Lives he in wealth? Doth well-deserved store Limit his wish, that he can wish no more? And does the fairest bounty of increase

Crown him with plenty, and his days with peace? It is a right-hand blessing: but supply

Of wealth cannot secure him; he must die.

Lives he in pleasure? Does perpetual mirth
Lend him a little heaven upon this earth ?
Meets he no sudden care, no sudden loss
To cool his joys? Breathes he without a cross
Wants he no pleasure that his wanton eye
Can crave or hope from fortune? He must die.

Lives he in honour? hath his fair desert
Obtained the freedom of his prince's heart?
Or may his more familiar hands disburse
His liberal favours from the royal purse?
Alas! his honour cannot soar too high
For pale-faced Death to follow; he must die.

Lives he a conqueror? and doth heaven bless
His heart with spirit, that spirit with success;
Success with glory; glory with a name
To live with the eternity of fame ?

The progress of his lasting fame may vie
With time; but yet the conqueror must die.

Great and good God! thou Lord of life and death,

In whom the creature hath its being, breath;
Teach me to underprize this life, and I
Shall find my loss the easier when I die.

?

So raise my feeble thoughts and dull desire,
That, when these vain and weary days expire,
I may discard my flesh with joy, and quit
My better part of this false earth, and it
Of some more sin; and for this transitory
And tedious life enjoy a life of glory.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

The Spirit of the Holy Eve.

HOW

OW calmly sinks the parting sun!
Yet twilight lingers still;

And beautiful as dream of Heaven

It slumbers on the hill;

Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things,
Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings,
And, rendering back the hues above,
Seems resting in a trance of love.

Round yonder rocks the forest-trees
In shadowy groups recline,

Like saints at evening bow'd in prayer
Around their holy shrine;

And through their leaves the night-winds blow

So calm and still, their music low,

Seems the mysterious voice of prayer,
Soft echo'd on the evening air.

And yonder western throng of clouds,

Retiring from the sky,

So calmly move, so softly glow,

They seem to fancy's eye,

Bright creatures of a better sphere,
Come down at noon to worship here,
And, from their sacrifice of love,
Returning to their home above.

The blue isles of the golden sea,
The night-arch floating by,

The flowers that gaze upon the heavens,
The bright streams leaping by,
Are living with religion-deep
On earth and sea its glories sleep,
And mingle with the starlight rays,
Like the soft light of parted days.

The spirit of the holy eve
Comes through the silent air
To feeling's hidden spring, and wakes
A gush of music there!

And the far depths of ether beam
So passing fair, we almost dream
That we can rise and wander through
Their open paths of trackless blue.

Each soul is fill'd with glorious dreams,
Each pulse is beating wild;

And thought is soaring to the shrine

Of glory undefiled!

And holy aspirations start,

Like blessed angels, from the heart,

And bind-for earth's dark ties are riven

Our spirits to the gates of heaven.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

The Good Part that shall not be Taken Away.

SHE

HE dwells by great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool;

And all her hope and all her pride

Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air
That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside,
And liberate the slave;

And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;

And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,

In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record

And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,

Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

The Gospel of Peace.

WEET Peace, where dost thou dwell?

SWEET

humbly crave

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And asked if peace were there,

A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No!
Go seek elsewhere."

I did;—and going, did a rainbow note:

Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter.

But while I looked, the clouds immediately Did break and scatter.

I