And thrills through every part the taintless | That form'd them, and the beatific smile flowers, Instinct with immortality, and touch'd In body and in spirit, sumless myriads, JOY OF HEAVEN ANTICIPATED. E. C. KENT. THERE is there is a joy, though time should bring There is a joy-it is not in the breeze, How beautifully fades! Then comes the night, There is a joy-it is not in the star Trembling in beauty o'er the hills afar! There is a joy-it is not in the beam The moon has pour'd o'er mountain, tower, and stream! There is a joy-and 'tis not in thy song, Bard of the night! though echo mocks thee long; (Who hears and loves thee not?) nor in the hush The stilliness of night; nor in the blush The loveliness of morn! For storm or calm, Sorrow or mirth, there is a joy, a balm : And where, oh! where are they? I turn to thee, Gazing on thee, night's radiance waxeth dim, O! for that clime my pinions let me plume- This is the joy, young Isadore ! believe, Strewing with flowers our pathway to the tomb ! VISION OF INFANTS IN HEAVEN. MONTGOMERY. I SAW them in white raiment crown'd with On the fair banks of that resplendent river, Waters of life as clear as crystal, welling Each in its season, food of Saints and Angels, Beneath the shadow of its blessed boughs I marked those rescued Infants, in their schools By spirits of just men made perfect, taught From the world's wilderness of dire tempta- Securing thus their everlasting weal. Yea in the rapture of that hour, tho' songs Of Cherubim to golden lyres and trumpets, And the redeemed upon the sea of glass With voices like the sound of many waters, Came in mine ear, whose secret cells were opened To entertain celestial harmonies ; The small sweet accents of those little chil- Pouring out all the gladness of their souls These were to me the most transporting Amidst the hallelujahs of all Heaven. Tho' lost awhile in that amazing chorus That melted all my soul, when I beheld To perfect his high praise. The harp of Had lack'd its least, but not its meanest string BLISS OF HEAVEN INEFFABLE. T. MOORE. Go, wing thy flight from star to star, ETERNITY. TO ETERNITY. BARBAULD. THE year has seen Its round of seasons, has fulfilled its course, Absolved its destined period, and is borne, Silent and swift, to that devouring gulf, Their womb and grave, where seasons, months, and years, Revolving periods of uncounted time, All merge, and are forgotten.-Thou alone, In thy deep bosom burying all the past, Still art; and still from thine exhaustless store New periods spring, Eternity.-Thy name Or glad, or fearful, we pronounce, as thoughts Wandering in darkness shape thee. Thou strange being, All sense, all reasoning,-thou who never wast Entire, though the deep draught which Time has taken To thy unfathomed depths. The reasoning sage And measure worlds, is here a child, And, humbled, drops his calculating pen. On, and still onward flows the ceaseless tide, And HE who does inhabit thee. To bless mankind with tides of flowing CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET. Our little lot denies; but Heav'n decrees, BARTON. NOBLE the mountain-stream, Bursting in grandeur from its vantageground; Glory is in its gleam Of brightness ;-thunder in its deafening sound! Mark, how its foamy spray, On these Heaven bade the sweets of life Ting'd by the sun-beams with reflected dyes, |