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But there are still an humble few,
How blessed is their lot-

They pass this dark and lonely way
But shall not be forgot;

For lo! all glowing from afar-
Behold their bright, their morning star.

Be joyful-Oh ye ransom'd souls,
Your help is from the sky;
And seraphs guide your fearful path
To your bright homes on high.
Oh death, thou art the gate of heaven,
To those who feel their sins forgiven'

Dear Saviour, in the lowly grave
Thy sacred body lay;

O then, and shall thy followers shrink-
Since thou hast past that way.

The grave-how blessed is the night,
Which comes before immortal light.

I KNOW THOU HAST GONE.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

I know thou hast gone to the house of thy rest,
Then why should my soul be so sad?

I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest
And the mourner looks up and is glad!
Where love has put off, in the lands of its birth,
The stain it had gathered in this:

And hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth,
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss!

I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred
With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul,
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,
Nor thy heart be flung back from its goal:

I know thou hast drank of the Lethe that flows
Through a land where they do not forget,
That sheds over memory only repose,
And takes from it only regret.

In thy far away dwelling, wherever it be,
I believe thou hast visions of mine,

And the love that made all things a music to me
I have not yet learnt to resign;-

In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea,
Or alone with the breeze on the hill,

I have ever a presence that whispers of thee,
And my spirit lies down and is still!

My eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine;

But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,
In many a token and sign.

I never look up with a vow to the sky,
But a light like thy beauty is there-
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
I am wrapp'd in a mantle of care-

Yet the grief of my bosom-oh, call it not gloom-
Is not the black grief of despair:

By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
Far off a bright vision appears,

And hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light,
Is born-like the rainbow-in tears.

THE HUMA.

BY LOUISA P. SMITH.

Fly on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,

Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.

Fly on-nor seek a place of rest.

In the home of "care-worn things,"
"Twould dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnish'd wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free,

I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.

I would never war.der-bird, like thee,
So near this place again,

With wing and spirit once light and free

They should wear no more, the chain

With which they are bound and fetter'd here,
Forever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird,
Hopes as thy plumage gay,-

Our air is with them for ever stirr'd,
But still in air they stay.

And happiness, like thee, fair one!

Is ever hovering o'er,

But rests in a land of brighter sun,

On a waveless, peaceful shore,

And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of "living waters" springs.

THE DAISY.

Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we, to prove a God is here;
The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.

For who but He who arch'd the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood
Wondrous alike in all he tries,

·Could rear the daisy's purple bud—

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embossed gem,
That set in silver gleams within?

And fling it unrestrain'd and free,
O'er hill and dale and desert sod,
That man, where'er he walks, may see,"
In every step the stamp of God.

SONNET.

There is a bondage which is worse to bear
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall,
Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall:

"Tis his who walks about in the open air,

One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear

Their fetters in their Souls. For who could be,

Who, even the best, in such condition, free

From self-reproach, reproach which he must share
With Human nature? Never be it ours

To see the Sun how brightly it will shine,
And know that noble feelings, manly powers,

Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine;
And earth, with all her pleasant fruits and flowers,
Fade and participate in man's decline.

THE DEW-DROP.

The brightest gem cannot surpass
The dew-drop on a blade of grass:
Thus nature's smallest works combine
To herald forth a hand divine!
Shall man, the noblest work of all,
With reason blest, a sceptic fall?
Behold thy form of wondrous skill,
With faculties that move at will,
How perfect, and how rarely fit,
And all in all so exquisite,
That reason's eye but with a scan
Proclaims-a God created man!

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