TO MY SISTER, ON HER TWENTY-THIRD

BIRTHDAY.

MARY ANNE BROWNE.

THINE

eye

is radiant still thy silken hair Curls just as darkly o'er thy radiant brow; Still is thy cheek as soft, thy hand as fair,

Thy forehead was not smoother then than now; And yet two years, two busy years, have pass'd, Sweet sister! since I sang thy birthday last.

Two changeful years!-since then, two hoary heads.
Have from our home been pillowed in the grave,
And we have known full many an hour that sheds
A double darkness on life's troubled wave:
Friends have been cold, and fortune's sunshine brief :
Sister! those years have had their hours of grief.

And, saddest far, from our own chain of love,
One gentle sister of our hearts is taken;
No more her fairy footsteps round us move,
No more her smile a kindred smile doth waken;
She faded, but as dew-drops fade to rise,
And paint a rainbow in the gloomy skies.

Even so her spirit, pass'd from earth, is yet

Seen like a star in its ethereal light; And on the misty clouds of our regret,

Riseth Hope's bow of promise, pure and bright : She hath departed for the holier sphereMourn we, but never wish that she was here.

And I am changed, sweet sister: even thou
Know'st not the waves of feeling and of thought
That o'er my heart have pass'd in troubled flow,
And channels in its wilderness have wrought;
Suffice it that one spot unchanged I see,
The spot whereon is fixed my love for thee.

A love that changeth not, save as the young
And tender sapling, to the firm-set tree;
Fresh branches from its stem there may have

may

be;

sprung,

Matured and deeper rooted it
O that it might have power to grow and spread,
A three-fold shield above thy precious head!

Vain hope! thou hast a better shelter proved,
A changeless refuge from the heavy storm,
A shadow from the heat. He who hath loved,
And chosen, and saved thee, will His vows perform,

And bind thee in his sheltering mantle fast,

And bring thee to His glorious Home at last!

SONNET. TO MARY.

REV. H. ALFORD.

On thy young brow, my cousin, twenty years
Have shed their sunshine, and this April morn
Looks on thee fresh and gladsome, as new-born
From veiling clouds the King of Day appears;
Thou scarce canst order back the thankful tears
That swell in thy blue eyes, nor dare to meet
The happy looks that never cease to greet
Thee, the dear nursling of our hopes and fears.
This Easter-tide together we have read
How in the garden, when that weeping one
Asked sadly for her Lord of some unknown,
With look of sweet reproof, He turned and said,
MARY-Sweet cousin, when thy need shall be,
That word, that look, so may He turn on thee.

(Original.)

FAMILY WORSHIP.

A. R. C.

HAST thou forgot thy home,

Child of a heaven-distinguished land?

And does there seldom come

The mem'ry of thy distant household band?

Stay-I will touch a spring

A secret, hidden string,

Which shall the train of buried thought command.

Though many a trait hath power

To make thy kindling bosom thrill,

Yet there's one holy hour,

Which to recal, wakes sweeter memories still—

The hour that used to bear

The murmuring swell of prayer,

From thy hearth-altar to the heav'nly hill.

Yes! summon back the scene!

There was the Book of life outspread,

And o'er the page did lean

With searching eye and gravely-bending head,

The parent so revered,

So justly loved and feared,

In whose pure walk each precept high was read.

There was a lovely group

Of young fair forms with serious mien ;

As evening flow'rets droop

Their dew-filled cups towards their leafy screen,

So these young heads did bow,

While on each thoughtful brow

The stillness of devotion reign'd serene.

How holy and how sweet

These mingling voices rose on high!

Say, canst thou now repeat

Some oft-sung portion of their psalmody?

And if some voice is gone—

Perchance the sweetest one,

Doth its soft echo in thy bosom lie?

How earnest was the tone

Of pleading, from that roof that rose

Constant to Mercy's throne,

At morning's dawn, and even's shadowy close!

Thou hadst a deep, fond part

Within each wrestling heart,—

How deep, alone the God of prayer knows.

Art thou a man of pray'r?

Does worship hallow thine abode ?

Have manhood's years of care

Been sweeten'd by the service of thy God?

Or hast thou cast away

The soft restraints that lay

Upon thy soul, thus train'd in virtue's road?

If it indeed be so,

What grave and sad upbraiding lies