There is weeping on earth for the lost!

There is bowing in grief to the ground!
But rejoicing and praise mid the sanctified host,
For a spirit in Paradise found!
Though brightness hath pass'd from the earth,
Yet a star is new-born in the sky,

And a soul hath gone home to the land of its birth,
Where are pleasures and fulness of joy!
And a new harp is strung, and a new song is given
To the breezes that float o'er the gardens of heaven!

"LET THERE BE LIGHT.”

NIGHT, stern, eternal, and alone,

Girded with solemn silence round, Majestic on his starless throne,

Sat brooding o'er the vast profoundAnd there unbroken darkness lay,

Deeper than that which veils the tomb, While circling ages wheel'd away

Unnoted mid the voiceless gloom.

Then moved upon the waveless deep

The quickening Spirit of the LORD,
And broken was its pulseless sleep

Before the Everlasting Word!
"Let there be light!" and listening earth,
With tree, and plant, and flowery sod,
"In the beginning" sprang to birth,
Obedient to the voice of GOD.
Then, in his burning track, the sun
Trod onward to his joyous noon,
And in the heavens, one by one,

Cluster'd the stars around the moon-
In glory bathed, the radiant day

Wore like a king his crown of lightAnd, girdled by the "Milky Way,"

How queenly look'd the star-gemm'd night!

Bursting from choirs celestial, rang
Triumphantly the notes of song;
The morning-stars together sang

In concert with the heavenly throng;
And earth, enraptured, caught the strain
That thrill'd along her fields of air,
Till every mountain-top and plain
Flung back an answering echo there!

Creator! let thy Spirit shine

The darkness of our souls within, And lead us by thy grace divine

From the forbidden paths of sin; And may that voice which bade the earth From Chaos and the realms of Night, From doubt and darkness call us forth To God's own liberty and light! Thus, made partakers of Tux love, The baptism of the Spirit ours, Our grateful hearts shall rise above, Renew'd in purposes and powers; And songs of joy again shall ring Triumphant through the arch of heavenThe glorious songs which angels sing, Exulting over souls forgiven!

[ers!

These are thy pictures, June!
Brightest of summer-months-thou month of flow-
First-born of beauty, whose swift-footed hours
Dance to the merry tune

Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout
Of childhood on the sunny hills peal'd out.

I feel it were not wrong

To deem thou art a type of heaven's clime,
Only that there the clouds and storms of time

Sweep not the sky along;

The flowers-air-beauty-music-all are thine, But brighter-purer-lovelier-more divine!

THE strife is o'er-Death's seal is set
On ashy lip and marble brow;
"Tis o'er, though faintly lingers yet
Upon the cheek a life-like glow:
The feeble pulse hath throbb'd its last,
The aching head is laid at rest-
Another from our ranks hath pass'd,
The dearest and the loveliest!
Press down the eyelids-for the light,
Erewhile so radiant underneath,
Is gone forever from our sight,

And darken'd by the spoiler, Death:
Press down the eyelids-who can bear
To look beneath their fringed fold?
And softly part the silken hair

Upon the brow so deathly cold.

The strife is o'er! The loved of years,
To whom our yearning hearts had grown,
Hath left us, with life's gathering fears
To struggle darkly and alone;

Gone, with the wealth of love which dwelt,

Heart-kept, with holy thoughts and highGone, as the clouds of evening melt

Beyond the dark and solemn sky.

Yet mourn her not-the voice of wo
Befits not this, her triumph-hour;
Let Sorrow's tears no longer flow,

For life eternal is her dower!
Freed from the earth's corrupt control,
The trials of a world like this,

Joy! for her disembodied soul
Drinks at the fount of perfect bliss!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN ON VISITING MY BIRTH-PLACE.

WE

E are scatter'd-we are scatter'd—
Though a jolly band were we!
Some sleep beneath the grave-sod,
And some are o'er the sea;
And Time hath wrought his changes
On the few who yet remain;
The joyous band that once we were
We cannot be again!

We are scatter'd-we are scatter'd!-
Upon the village-green,
Where we play'd in boyish recklessness,
How few of us are seen!
And the hearts that beat so lightly

In the joyousness of youth-
Some are crumbled in the sepulchre,
And some have lost their truth.
The beautiful-the beautiful

Are faded from our track!
We miss them and we mourn them,
But we cannot lure them back;
For an iron sleep hath bound them

In its passionless embrace-
We may weep-but cannot win them
From their dreary resting-place.
How mournfully-how mournfully
The memory doth come
Of the thousand scenes of happiness
Around our childhood's home!

A salutary sadness

Is brooding o'er the heart,
As it dwells upon remembrances
From which it will not part.

In memory-in memory-
How fondly do we gaze
Upon the magic loveliness

Of childhood's fleeting days!
The sparkling eye-the thrilling tone-
The smile upon its lips:

They all have gone!-but left a light Which time cannot eclipse.

The happiness-the happiness

Of boyhood must depart;

Then comes the sense of loneliness
Upon the stricken heart!

We will not, or we cannot fling
Its sadness from our breast,
We cling to it instinctively,

We pant for its unrest!

We are scatter'd-we are scatter'd!
Yet may we meet again
In a brighter and a purer sphere,

Beyond the reach of pain!
Where the shadows of this lower world
Can never cloud the eye-
When the mortal hath put brightly on
Its immortality!

TO H. A. B.

DEEM not, beloved, that the glow

Of love with youth will know decay; For, though the wing of Time may throw A shadow o'er our way;

The sunshine of a cloudless faith,

The calmness of a holy trust,
Shall linger in our hearts till death
Consigns our "dust to dust!"

The fervid passions of our youth—
The fervour of affection's kiss-
Love, born of purity and truth-

All memories of bliss

These still are ours, while looking back
Upon the past with dewy eyes;
O, dearest! on life's vanish'd track
How much of sunshine lies!

Men call us poor--it may be true

Amid the gay and glittering crowd; We feel it, though our wants are few,

Yet envy not the proud.

The freshness of love's early flowers,
Heart-shelter'd through long years of want,
Pure hopes and quiet joys are ours,

That wealth could never grant.

Something of beauty from thy brow,
Something of lightness from thy tread,
Hath pass'd--yet thou art dearer now
Than when our vows were said:
A softer beauty round thee gleams,

Chasten'd by time, yet calmly bright;
And from thine eye of hazel beams
A deeper, tenderer light:

An emblem of the love which lives
Through every change, as time departs;
Which binds our souls in one, and gives
New gladness to our hearts!
Flinging a halo over life

Like that which gilds the life beyond! Ah! well I know thy thoughts, dear wife! To thoughts like these respond.

The mother, with her dewy eye,

Is dearer than the blushing bride Who stood, three happy years gone by, In beauty by my side!

Our Father, throned in light above,

Hath bless'd us with a fairy child-

A bright link in the chain of love--
The pure and undefiled:

Rich in the heart's best treasure, still

With a calm trust we'll journey on,
Link'd heart with heart, dear wife! until
Life's pilgrimage be done!
Youth--beauty--passion--these will pass
Like every thing of earth away--
The breath-stains on the polish'd glass
Less transient are than they.

But love dies not--the child of Gon--
The soother of life's many woes-
She scatters fragrance round the sod
Where buried hopes repose!

She leads us with her radiant hand
Earth's pleasant streams and pasture by,
Still pointing to a better land

Of bliss beyond the sky!

ΤΟ

HOPE, strewing with a liberal hand
Thy pathway with her choicest flowers,
Making the earth an Eden-land,

And gilding time's departing hours;
Lifting the clouds from life's blue sky,
And pointing to that sphere divine
Where joy's immortal blossoms lie
In the rich light of heaven-be thinc!
Love, with its voice of silvery tone,

Whose music melts upon the heart Like whispers from the world unknown, When shadows from the soul departLove, with its sunlight melting through The mists that over earth are driven, And giving earth itself the hue

And brightness of the upper-heavenPeace, hymning with her seraph-tones Amid the stillness of thy soul, Till every human passion owns Her mighty but her mild controlDevotion, with her lifted eye,

All radiant with the tears of bliss, Looking beyond the bending sky

To worlds more glorious than this-----

Duty, untiring in her toil

Earth's parch'd and sterile wastes amongZeal, delving in the rocky soil,

With words of cheer upon her tongue-
Faith, with a strong and daring hand
Rending aside the veil of heaven,
And claiming as her own the land

Whose glories to her view are given-
These, with the many lights that shine
Brightly life's pilgrim-path upon,—
These, with the bliss they bring, be thine,
Till purer bliss in heaven be won;
Till, gather'd with the loved of time,
Whose feet the "narrow way" have trod,
Thy soul shall drink of joys sublime,
And linger in the smile of GoD!

SONG.

BELIEVE not the slander, my dearest KATRINE! For the ice of the world hath not frozen my heart; In my innermost spirit there still is a shrine

Where thou art remember'd, all pure as thou art: The dark tide of years, as it bears us along,

Though it sweep away hope in its turbulent flow, Cannot drown the low voice of Love's eloquent song, Nor chill with its waters my faith's early glow.

True, the world hath its snares, and the soul may grow faint

In its strifes with the follies and falsehoods of earth;

And amidst the dark whirl of corruption, a taint May poison the thoughts that are purest at birth. Temptations and trials, without and within,

From the pathway of virtue the spirit may lure; But the soul shall grow strong in its triumphs o'er sin, And the heart shall preserve its integrity pure.

The finger of Love, on my innermost heart,

Wrote thy name, O adored! when my feelings

"LIKE thee, O stream! to glide in solitude
Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star,
Unseen by man, and from the great world's jar
Kept evermore aloof: methinks 't were good
To live thus lonely through the silent lapse

Of my appointed time." Not wisely said,
Unthinking Quietist! The brook hath sped
Its course for ages through the narrow gaps
Of rifted hills and o'er the reedy plain,
Or mid the eternal forests, not in vain;
The grass more greenly groweth on its brink,
And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there,
And of its crystal waters myriads drink,

That else would faint beneath the torrid air.

THE TIMES.

INACTION NOW is crime. The old earth reels Inebriate with guilt; and Vice, grown bold, Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels

In worship foul to Mammon, is contemn'd. He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemm'd Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels

Of impious tramplers rescued peril'd right,

Is call'd fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers Maliciously assail'd. The poor man's tears Are unregarded; the oppressor's might Revered as law; and he whose righteous way Departs from evil, makes himself a prey.

SOLITUDE.

THE ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, Crowded with multitudinous life; the din Of toil and traffic, and the wo and sin, The dweller in the populous city meets: These have I left to seek the cool retreats

Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers, And roof'd with ivy, on the mossy seats

Reclining, I can while away the hours
In sweetest converse with old books, or give
My thoughts to Gon; or fancies fugitive

Indulge, while over me their radiant showers Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down, And thanks to HIM my meditations crown!

RAIN.

DASHING in big drops on the narrow pane,
And making mournful music for the mind,
While plays his interlude the wizard wind,
I hear the ringing of the frequent rain:

How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull,
Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain,
While busy thought calls up the past again,

And lingers mid the pure and beautiful Visions of early childhood! Sunny faces

Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones, And tread again in old familiar places! Such is thy power, O Rain! the heart to bless, Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness!

Amid the ancient forests of a land
Wild, gloomy, vast, magnificently grand!
Friends, country, hallow'd homes they left, to be
Pilgrims for CHRIST's sake, to a foreign strand-
Beset by peril, worn with toil, yet free!
Tireless in zeal, devotion, labour, hope;

Constant in faith; in justice how severe !
Though fools deride and bigot-skeptics sneer,
Praise to their names! If call'd like them to cope,
In evil times, with dark and evil powers,
O, be their faith, their zeal, their courage ours!

THE Reverend LOUIS LEGRAND NOBLE was born in the valley of the Butternut Creek, in Otsego county, in New York. While he was a youth his father removed to the banks of the Wacamutquiock, now called the Huron, a small river in Michigan, and there, among scenes of remarkable wildness and beauty, he passed most of his time until the commencement of his college-life. In a letter to me, he says: "I was ever under a strong impulse to imbody in language my thoughts, feelings, fancies, as they sprung up in the presence of the rude but

beautiful things around me: the prairies on fire, the sparkling lakes, the park-like forests, Indians on the hunt, guiding their frail canoes amid the rapids, or standing at night in the red light of their festival fires. I breathed the air of poetry."

Mr. NOBLE was admitted to orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church, in 1840. His principal poetical work is "Ne-mah-min," an Indian story, in three cantos, in which he has made good use of his experience of forest life. I believe he now resides in the state of New York.

THE CRIPPLE-BOY.

I.

Upon an Indian rush-mat, spread

Where burr-oak boughs a coolness shed,
Alone he sat, a cripple-child,
With eyes so large, so dark and wild,
And fingers, thin and pale to see,
Locked upon his trembling knee.
A-gathering nuts so blithe and gay,
The children early tripp'd away;
And he his mother had besought
Under the oak to have him brought;-
It was ever his seat when blackbirds sung
The wavy, rustling tops among ;-

They calm'd his pain,--they cheer'd his loneliness-
The gales, the music of the wilderness.

II.

Upon a prairie wide and wild

Look'd off that suffering cripple-child:

The hour was breezy, the hour was bright;O, 't was a lively, a lovely sight!

An eagle sailing to and fro Around a flitting cloud so whiteAcross the billowy grass below Darting swift their shadows' light:And mingled noises sweet and clear, Noises out of the ringing wood, Were pleasing trouble in his ear, A shock how pleasant to his blood: O, happy world!--Beauty and Blessing slept On everything but him-he felt, and wept.

III.

Humming a lightsome tune of yore,
Beside the open log-house door,
Tears upon his sickly cheek

Saw his mother, and so did speak ;

"What makes his mother's HENRY Weep?
You and I the cottage keep;
They hunt the nuts and clusters blue,
Weary lads for me and you;

And yonder see the quiet sheep ;--
Why, now--I wonder why you weep!"-
"Mother, I wish that I could be

A sailor on the breezy sea!"

"A sailor on the stormy sea, my son!What ails the boy!--what have the breezes done!"

IV.

"I do!-I wish that I could be
A sailor on the rolling sea:
In the shadow of the sails
I would ride and rock all day,
Going whither blow the gales,
As I have heard a seaman say:
I would, I guess, come back again
For my mother now and then;
And the curling fire so bright,
When the prairie burns at night;
And tell the wonders I had seen

Away upon the ocean green;"

"Hush! hush! talk not about the ocean so; Better at home a hunter hale to go."

V.

Between a tear and sigh he smiled; And thus spake on the cripple-child :— "I would I were a hunter hale, Nimbler than the nimble doe, Bounding lightly down the dale, But that will never be, I know! Behind the house the woodlands lie; A prairie wide and green before; And I have seen them with my eye A thousand times or more; Yet in the woods I never stray'd, Or on the prairie-border play'd;O, mother dear, that I could only be A sailor-boy upon the rocking sea!"

VI.

You would have turned with a tear,
A tear upon your cheek;

She wept aloud, the woman dear,
And further could not speak: