TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

BY THOMAS WARD.

THOU bright and star-like spirit!
That, in my visions wild,

I see mid heaven's seraphic host-
O! canst thou be my child!

My grief is quench'd in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;

A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies,

Our hopes of thee were lofty,
But have we cause to grieve?
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,

The sinner, snatch'd from sin;

The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,

Would blush thy powers to see ;

Thou art to mẹ a parent now,

And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state,

Now threads the mazy track of spheres,

Or reads the book of fate,

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TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,
Now range the realms of space-

Look down upon

the rolling stars,

Look up to God's own face.

Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or twangs a harp of gold.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That totter'd as they trod,

With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their GOD.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful;
Before the throne divine
'Tis pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.

What bliss is born of sorrow!
'Tis never sent in vain-

The heavenly surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain.

Our God, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down;

And now, still more to tempt our hearts,

Has taken up our own.

MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE,

BY LYDIA M. CHILD.

PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,
Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat,
And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crown'd thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul

Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart,

And genius hath electric power,

Which earth can never tame;

Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower,

Its flash is still the same,

The dreams we loved in early life,

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife,

Like Carthage in decay;

And proud hopes in the human heart

May be to ruin hurl'd;

Like mouldering monuments of art

Heap'd on a sleeping world:

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ENDYMION.

Yet, there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

ENDYMION.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE rising moon has hid the stars,
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between,

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low,

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dream'd not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unask'd, unsought,
Loves gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays

Its deep, impassion'd gaze,

THE SUM OF LIFE.

It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him, who slumbering lies.

O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto its own.

Responds-as if, with unseen wings,

A breath from heaven had touch'd its strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thou stay'd so long?"

THE SUM OF LIFE.

BY J. O. ROCKWELL.

SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights
All waste away in anxious care,
Estranged from all of life's delights,
Unlearn'd in all that is most fair-
Who sailest not with easy glide,
But delvest in the depths of tide,

And strugglest in the foam;

O! come and view this land of graves,
Death's northern sea of frozen waves,

And mark thee out thy home.

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