THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels-one of life, and one of death,— The sombre houses capped with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same; Alike their features and their robes of white; And one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels like flakes of light. I saw them pause on their celestial way :— Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!" And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending at my door, began to knock ; And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. I recognised the nameless agony The terror and the tremor and the pain That oft before had filled and haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; And, knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 66 Then with a smile that filled the house with light, My errand is not death, but life," he said; And, ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped. 'Twas at thy door, O friend, and not at mine, Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom- Lo! He looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of life and death alike are His; Without His leave they pass no threshold o'er ; Who then would wish or dare, believing this, Against His messengers to shut the door? RESIGNATION. THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, The air is full of farewells to the dying, The heart of Rachel for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapours ; Amid these earthly damps. What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call death. She is not dead,- the child of our affection,— Where she no longer needs our poor protection, In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day we think what she is doing Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion And though at times, impetuous with emotion, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. By the Fireside. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. (1792-1822.) BORN at Field Place, Sussex. The eldest son of a baronet. Educated at Eton and Oxford. Was expelled from the university for holding atheistical opinions, and disowned by his family. In 1818 he left England, and took up his residence in Italy, where he associated much with Byron, Leigh Hunt, Keats, etc. Whilst crossing the gulf of Spezzia in July, 1822, the boat was overtaken by a tremendous squall and Shelley was drowned. The body was washed on shore, and burnt by some friends, including Lord Byron and Leigh Hunt, and the remains were conveyed to Rome, where they were buried close to those of his friend and brother-poet, Keats. Shelley's principal works are, Queen Mab; Alsator; The Revolt of Islam; Prometheus Unbound; The Cenci; The Cloud; The Skylark; The Sensitive Plant, etc. THE SENSITIVE PLANT (AN EXTRACT FROM). A SENSITIVE plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And the spring arose on the garden fair, And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast, But none ever trembled and panted with bliss, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuber-rose, THE CLOUD. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, |