SITTING ON THE SHORE.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

HE tide has ebb'd away:

TH

No more wild dashings 'gainst the adamant
rocks,

Nor swaying amidst sea-weed false that mocks
The hues of garden gay;

No laugh of little wavelets at their play;
No lucid pools reflecting heaven's clear brow:
Both storm and calm alike are ended now.

The rocks sit grey and lone;

The shifting sand is spread so smooth and dry,
That not a tide might ever have swept by,
Stirring it with rude moan;

Only some weedy fragments idly thrown
To rot beneath the sky, tell what has been;
But Desolation's self has grown serene.

After the mountains rise,

And the broad estuary widens out,

All sunshine; wheeling round and round about.
Seaward, a white bird flies;

A bird? Nay, seems it rather in these eyes

A spirit, o'er Eternity's dim sea

Calling "Come thou where all we glad souls be."

O life, O silent shore,

Where we sit patient: O great sea beyond,
To which we turn with solemn hope and fond,
But sorrowful no more;

But little while, and then we too shall soar
Like white-wing'd sea-birds in the Infinite Deep:
Till then, Thou, Father, wilt our spirits keep.

THE GOLDEN GATES APPEAR.

Y Father's house on high,

"MY

Home of my soul,--how near,
At times, to Faith's foreseeing eye
Thy golden gates appear.

"Oh! then my spirit faints
To reach the land I love,
The bright inheritance of saints,
Jerusalem above."

A

A LITTLE LONGER YET.

From the Christian Register.

LITTLE longer yet, a little longer

Shall violets bloom for thee and sweet birds sing,

And the lime branches, where soft winds are blowing, Shall murmur the sweet promise of the spring.

A little longer yet, a little longer,

Thou shalt behold the quiet of the morn, While tender grasses, and awakening flowers, Send up a golden tint to greet the dawn.

A little longer yet, a little longer,

The tenderness of twilight shall be thine, The rosy clouds that float o'er dying daylight, Nor fade till trembling stars begin to shine.

A little longer yet, a little longer,

Shall starry night be beautiful to thee,

And the cold moon shall look through the blue silence, Flooding her silver path upon the sea.

A little longer yet, a little longer,

Life shall be thine-life with its power to will, Life with its strength to bear, to love, to conquer, Bringing its thousand joys thy heart to fill.

A little longer yet, a little longer,

The voices thou hast loved shall charm thine ear, And thy true heart, that now beats quick to hear them, A little longer yet, shall hold them dear.

A little longer still, patience, belovéd :
A little longer still, ere Heaven unroll
The glory, and the brightness, and the wonder,
Eternal and divine, that waits thy soul.

A little longer, ere life, true, immortal,

(Not this our shadowy life) will be thine own; And thou shalt stand where winged archangels worship, And trembling bow before the Great White Throne.

A little longer still, and Heaven awaits thee,
To fill thy spirit with a great delight;
Then our pale joys will seem a dream forgotten,
Our sun a darkness, and our day a night.

A little longer, and thy heart, belovéd,
Shall beat forever with a love divine;
And joy so pure, so mighty, so eternal,

No mortal knows and lives, shall then be thine.

A little longer yet, and angel voices

Shall break in heavenly chant upon thine ear; Angels and saints await thee, and God needs thee; Belovéd, can we keep thee longer here?

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

W. A. MUHLenberg.

I

[The following is the original of the entire poem of which a part is familiar.]

WOULD not live alway,-live alway below!

O, no! I'll not linger, when bidden to go.

The days of our pilgrimage granted us here

Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,

Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?

While brethren and friends are all hastening home,

Like a spirit unblest on the earth would I roam?

I would not live alway;-I ask not to stay,
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where, seeking for peace we but hover around,
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;
Where hope, when she paints her gay bow on the air,
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.

I would not live alway,-thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without, and corruption within ;
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory is mine ere I'm captive again.
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And my cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears:
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I would not live alway,-no, welcome the tomb;
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom;
There, too, is the pillow where Christ bowed his head;
O, soft are the slumbers on that holy bed!

And then the glad dawn soon to follow that night,
When the sunrise of glory shall beam on my sight,
When the full matin song, as the sleepers arise
To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies.

Who, who would live alway? away from his God,
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,

Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;