He loved-but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
Oh! she was fair, but nought would save
Her beauty from the tomb.
The rolling seasons, day and night-
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.
He saw-whatever thou hast seen,
Encountered all that troubles thee;
He was-whatever thou hast been:
He is what thou shalt be!
The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye,
That once their shade and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky,
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace,
Than this-THERE LIVED A MAN.
THERE is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
Kirke White.
WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestrid the sky;
One star alone of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye:
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem,
But one alone the Saviour speaks-
It is the star of Bethlehem !
Once on the raging seas I rode
The storm was loud, the night was dark; The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed
The wind that tossed my foundering bark: Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck-I ceased the tide to stem, When suddenly a star arose
It was the star of Bethlehem!
It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm, and dangers thrall,
It led me to the port of peace:
Now safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem-
For ever and for evermore-
The star-the star of Bethlehem!
THE MYRTLE.
3. Montgomery.
DARK green, and gemm'd with flowers of snow,
With close uncrowded branches spread,
Not proudly high nor meanly low,
A graceful myrtle raised its head.
Its mantle of unwithering leaf,
Seemed, in my contemplative mood,
Like silent joy or patient grief,
The symbol of pure quietude.
Still life, methought, is thine, fair tree!
Then plucked a sprig, and while I mused,
With idle hands unconsciously,
The delicate small foliage bruised.
Odors, by my rude touch set free,
Escaped from all their secret cells;
Quick life, I cried, is thine, fair tree!
In thee a soul of fragrance dwells,
Which outrage, wrongs, nor death destroy!
These wake its sweetness from repose:
Ah! could I thus heaven's gifts employ,
Worth seen, worth hidden, thus disclose!
In health with unpretending grace,
In wealth with meekness and with fear,
Through every season wear one face,
And be in truth what I appear-
Then should affliction's chastening rod
Bruise
my frail frame or break my heart,
Life, a sweet sacrifice to God,
Outbreathed like incense, would depart.
The Captain of salvation thus,
When as a lamb to slaughter led, Was by the Father's will for us, Himself through suffering perfected.
BIRDS IN SUMMER.
Mary Bowitt.
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
With its airy chambers light and boon,
That open to sun and stars and moon-
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.
They have left their nests in the forest bough;
Those homes of delight they need not now: And the young and the old they wander out, And traverse the green world round about;
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall, How one to the other they lovingly call: 'Come up, come up!' they seem to say, 'Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway.'
'Come up, come up! for the world is fair,
'Where the merry leaves dance in the
summer air!'
And the birds below give back the cry,
'We come, we come to the branches high!'
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in a leafy tree;
And away through the air what joy to go,
And to look on the bright green earth below.
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home.
What joy it must be to sail, upborne
By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun face to face,
And pierce like a shaft the boundless space!
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth, there to flee;
To go where a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing down 'mong the waterfalls,
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