That swells around thee in the sacred fane; Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note, When grateful praises on the still air float,

And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain; There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found In her eternal home, on holy ground.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

I

The Nosegay of Life.

MADE a posy, while the day ran by :
"Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band."

But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And wither'd in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then

my

heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time's gentle admonition;

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,

Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye

spent,

Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament :

And after death for cures.

I follow straight, without complaints or grief;
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if

It be as short as yours.

GEORGE HERBERT.

The Good Life, Long Life.

IT is not growing like a tree

In bulk doth make man better be! Or standing long an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.

In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

They are not Dead, they do but Sleep.

L'

EFT in her little room alone,

The Ruler's child lay stiff and dead, While, vainly warm, the Syrian sun Played round her cold and silent bed;

While, vainly soft, from Judah's hills

Sighed through the lattice the soft air,
That could not move the close white lip,
Nor heave again the bosom fair.

The voice of anguish and despair
Is loud within the chamber near,

Of them lamenting bitterly

Her early doom with groan and tear.

Her mother maketh grievous moan:—
"Ah! had the sire more swiftly sped,
And brought the mighty Prophet here
Ere the last lingering breath was fled!
"What now avails that far away

Comes o'er the plain his hastening tread! Go tell him that he trouble not

The Master more; my child is dead.”

Dead! is all o'er when that is said?

Are hope, and trust, and comfort, gone?
The servant tells the weeping sire,
And yet the Prophet journeys on.

He stands amid the mourning throng;
'Why do ye make this bitter cry?
The damsel is not dead, she sleeps,"
They laugh in scorn,—they saw her die.

Yea, but they see not the strong power
For life and death that standeth by,
Nor read the awful Godhead veiled
Beneath that meekly patient eye.

Go forth, then, unbelieving throng;
The three apostles, and the twain
Who love so tenderly, alone

Shall see her spirit come again.
Now waken, waken, little maiden,
His foot is on thy chamber-floor,
The Lord God of the living cometh
Thine earthly being to restore.

He takes her cold resistless hand :

Damsel, I say to thee, arise!"
Lo, life returns, with mantling flow,
To cheek, and brow, and kindling eyes.
She riseth up, she walketh forth,

Her lip is red, her heart is warm;
He gives her to her mother's kiss,
He gives her to her father's arm.

Surely, we too have hope in sorrow,
Who for our Christian brethren weep;
Christ is our Life and Resurrection;
They are not dead, they do but sleep.

ANON.

Thou art Gone to the Grave. THOU art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,

And the lamp of his love is thy guide through

the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,

Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side,

But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,

And sinners may hope since the Sinless has died.

Thou art gone to the grave-and its mansion forsaking,

Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,

And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

Thou art gone to the grave-but 'twere wrong to deplore thee,

When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide:

He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,

Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

BISHOP HEBER.

The Fool hath said, “There is no
God."

THE fool hath said, “There is no God:"
No God!-Who lights the morning sun,
And sends him on his heavenly road,
A far and brilliant course to run?
Who, when the radiant day is done,
Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp,
And bids the planets, one by one,

Steal o'er the night-vales, dark and damp?