Some shading object, in a silver shower No sound nor motion of a living thing Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves, Powdered with gold; while on the jutting twigs On his broad pinions sailing round and round, The Dying Child.-CHRISTIAn Examiner. 'Tis dying! life is yielding place Which spreads upon the troubled face That deepens as the parting breath A thoughtful beauty rests the while But those pale lips could never smile And sure some heavenly dreams begin O that those mildly conscious lips To tell how death's severe eclipse Is passing from thine eye; For living eye can never see The change that death hath wrought in thee. Perhaps thy sight is wandering far Throughout the kindled sky, Amid the flames on high- Perhaps thine eye is gazing down Rejoicing to have gained thy crown, To dwell beneath the throne of Him, Thy life! how cold it might have been, How dark, how deeply stained with sin, How happy thus to sink to rest, 'Tis well, then, that the smile should lie It tells to our inquiring eye What words could never speak A revelation sweetly given Of all that man can learn of heaven. Looking unto Jesus.-CHRISTIan Examiner, THOU, who didst stoop below, To drain the cup of wo, Wearing the form of frail mortality,— Thy blessed labors done, Thy crown of victory won, fast passed from earth-passed to thy home on high Man may no longer trace, The image of the bright, the viewless One; Save with faith's raptured ear, Thy voice of tenderness, God's holy Son! Our eyes behold thee not, Yet hast thou not forgot Those who have placed their hope, their trust in thee; Before thy Father's face Thou hast prepared a place, That where thou art, there they may also be. It was no path of flowers, Through this dark world of ours, Beloved of the Father, thou didst tread; And shall we, in dismay, Shrink from the narrow way, When clouds and darkness are around it spread O thou, who art our life, Be with us through the strife! Was not thy head by earth's fierce tempests bowed? To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, through the cloud. Even through the awful gloom, That light of love our guiding star shall be; The shadowy way to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to thee. Scene from Hadad.-HILLHOUSE. The garden of ABSALOM's house on Mount Zion, near the palace, overlooking the city. TAMAR sitting by a fountain. Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha; Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. Blest hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair, So softly glowing, so contemplative, Hath set, and sanctified to look on man. This day's offences!-Ha! the wonted strain, Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount Herself, or heaven? Tam. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence Those sad, mysterious sounds. Had. What sounds, dear princess? Tam. Surely, thou know'st; and now I almost think Some spiritual creature waits on thee. Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends Up from the city to these quiet shades; A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy Tam. The sounds I mean Floated like mournful music round my head, Had. When? Tam. Now, as thou camest. Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought Had. Were we in Syria, I might say Judah would call me infidel to Moses. Tam. How like my fancy! When these strains precede Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think Some gentle being, who delights in us, Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming; Had. Youthful fantasy, Attuned to sadness, makes them seem so, lady. Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell, Tam. But how delicious are the pensive dreams That steal upon the fancy at their call! Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest. Meek Labor wipes his brow, and intermits The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot; Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks-and, hark' The jar of life is still; the city speaks In gentle murmurs, voices chime with lutes And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields |