And who can dare To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, Doth rest not night or day. The morning stars, When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty; And while it rushes with delirious joy In the dread presence of the Invisible, A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE. A butterfly bask'd on a baby's grave, Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air, "I was a worm till I won my wings, And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings: Wouldst thou call the blest one back?" DEATH OF AN INFANT. Death found strange beauty on that polish'd brow, And dash'd it out. On cheek and lip. There was a tint of rose He touch'd the veins with ice, There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal ALPINE FLOWERS. Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye? Did some white-wing'd messenger On mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or, breathing on the callous icicles, Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?— -Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge And marks ye in your placid loveliness,— CONTENTMENT. Think'st thou the steed that restless roves With wild, unbridled bound, Within her waxen round? Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn Than that which, in its native sphere, Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold THE CORAL-INSECT. Toil on toil on! ye ephemeral train, With your sand-based structures and domes of rock: And your arches spring up to the crested wave; A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark With mouldering bones the deeps are white, And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see Ye build-ye build-but ye enter not in, Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin; Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye; Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main, THE GAIN OF ADVERSITY. "Sweet are the uses of adversity." A Lily said to a threatening Cloud "You have taken my lord, the Sun, away, It folded its leaves, and trembled sore As the hours of darkness press'd it, Then it felt ashamed of its fretful thought, For the night of weeping had jewels brought, THE PRIVILEGES OF AGE. The aged, especially if their conquest of self is imperfect, are prone to underrate the advantages that remain. Their minds linger among depressing subjects, repining for what "time's effacing fingers" will never restore. Far better would it be to muse on their remaining privileges, to recount them, and to rejoice in them. Many instances have I witnessed, both of this spirit, and the want of it, which left enduring impressions. I well remember an ancient dwelling, sheltered by lofty, umbrageous trees, and with all the appendages of rural comfort. A fair prospect of hill and dale, and broad river, and distant spire, cheered the vine-covered piazzas, through whose loop-holes, with the subdued cry of the steam-borne cars, the world's great Babel made a dash at the picture without coming too near. Traits of agricultural life, divested of its rude and sordid toils, were pleasantly visible. A smooth-coated and symmetrical cow ruminated over her clover-meal. A faithful horse, submissive to the gentlest rein, protruded his honest face through the barn window. A few brooding mothers were busy with the nurture of their chickens, while the proud father of the flock told, with a clarion-voice, his happiness. There were trees, whose summer fruits were richly swelling, and bushes of ripening berries, and gardens of choice vegetables. Those who, from the hot and dusty city, came to breathe the pure air of this sylvan retreat, took note of these "creature-comforts," and thought they added beauty to the landscape. Within the abode, fair pictures and books of no mean literature adorned the parlors; in the carpeted kitchen, ticked the stately old family clock, while the bright dishes stood in orderly array upon the speckless shelves. Visitants could not but admire that union of taste and education which makes rural life beautiful. It might seem almost as an Elysium, where care would delight to repose, or philosophy to pursue her researches without interruption. But to any such remark, the excellent owner was wont mournfully to reply, "Here are only two old people together. Our children are married and gone. Some of them are dead. We cannot be expected to have much enjoyment." Oh, dear friends, but it is expected that you should. Your very statement of the premises is an admission of peculiar sources of comfort. "Two old people together." Whose sympathies can be so perfect? And is not sympathy a source of happiness? Side by side ye have journeyed through joys and sorrows. You have stood by the grave's brink when it swallowed up your idols, and the iron that entered into your souls was fused as a living link, that time might never destroy. Under the cloud, and through the sea, you have walked hand in hand, heart to heart. What subjects of communion must you have, with which no other human being could intermeddle! "Two old people." Would your experience be so rich and profound, if you were not old? or your congeniality so entire, if one was old, and the other young? What a blessing that you can say, There are two of us. Can you realize the loneliness of soul that must gather around the words "left alone!" How many of memory's cherished pictures must then be viewed through blinding tears! how feelingly the expression of the poet must be adopted-"'tis the survivor dies"! "Our children are married and gone." Would you have it otherwise? Was it not fitting for them to comply with the institution of their Creator? Is it not better than if they were all at home, without congenial employment, pining in disappointed hope, or solitude of the heart? Married and gone! To teach in other |