VI.

Lord of hosts! the day is thine,
Day of vengeance on thy foes;
It shall burst in wrath divine,
And thy majesty disclose.

To the regions of the north,

Thou, O Lord, shalt bring them forth;
And thy sword shall drink their blood,
By Euphrates' rolling flood;

Then, a sacrifice to thee,

Egypt shall an offering be.

VII.

Haste thee to Gilead, death-devoted maid,
Daughter of Egypt! Yet 't will nought avail;
Vainly for thee are healing drugs essayed,

To save thee now e'en Gilead's balm shall fail! Lo! to the nations all thy shame is known;

Thy mournful cry hath fill'd the wond'ring land; In heaps on heaps thy mighty ones are strown, Pursued and smitten by JEHOVAH's hand!

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.'

BY LUCY HOOPER.

"NELLY bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage. ..... There was but one lady, who seemed to understand the child, and she was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her quite. There were many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the two young men, (not unfavorably at them,) and left her to herself. She motioned away a gipsey-woman, urgent to tell her fortune, saying, that it was told already, and had been for some years, but called the child towards her, and taking her flowers, put money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home, and keep at home, for God's sake..."

BEAUTIFUL child! my lot is cast;

Hope from my path hath forever past;
Nothing the future can bring to me

Hath ever been shadowed in dreams to thee;

The warp is woven, the arrow sped,

My brain hath throbbed, but my heart is dead :

Tell ye my tale, then, for love or gold?
Years have passed by since that tale was told.

God keep thee, child, with thine angel brow,
Ever as sinless and bright as now;

دو

Fresh as the roses of earliest spring,
The fair pure buds it is thine to bring,
Would that the bloom of the soul could be,
Beautiful spirit! caught from thee;
Would that thy gift could anew impart
The roses that bloom for the pure in heart.

Beautiful child! may'st thou never hear
Tones of reproach in thy sorrowing ear;
Beautiful child! may that cheek ne'er glow
With a warmer tint from the heart below;
Beautiful child! may'st thou never bear
The clinging weight of a cold despair;

A heart, whose madness each hope hath crossed,
Which hath thrown one die, and the stake hath lost.

Beautiful child! why should'st thou stay?

There is danger near thee,

away! away!

Away! in thy spotless purity;

Nothing can here be a type of thee;

The very air, as it fans thy brow,

May leave a trace on its stainless snow;

Lo! spirits of evil haunt the bowers,

And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers.

Beautiful child! alas, to see

A fount in the desert gush forth for thee,
Where the queenly lilies should faintly gleam,
And thy life flow on as its silent stream,

Afar from the world of doubt and sin,
This weary world thou must wander in ;
Such a home was once to my visions given,
It comes to my heart as a type of heaven.

Beautiful child! let the weary in heart
Whisper thee once, ere again we part;
Tell thee that want, and tell thee that pain
Never can thrill in the throbbing brain,
Till a sadder story that brain hath learned,
Till a fiercer fire hath in it burned;

God keep thee sinless and undefiled,
Though poor, and wretched, and sad, my child!

Beautiful being! away, away!

The angels above be thy help and stay,
Save thee from sorrow and save thee from sin,
Guard thee from danger without and within.
Pure be thy spirit, and breathe for me
A sigh or a prayer when thy heart is free;
In the crowded mart, by the lone wayside,
Beautiful child! be thy God thy guide.

A THOUGHT FROM ZAPPI.

BY MRS. S. J. J. MERRITT.

LIKE the Venetian gondolier, who chants
To the pale moon his lays, (while his strong arm
Athwart the broad Lagune with speed propels
The freighted gondola,) reckless of aught,
And satisfied if naught in sea or air

Listen his songs; so I with freedom give

The passing thought, to live in such rude verse As idleness doth frame, perchance to pass

Without a single reader; yet, if thus

I

pour from a full heart the soul of song, Why reck of praise?