The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
"What is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves?"

To William.

Written by a bereaved Father.—PEABODY.

It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high; And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free, And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee.

Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly, Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morn

ing sky;

And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that Health had painted there.

And then, in all my thoughtfulness, I could not but rejoice, To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears; 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy,That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy.

I listened, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore.

So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be,
That Death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee?
Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood's opening bloom,
While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb?

Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy my paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was, it sunk away as soon

As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at

noon.

I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; but, ere that day was

spent,

I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent, And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head;

The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled.

Days passed; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain;

I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again; The cheek was pale; the snowy lips were gently thrown

apart;

And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the heart.

I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be pressed, And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled widely o'er my breast; Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seemed moving in the gloom,

As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb.

And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my

eye,

Thy little hand pressed gently mine, in token of reply;
To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed.

I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony, it ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou, within the grave my weary head should'st lay,

And live, beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close; And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose; For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppressed, And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now; but let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine; My faith may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more.

Part of the 19th Psalm.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN

THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow,
And sparkling spheres of golden light,
Jehovah's work and glory show,

By burning day or gentle night.
In silence, through the vast profound,
They move their orbs of fire on high,
Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound,
Is heard upon the tranquil sky;
Yet to the earth's remotest bar

Their burning glory, all is known;
Their living light has sparkled far,
And on the attentive silence shone.

God, 'mid their shining legions, rears
A tent where burns the radiant sun
As, like a bridegroom bright, appears
The monarch, on his course begun,
From end to end of azure heaven

He holds his fiery path along;
To all his circling heat is given,
His radiance flames the spheres among.
By sunny ray, and starry throne,

The wonders of our mighty Lord
To man's attentive heart are known,
Bright as the promise of his word.

What is that, Mother ?-GEORGE W. DOANE. WHAT is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The dove, my son.

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The eagle, boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm in his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?—

The swan, my love.

He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when Death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson.-
MRS. SIGOURNEY.

"His cyo spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mrs. Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on Edward, his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all present to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, Behold thy Mother!'"-Memoir of Payson, p. 425.

WHAT SAID THE EYE?-The marble lip spake not,
Save in that quivering sob with which stern Death
Doth crush life's harp-strings.-Lo, again it pours
A tide of more than uttered eloquence!-
"Son!-look upon thy mother!"—and retires
Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids,
To hide itself forever. 'Tis the last,
Last glance!-and mark how tenderly it fell

Upon that loved companion, and the groups
That wept around.-Full well the dying knew
The value of those holy charities

Which purge the dross of selfishness away;
And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart,

Rent from the cherished prop, which, next to Christ,
Had been her stay in all adversities,

Would take the balm-cup best from that dear hand
Which woke the sources of maternal love,-
That smile, whose winning paid for sleepless nights
Of cradle-care,-that voice, whose murmured tone
Her own had moulded to the words of prayer.
How soothing to a widowed mother's breast
Her first-born's sympathy!

Be strong, young man!
Lift the protector's arm,-the healer's prayer,—
Be tender in thy every word and deed.
A Spirit watcheth thee!-Yes, he who passed
From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day,
Will be thy witness, in the court of heaven,
How thou dost bear his mantle.

So farewell,

Leader in Israel!-Thou whose radiant path
Was like the angel's standing in the sun,*
Undazzled and unswerving, it was meet
That thou should'st rise to light without a cloud.

The Indian's Tale.-J. G. WHITTIER.

It was generally believed by the first settlers of New England, that a mo tal pestilence had, a short time previous to their arrival, in a great measur depopulated some of the finest portions of the country on the seaboard. The Indians themselves corroborated this opinion, and gave the English a ter rific description of the ravages of the unseen Destroyer.

THE war-god did not wake to strife
The strong men of our forest-land;
No red hand grasped the battle-knife
At Areouski's high command:-
We held no war-dance by the dim
And red light of the creeping flame;

*Revelation, xix. 17.