But heavenly airs, that through the trees

Of life forever play,

Are breathing on her spirit's brow,

To dry her tears away.

CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken:
She is a widow-she is old and poor:
Her only hope is in that sacred token

Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er;
She asks no wealth nor pleasure-begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the

sight

Of her Redeemer. Skeptics! would you pour

Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?

She lives in her affections; for the grave

Has closed upon her husband, children: all Her hopes are with the arms she trusts will save Her treasured jewels; though her views are

small,

Though she has never mounted high, to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings cannot pall

Her unperverted palate, but will bring

A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave

The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers-so softly pour

The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, Long bowed before her Maker; then no more She muses on the grief of former days;

Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolv. ing rays.

And Faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her: Death will come-
A few short moments over, and the prize

Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow: all its gloom
Is scattered: what a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here, and the bloom

Of new life from those cheeks shall never fleeTheirs is the health which lasts through all eter nity.

MY SISTER.

In the cold grave she sleeps,

The wakeless, dreamless slumber; round my heart
Her memory twineth. It will ne'er depart,
For Thought a vigil keeps

Beside it, like a watcher by a tomb,
Mourning unceasingly her early doom.

She faded to repose

So calmly that I knew not Death was there

That the winds fanned her cheek and stirred her

hair

Unfelt. The tinge of rose

Went out upon her cheek, as fades the light
In summer's eve, before the holy night.

Upon her face the while

(As if relenting Death was loth to call
From its frail stem a flower so beautiful)
Played a sweet smile.

Perchance an angel bore her soul away,
And left the impress on the senseless clay.

We bore her to her rest,

In the green vale where, in the summer hours,
She used to wander, singing 'mid the flowers,
And softly on her breast

Laid the green turf-by violets bespread;
For she in life had chosen such a bed.

Upon my listening ear,

Though years have faded since its joyous tone
Rang out with music which was hers alone,
I fancy yet I hear

The wild laugh, at whose sound the darkness fled,
That care and sorrow round my pathway shed:

Soon the illusion flies;

I ne'er may hear the music of her voice;
Ne'er may my spirit in the light rejoice

Of her bright eyes,

Silent and sightless now; and in her grave, Dark are the curls wont o'er her brow to wave.

Rest thee, thou early dead!

A brother bends thy sleeping form above,
And tears sincere as was that brother's love,
For thee doth shed:

Though it be selfish to lament thy lot-
Gone ere a sin thy life's pure page could blot.

TO A DYING INFANT.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,

But with the quiet dead.

Yes-with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be.
Oh! many a weary heart,
Weary of life's dull part,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest;

There the first flowers shall blow,

The first pure flakes of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! The little bosom
Labors with shortening breath-
Peace! peace! That tremulous sigh
Speaks his departure nigh-

Those are the damps of death.

Thine upturned eyes glazed over,
Like harebells wet with dew;

Already veiled and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

The little mouth half open

The soft lip quivering

As if (like summer air

Ruffling the rose leaves) there

Thy soul were fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence!!
Young spirit! haste, depart.
And is this Death ?-Dread thing!

If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!