That not one human pang might wring
The tears from feeling's hidden spring,

But Thou hast known it too!

May we throughout our mortal strife
Recline beside the well of life,

Till Time's long noon is o'er;

'Tis deep, but full; and prayer can bring Abundant draughts from that pure spring, And we shall thirst no more!

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

CAROLINE SOUTHEY.

TREAD Softly-bow the head-
In reverent silence bow-

No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow ; There's one in that poor shed— One on that paltry bed

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state :

Enter-no crowds attend

Enter no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement damp and cold

No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,

Lifting with meagre hands,

A dying head!

No mingling voices sound;

An infant wail alone; A sob suppress'd-again

That short deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.

Oh! change-Oh! wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars!

This moment there, so low,

So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

Oh! change!-stupendous change

There lies the soulless clod:

The sun eternal breaks

The new immortal wakes

Wakes with his God!

THE ROUND-LEAVED SUNDEW.

"Its beauty is truly said to consist in the form and appearance of the leaves, which are thrown out immediately from the root, and spread over the surface of the ground; each plant forming a little circular plot of green cupshaped leaves, thickly fringed with hairs of a deep rose colour. These hairs support small drops or globules of a pellucid liquor like dew, which continue even in the hottest part of the day, and in the fullest exposure to the sun. It is found in mossy bogs, and on the borders of ponds and rivulets in moorland districts."

By the lone fountain's secret bed,
Where human footsteps rarely tread,
'Mid the wild moor or silent glen
The sundew blooms unseen by men;
Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue,
A chalice for the morning dew,
And ere the Summer's sun can rise,
Drinks the pure water of the skies.

Would'st thou that thy lot were given
Thus to receive the dews of Heaven?
With heart prepared like this meek flower,
Come then and hail the dawning hour;
So shall a blessing from on high,
Pure as the rain of Summer's sky,
Unsullied as the morning dew,

Descend and all thy soul imbue.

Yes! like the blossoms of the waste, Would we the sky-born waters taste, To the High Fountain's sacred spring, The chalice let us humbly bring:

So shall we find the streams of heaven, To him who seeks are freely given; The morning and the evening dew, Shall still our failing strength renew.

B