Yet as a parent, nought beneath the sky
Touch'd him so quickly as an infant's eye;
Joy from its smile of happiness he caught,-
Its flash of rage sent horror through his thought,
His smitten conscience felt as fierce a pain—
As if he fell from innocence again.

THE SPIRIT OF DEATH AND THE ANGELS.
By CHARLES SWAIN.

THE ANGELS.

WE are waiting, Spirit, waiting!
We have call'd the seraphs here,
Mid the outer world creating,
Glories of the inner sphere!
From the starry hills of heaven
Gaze we for thy solemn wing
Wherefore was thy mission given?
He who sent thee bade thee bring!

SPIRIT OF DEATH.

She is sleeping-softly sleeping
Like an infant hush'd to rest;
O'er her, bends her mother, weeping:
Can I snatch her from her breast?

Can I hurt the arms that fold her,
Wound the heart which loves her so?
Let the mother's eye behold her,
Yet a breath-and she shall go!

THE ANGELS.

Lingering yet-and yet delaying
Still thy steps from heaven's dome:
Angels and archangels staying

Call the wanderer to her home!
We have scatter'd flowers elysian,
Gather'd from immortal streams;
Show her, then, this lofty vision!

Fill her soul with seraph dreams!

SPIRIT OF DEATH.

She hath ask'd to see their faces:
And her heart is beating fast,
For those sweet and sad embraces
Which she knows must be her last!
I have breathed of angel blisses,
Told her spirit not to grieve:
Must I take her from their kisses?
From the last she must receive?

There were sounds of hosts rejoicing
In that seraph realm above;
Angels and archangels voicing
Hymns of triumph and of love!
There were sounds the midnight rending,
From a heart with anguish tost;
And a mother's prayer ascending-
Weeping, wailing, for her lost!

THE DAYS OF CREATION.

From the German of KRUMMACHER.

ALL dead and silent was the earth,
In deepest night it lay,

The Eternal spoke Creation's word,
And called to being, Day.

CHORUS.

It streamed from on high,
All reddening and bright,
And angels' songs welcomed
The new-born light.

God spake the murmuring waters fled,
They left their deep repose,
Wide over-arching heaven's blue vault
The firmament arose.

Now sparkles above
Heaven's glorious blue,
It sends to the earth
The light and the dew.

God spake he bade the waves divide;
The earth uprears her head;

From hill, from rock, the gushing streams
In bubbling torrents spread.

The earth rested quiet,
And, poised in the air,
In heaven's blue bosom
Lay naked and bare.

:

God spake the hills and plains put on
Their robe of freshest green;
Dark forests in the valleys wave,
And budding trees are seen.

The word of his breath
Clothes the forest with leaves,

The high gift of beauty

The spring-tide receives.

God spake and on the new-dress'd earth

:

Soft smiled the glowing Sun,

Then full of joy he sprang aloft,
His heavenly course to run.

Loud shouted the stars
As they shone in the sky,
The Moon with mild aspect
Ascended on high.

God spake the waters teem with life,
The tenants of the floods;
The many-colour'd winged birds

Dart quickly through the woods.

High rushes the eagle
On fiery wings;

Low hid in the valley
The nightingale sings.

God spake the lion, steer, and horse
Spring from the moisten'd clay,
While round the breast of mother earth
Bees hum, and lambkins play.

They give life to the mountain,
They swarm on the plain,

But their eyes fix'd on earth
Must for ever remain.

God spake he look'd on earth and heaven
With mild and gracious eye:
In his own image man he made,
And gave him dignity.

He springs from the dust,
The Lord of the earth,
The chorus of heaven
Exult at his birth.

And now Creation's work was ended,
Man raised his head, he spoke:
The day of rest by God ordain'd,
The Sabbath morning broke.

INFLUENCE OF HOPE AT THE CLOSE OF LIFE. By THOMAS CAMPBELL, a passage from the Pleasures of Hope. UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day— Then, then, the triumph, and the trance begin! And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far wandering tide has never run, From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!

While Nature hears with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust :
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er-the pangs of nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as the hallow'd anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion's hill!

THE CLERGYMAN.

From CowPER'S Task.

I VENERATE the man whose heart is warm,
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof

That he is honest in the sacred cause.

To such I render more than mere respect,

Whose actions say that they respect themselves.
But loose in morals and in manners vain,
In conversation frivolous, in dress
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse;
Frequent in park, with lady at his side,
Ambling, and prattling scandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;
Constant at routs, familiar with a round
Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor;