Oh, many-toned and chainless wind!

Thou art a wanderer free :

Tell me if thou its place canst find
Far over mount and sea?

And the wind murmured in reply,
"The blue deep I have cross'd,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost.

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,

Answer! have ye a home for those
Whose earthly race is run?

The bright clouds answered, "We depart,

We vanish from the sky;

Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die."

Speak then, thou voice of God within,

Those of the low deep tone,

Answer me, thro' life's restless din

Where is the spirit flown?

And the voice answered, "Be thou still-
Enough to know is given,

Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil,

Thine is to trust in heaven."

Mrs. Hemans.

THINE IMAGE IS BEFORE ME NOW.

Thine image is before me now

All angel as thou art:

Thy hazel eye, and guileless brow,

Are graven on my heart:

And while on living forms I gaze,

Memory the one lov'd form pourtrays,
Ah, would it ne'er depart!

*

I seem when all is hushed around
Thy thrilling voice to hear:

Oh, I would dream thou still wert nigh,
And turn as if to breathe reply-

The waking-how severe !-Dale.

THE REST OF THE GRAVE.

How still and peaceful is the grave!
Where, life's vain tumults past;

Th' appointed house, by Heaven's decree,
Receives us all at last.

The wicked there from troubling cease,
Their passions rage no more;
And there the weary pilgrim rests

From all the toils he bore.

There rest the pris'ners, now releas'd

From slav'ry's sad abode,

No more they hear th' oppressor's voice,

Or dread the tyrant's rod.

There, servants, masters, small and great,

Partake the same repose;

And there in peace the ashes mix

Of those who once were foes.

All levell❜d by the hand of death,
Lie sleeping in the tomb :

Till God in judgment calls them forth
To meet their final doom.-Logan.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Sweet flower't! blighted by the winter's blast
The tribute of a verse I'll give to thee;
The struggles o'er, thy every trial past,

Thou first reft blossom from the parent tree.
The world will heed thee not, my innocent;

A babe has lived-a few short days—and died; Yet in thy mother's yearning heart were pent Years for the days she had thee by her side The dim futurity she scanned with joy :

Each period of thy life she had her trust, Was bright with hope and promise for her boy; Alas! the visions buried in the dust.

But no! the grave to thee new life has given,

And hopes that sprung in earth now bloom in

Heaven!

Anon.

DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

Oh, what is beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies.

Will the cold earth its silence break

To tell how smooth, how soft a cheek

Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all

O'er beauty's fall

Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her

pall.

The most beloved of heart

Not long survives to day,

So music past is obsolete,

And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet;

But now 'tis gone away.

Thus does the shade

In memory fade,

When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.