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When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow ;.
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;

I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain

The pavilion of heaven is hare,
And the winds and the sunbeams with their convex gleams


the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.




Weep not for me, mother! because I must die,

And sink in death's coldness to rest;


Weep not for

mother ! becausc death is nigh, I go to the home of the blest !


It is but a momenta pang-and

A struggle--and that to be free; 'Tis the spirit's last look on a journey that's o'er ;

Oh death has no terror for me.

Weep not for me, mother ! the Christian should fling

His frailties and fears to the wind;
But only in death when his spirit takes wing,

Can he leave them for ever behind.

Farewell to thee now-the mist thickens fast;

The cold hand is laid on my breast;
The moments are numbered another the last,
I go to the home of the blest !



Yet such the destiny of all on earth ;
So flourishes and fades majestic man;
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,
And fostering gales a while the nursling fan.

O smile, ye heavens, serene ; ye mildews wan,
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,
Nor lessen of his life the little span.
Borne on the swift, though silent wings of time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn ;
But lofty souls who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.
Shall I be left abandoned in the dust,
When fate relenting lets the flowers revive ?
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive
With disappointment, penury, and pain ?
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive,
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,
Bright through the eternal year of love's triumphant reign.



I've seen the lovely garden flowers

In all their beauty glow;
I've seen the stormy hailstone showers

Lay all their glory low.

I've seen the youth in beauty's pride,

And highest health to-day, Before to-morrow's evening tide

A breathless lump of clay.

Then what's our life ? a vapour sure ;

Away it swiftly flies ;
The joys of life, how insecure,

How trifling such a prize!

The hastening day will soon arrive,

When awful death shall come, And close the scene of this vain life

In darkness and the tomb.

O! may the Living Word, the Light,

Shine forth before our eyes ;
In that dread hour 'dispel the night

With everlasting rays.

And in the dark and dismal road,

Which we are doomed to tread, Our comfort be the word of God,

Our rock, our strength, our shade.

the tree,

His word, who died

upon Can fortify the heart, And, even in death, our minds can free,

And bid all fear depart.

The work He finished on the cross,

Salvation must insure;
And his unspotted righteousness

For ever will endure.


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