FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the Voices of the Night

Wake the better soul that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.

He the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given
More than all things else to love us,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand on mine.

And she sits and gazes on me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside;

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

WRITTEN IN ITALY.

Bright star! whose soft familiar ray,
In colder climes and gloomier skies,
I've watched so oft when closing day
Had tinged the west with crimson dyes;

Perhaps to-night some friend I love,
Beyond the deep, the distant sea,
Will gaze upon thy path above,

And give one lingering thought to me.

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains that uprear
Their frowning foreheads to the skies
Are crossed by pathways that appear
As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept,
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern, unseen before,
A path to higher destinies.

The human mind is a reflection caught

From thee, a trembling shadow of thy ray.
Thy glory beams around us, but the thought

That heavenward wings its daring flight away,
Returns to where its flight was first begun
Blinded and beneath the noonday sun.

The soul of man, though sighing after thee,

Hath never known thee, saving as it knows The stars of heaven, whose glorious light we see The sun, whose radiance dazzles as it glows; Something, that is beyond us, and above

The reach of human power, though not of human love.

Vainly Philosophy may strive to teach

The secret of thy being. Its faint ray
Misguides our steps. Beyond the utmost reach
Of its untiring wing, the eternal day

Of truth is shining on the longing eye
Distant, unchanged,

changeless, pure and high!

And yet thou hast not left thyself without
A revelation. All we feel and see
Within us and around, forbids the doubt,

Yet speaks so darkly and mysteriously

Of what we are, and shall be evermore,

We doubt, and yet believe, and tremble and adore.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

The night is come, but not too soon,
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven
But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?
Oh, no! from that blue tent above
Á hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise
When I behold afar

Suspended in the evening skies

The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light
But the cold light of stars;

I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,

Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

"About Longfellow," says an American writer, "there is never any mawkish sentimentality, no versified cant, no drivelling, no diabolic gloom. His bold, broad brow catches the sunlight from the four points of heaven, and disperses it, glittering and fructifying through the homesteads of his readers. Longfellow is the healthiest, the heartiest, and the most harmonious of all the American poets."

Mrs. Osgood.

Mrs. Frances Osgood (Miss Locke) was born in Boston in the year 1816. In 1834 she married the painter, Mr. Osgood, and after travelling with him for some years in Europe, she returned to America in 1843, where she continued to reside till her death in 1850. She has been called "the American Hemans;" and it is true that her poems display much of the elegance and feminine delicacy of the English poetess, though, we think, with less warmth of feeling. We give two specimens of her poetry: the first entitled, the Child playing with a Watch; the other, an ode on a favourite horse, called Lady Jane.

THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH.

Art thou playing with Time in thy sweet baby-glee?
Will he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee?
Oh, show him those shadowless, innocent eyes,
That smile of bewildered and beaming surprise;

Let him look on that cheek where thy rich hair reposes,
Where dimples are playing "bopeep" with the roses: