volume, are selected from a little Catechism in verse, prepared several years since by Mr. Peabody, for the use of children. It contains true poetry, besides being well adapted, by its simplicity, for the purpose which the author had in view.-ED.
What various sounds of joy arise !
What prospects bright appear
Earth and her thousand voices give
Their thousand notes of praise;
And all, that by his mercy live,
To God their offering raise.
Forth walks the laborer to his toil,
And sees the fresh array
Of verdure clothe the flowery soil
Along his careless way.
The streams, all beautiful and bright,
Reflect the morning sky;
And there, with music in his flight,
The wild bird soars on high.
Thus, like the morning, calm and clear,
That saw the Savior rise,
The spring of heaven's eternal year
Shall dawn on earth and skies.
No winter there, no shades of night,
Profane those mansions blessed,
Where, in the happy fields of light,
The weary are at rest.
How fast the rapid hours retire!
How soon the spring was done!
And now no cloud keeps off the fire
Of the bright, burning sun.
The slender flower-bud dreads to swell
In that unclouded blue,
And treasures in its fading bell
The spark of morning dew.
The stream bounds lightly from the spring
To cool and shadowy caves;
And the bird dips his weary wing
Beneath its sparkling waves.
Rosalie.-MRS. HALE'S MAGAZINE.
THERE sits a woman on the brow
Of yonder rocky height;
There, gazing o'er the waves below,
She sits from morn till night.
She heeds not how the mad waves leap
Along the rugged shore;
She looks for one upon the deep
She never may see more.
Far other once was Rosalie;
Her smile was glad; her voice,
Like music o'er a summer sea,
Said to the heart-Rejoice.
Nine years though all have given him o'er,
Her spirit doth not fail;
And still she waits along the shore
The never-coming sail.
On that high rock, abrupt and bare,
Ever she sits, as now;
The dews have damped her flowing hair;
The sun has scorched her brow.
And every far-off sail she sees,
And every passing cloud,
Or white-winged sea-bird, on the breeze,
She calls to it aloud.
The sea-bird answers to her cry,
The cloud, the sail float on ;
The hoarse wave mocks her misery,
Yet is her hope not gone.
When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds are in their nest,
And flower-buds folded up to sleep,
And ploughmen gone to rest,-
Down the rude track her feet have worn-
There scarce the goat may go—
Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,
Is seen descending slow.
But when the gray morn tints the sky,
And lights that lofty peak,-
With a strange lustre in her eye,
A fever in her cheek,-
Again she goes, untired, to sit,
And watch, the live-long day;
Nor, till the star of eve is lit,
E'er turns her steps away.
To a young Invalid, condemned, by accidental Lameness, t perpetual Confinement.-HENRY PICKERING.
"And must he make
That heart a grave, and in it bury deep
Its young and beautiful feelings?"
THINE is the spring of life, dear boy,
And thine should be its flowers;
Thine, too, should be the voice of joy,
To hasten on the hours:
And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue,
With winged feet, shouldst still
Thy sometime frolic course pursue
O'er lawn and breezy hill
Not so! What means this foolish heart,
And verse as idly vain ?
Each hath his own allotted part
Of pleasure and of pain:
And while thou canst the hours beguile,
(Thus patiently reclined,)
I would not quench that languid smile,
Or see thee less resigned.
Some are condemned to roam the earth,
A various fate to share,
Scarce destined, from their very birth,
To know a parent's care.
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