Pleasure, Bewitching Syren! BEWITCHING syren! golden rottenness!

Thou hast with cunning artifice displayed
Th' enamelled outside, and the honied verge
Of the fair cup, where deadly poison lurks.
Within, a thousand sorrows dance the round;
And, like a shell, pain circles thee without.
Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps,
Which, as thy joys 'gin towards their west decline,
Doth to a giant's spreading form extend
Thy dwarfish stature. Thou thyself art pain,
Greedy, intense desire; and the keen edge
Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee,
And cuts thy slender thread; but still the terror
And apprehension of thy hasty end

Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets.
Yet thy Circean charms transform the world.
Captains that have resisted war and death,
Nations that over fortune have triumphed,
Are by thy magic made effeminate:
Empires, that know no limits but the poles,
Have in thy wanton lap melted away.
Thou wert the author of the first excess
That drew this reformation on the gods;

Canst thou, then, dream those powers that from heaven

Banished the effect, will there enthrone the cause? To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence; There dwell, for ever drowned in brutish sense. THOMAS CAREW.

FEAR

Peace! be Still.

EAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud;

And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill;

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, "Be still!"

And the wind ceased-it ceased-that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And sank beneath his eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast;

As when the righteous fall asleep,
When death's fierce throes are past.

Thou, that didst rule the angry hour,
And tame the tempest's mood,
Oh! send thy Spirit forth in power,
O'er our dark souls to brood.

Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride,

Thy mandates to fulfil,

So speak to passion's raging tide,

Speak and say,-" Peace, be still!"

FELICIA HEMANS.

Prayer for an Absent Husband.

FATHER in heaven!

Behold, he whom I love is daily treading
The path of life in heaviness of soul.
With the thick darkness now around him spread-
ing

He long hath striven

Oh, thou most kind! break not the golden bowl.

Father in heaven!

Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted,
And raised the weary spirit bowed with care,
Let him not say his joy hath all departed,
Lest he be driven

Down to the deep abyss of dark despair.

Father in heaven!

Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessingLet peace and rest descend upon his head, That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing, May not be riven—

Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed.

Father in heaven!

Oh, may his heart be stayed on thee! each feeling Still lifted up in gratitude and love;

And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing To him be given,

Till he shall praise thy name in realms above.

M. ST. LEON LOUD.

Raising of Jairus' Daughter.

THEY have watched her last and quivering breath,

And the maiden's soul has flown;

They have wrapt her in the robes of death,

And laid her dark and alone.

But the mother casts a look behind,
Upon that fallen flower,—

Nay, start not,-'twas the gathering wind;
Those limbs have lost their power.

And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
O'er which the faint light plays;
Tis only the crimson curtain's glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.

Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay?
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
Which bore her soul away?

She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed,

And heeds not thy gentle tread,

And is still as the spring-flower by traveller

crushed,

Which dies on its snowy bed.

The mother has flown from that lonely room,
And the maid is mute and pale:

Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is her stiffened nail.

Her mother strays with folded arms,
And her head is bent in woe;

She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms;
Nor tear attempts to flow.

But listen! what name salutes her ear?
It comes to a heart of stone;
"Jesus," she cries, "has no power here;
My daughter's life has flown."

He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And bends o'er the senseless form;

Can his be less than a heavy touch?
The maiden's hand is warm!

And the fresh blood comes with a roseate hue,
While Death's dark terrors fly ;

Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.

GEORGE W. DOANE.

Religion, thou the Soul of Happiness.
RELIGION'S All. Descending from the skies
To wretched man, the goddess, in her left,
Holds out this world, and, in her right, the next;
Religion! the sole voucher man is man :
Supporter sole of man above himself;

E'en in this night of frailty, change, and death,
She gives the soul a soul that acts a god.
Religion! Providence! an after-state!
Here is firm footing; here is solid rock!