Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAUld.

Sing forth the Triumphs of his Name.
YOU Spirits! who have thrown away
That envious weight of clay,

Which your celestial flight denied;
Who by your glorious troops supply
The winged hierarchy,

So broken in the angel's pride!

O you! whom your Creator's sight
Inebriates with delight!

Sing forth the triumphs of his name;
All you enamoured souls, agree
In a loud symphony,

To give expression to your flame !

To Him his own great works relate,
Who deigned to elevate

You 'bove the frailty of your birth,
Where you stand safe from that rude war
With which we troubled are,

By the rebellion of our earth.

While a corrupted air beneath

Here in this world we breathe,

Each hour some passion us assails. Now lust casts wildfire in the blood, Or, that it may seem good,

Itself in wit or beauty veils. Then envy circles us with hate, And lays a siege so strait,

No heavenly succour enters in: But if revenge admittance find For ever hath the mind

Made forfeit of itself to sin.

Assaulted thus, how dare we raise
Our minds to think his praise,

Who is eternal and immense ?
How dare we force our feeble wit
To speak Him infinite,

So far above the search of sense?

O you! who are immaculate, celebrate

His name may

In your soul's bright expansion: You, whom your virtues did unite

To his perpetual light,

That ever with Him you now shine one.

While we who to earth contract our hearts, And only study arts

To shorten the sad length of time, In place of joys, bring humble fears, For hymns, repentant tears,

And a new sigh, for every crime.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

Sire, Maker, Spirit!

SIRE, Maker, Spirit, who alone canst know My soul and all the deep remorse that's there

I ask no mitigation of my wo;

Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear! Remorse ?-ah! not for ill designedly done: To look on pain, to me is pain severe ; Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath

won,

Had Love been Wisdom, haply ye were here! Much have I suffered; yet this form, unscathed, Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift: With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed; My ills are my desert, my good thy gift.

Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft Hath mourned for two, ta'en by the powers on high,

Nor tint nor atom that is fair is left

Beneath the marble where their relics lie.

Yet no oblivious veil is o'er them cast:

Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow Burns brighter now their mortal lives are past, Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo.

Oh! may their spirits, disembodied, come,
And strong though secret influence dispense-
Pitying the sorrows of an earthly doom,

And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence.

Oh! cover them with forms so made to meet
The models of their souls, that, when they see,
They cast themselves in beauty at thy feet,
In all the heaven of grateful ecstasy.
Methinks I see them, side by side, in love,
Like brothers of the zodiac, all around
Diffusing light and fragrance, as they move
Harmonious as the spheric music's sound.

And

may these forms in warm and rosy sleep, (In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned,) Lie, while o'er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep, Quick as the changeful glance of thought and mind.

This fond ideal which my grief relieves,

Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be: For more than all my feeble sense conceives, Thy hand can give in blest reality.

Sire, Maker, Spirit! source of all that's fair! Howe'er my poor words be unworthy thee, Oh! be not weary of the imperfect prayer Breathed from the fervor of a wretch like me!

MARIA BROOKS.

She Comes to Me.

HE comes to me in robes of snow,

SHE

The friend of all my sinless years

Even as I saw her long ago,

Before she left this vale of tears.

She comes to me in robes of snow-
She walks the chambers of my rest,
With soundless footsteps, sad and slow,
That wake no echo in my breast.

I see her in my visions yet,

I see her in my waking hours; Upon her pale, pure brow is set

A crown of azure hyacinth flowers.

Her golden hair waves round her face,

And o'er her shoulders gently falls Each ringlet hath the nameless grace My spirit yet on earth recalls.

:

And, bending o'er my lowly bed,
She murmurs- "Oh, fear not to die!
For thee an angel's tears are shed,
An angel's feast is spread on high.

Come, then, and meet the joy divine
That features of the spirits wear:
A fleeting pleasure here is thine-

An angel's crown awaits thee there. "Listen! it is a choral hymn"

And, gliding softly from my couch,
Her spirit-face waxed faint and dim,
Her white robes vanished at my touch.
She leaves me with her robes of snow-
Hushed is the voice that used to thrill
Around the couch of pain and wo—

She leaves me to my darkness still. CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE.

Z