On my bended knee,

I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself thyself alone.

I have nought to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred; here
Can come no evil thing.

O, I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless land Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go;

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture; waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit; strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.

WHEN Evening listened to the dripping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
By the green banks where Thames, with conscious
Reflects that stately structure on his side, [pride,
Within whose walls, as their long labors close,
The wanderers of the ocean find repose,

We wore in social ease the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I lingered on the river's marge alone,
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,
And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.

As thus I mused amidst the various train
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,
Two sailors well I marked them, as the beam
Of parting day yet lingered on the stream,
And the sun sunk behind the shady reach-
Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight
Forever. As I drew more anxious near,
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
But neither said a word. He who was blind
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind

That gently lifted his gray hair; his face
Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.

The other fixed his gaze upon the light, Parting; and when the sun had vanished quite, Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,

Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,

Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!
And then, as meek and silent as before,

Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shore.

As they departed through the unheeding crowd, A caged bird sung from the casement loud; And then I heard alone that blind man say, "The music of the bird is sweet to-day!" I said, "O heavenly Father! none may know The cause these have for silence or for woe!" Here they appear heart-stricken or resigned Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.

There is a world, a pure, unclouded clime, Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time, Nor loss of friends. Perhaps, when yonder bell Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell, Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night, They thought upon that world of distant light; And when the blind man, lifting light his hair, Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer ; Then sighed, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head, "No morn will shine on me till I am dead!”

Bowles.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

I Love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old

That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.

It is very true- it is very true;
I'm old, and "I bide my time;"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,

And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go,

For the world at best is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way,

And it wiles my heart from its weariness
To see the young so gay.

N. P. Willis.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;

His face was furrowed o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"

Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasures rage?

Or, haply, pressed with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast begun

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.