Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn, But when the gray morn tints the sky, Again she goes, untired, to sit, Nor, till the star of eve is lit, To a young Invalid, condemned, by accidental Lameness, to perpetual Confinement.-HENRY PICKERING. "And must he make That heart a grave, and in it bury deep THINE is the spring of life, dear boy, And thou, with cheek of rosiest hue, 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, I would not quench that languid smile, Some are condemned to roam the earth, Scarce destined, from their very birth, To thee, sweet one, repose was given, That thou might'st early think of heaven, That thou might'st know what love supreme Flame quenchless as the heavenly beam, O that my riper life could be Deserving it as thine! The Sage of Caucasus.-HILLHOUSE. Hadad. NONE knows his lineage, age, or name: his locks Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes Beam with the wisdom of collected ages. In green, unbroken years, he sees, 'tis said, The generations pass, like autumn fruits, Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life, Again to perish, while he views the sun, The seasons roll, in rapt serenity, And high communion with celestial powers. Some say 'tis Shem, our father; some say Enoch, Tamar. I've heard a tale Like this, but ne'er believed it. Had. I have proved ft. Through perils dire, dangers most imminent, Seven days and nights midst rocks and wildernesses, Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing, Save the far-soaring vulture, comes, I dared My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish. Had. On the highest peak Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot, On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers Tam. Had. But did'st thou see him? Never did I view Such awful majesty: his reverend locks His raiment glistered saintly white; his brow The Resolution of Ruth.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. I know not that I now could bear I did not love in former years, To leave thee solitary: now, When sorrow dims thine eyes with tears, And strong the furnace fires must be, I will not boast a martyr's might The weak are strong, the timid brave, And faith grows mightier than the grave. It was not so, ere he we loved, And vainly strove with Heaven to save, When morning's tears of joy were shed, The morning echoes sweetly speak, For rays of heaven, serenely bright, On all its gathering thoughts of gloom. To that blessed land to Israel given, We'll stand within the temple's bound, But where thou goest I will go; And where thy grave is, mine shall be; Death can but for a time divide My firm and faithful heart from thee. Live for Eternity.-CARLOS WILCOX. A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings! To dance along the path that always brings Our life is like, the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms, What matter whether pain or pleasures fill Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career; Dedication Hymn.-PIERPONT. WITH trump, and pipe, and viol chords, Its tribute to the Lord of lords, Its homage to the King of kings. |