Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, ANNA LETITIA BARBAUld. Sing forth the Triumphs of his Name. Which your celestial flight denied; So broken in the angel's pride! O you! whom your Creator's sight Sing forth the triumphs of his name; To give expression to your flame ! To Him his own great works relate, You 'bove the frailty of your birth, By the rebellion of our earth. While a corrupted air beneath Here in this world we breathe, Each hour some passion us assails. Now lust casts wildfire in the blood, Or, that it may seem good, Itself in wit or beauty veils. Then envy circles us with hate, And lays a siege so strait, No heavenly succour enters in: But if revenge admittance find For ever hath the mind Made forfeit of itself to sin. Assaulted thus, how dare we raise Who is eternal and immense ? So far above the search of sense? O you! who are immaculate, celebrate His name may In your soul's bright expansion: You, whom your virtues did unite To his perpetual light, That ever with Him you now shine one. While we who to earth contract our hearts, And only study arts To shorten the sad length of time, In place of joys, bring humble fears, For hymns, repentant tears, And a new sigh, for every crime. WILLIAM HABINGTON. Sire, Maker, Spirit! SIRE, Maker, Spirit, who alone canst know My soul and all the deep remorse that's there I ask no mitigation of my wo; Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear! Remorse ?-ah! not for ill designedly done: To look on pain, to me is pain severe ; Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath won, Had Love been Wisdom, haply ye were here! Much have I suffered; yet this form, unscathed, Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift: With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed; My ills are my desert, my good thy gift. Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft Hath mourned for two, ta'en by the powers on high, Nor tint nor atom that is fair is left Beneath the marble where their relics lie. Yet no oblivious veil is o'er them cast: Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow Burns brighter now their mortal lives are past, Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo. Oh! may their spirits, disembodied, come, And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence. Oh! cover them with forms so made to meet And may these forms in warm and rosy sleep, (In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned,) Lie, while o'er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep, Quick as the changeful glance of thought and mind. This fond ideal which my grief relieves, Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be: For more than all my feeble sense conceives, Thy hand can give in blest reality. Sire, Maker, Spirit! source of all that's fair! Howe'er my poor words be unworthy thee, Oh! be not weary of the imperfect prayer Breathed from the fervor of a wretch like me! MARIA BROOKS. She Comes to Me. HE comes to me in robes of snow, SHE The friend of all my sinless years Even as I saw her long ago, Before she left this vale of tears. She comes to me in robes of snow- I see her in my visions yet, I see her in my waking hours; Upon her pale, pure brow is set A crown of azure hyacinth flowers. Her golden hair waves round her face, And o'er her shoulders gently falls Each ringlet hath the nameless grace My spirit yet on earth recalls. : And, bending o'er my lowly bed, Come, then, and meet the joy divine An angel's crown awaits thee there. "Listen! it is a choral hymn" And, gliding softly from my couch, She leaves me to my darkness still. CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. Z |