Shone gorgeous as the multitudinous stars,
Or some illumined city seen by night,

When her wide streets pour noon, and echoir
Her thronging thousands mirth and music rin
Opposed to him, I saw an Angel stand
In sable vesture, with the Books of Life.
Black was his mantle, and his changeful wing
Glossed like the raven's; thoughtful seemed
Sedate and calm, and deep upon his brow
Had Meditation set her seal: his eyes
Looked things unearthly, thoughts unutterabl
Or uttered only with an Angel's tongue.
Renowned was he among the Seraphim
For depth of prescience, and sublimest lore;
Skilled in the mysteries of the Eternal,
Profoundly versed in those old records where
From everlasting ages, live God's deeds;
He knew the hour when yonder shining worl
That roll around us, into being sprang;
Their system, laws, connection; all he knew
But the dread moment when they cease to be
None judged like him the ways of God to ma
Or so had pondered; his excursive thoughts
Had visited the depths of Night and Chaos,
Gathering the treasures of the hoary deep.

THE DYING BOY.

BY J. H. BRIGHT.

It must be sweet, in childhood, to give back
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod

Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round, and called him out To revel in its light, he turned away,

And sought his chamber, to lie down and die.

'Twas night; he summoned his accustomed friends,

And, in this wise, bestowed his last bequest.

Ee

As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed,

And on my brow

"I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my bre Comes feebly up. Oh, tell me! is this death Mother, your hand!

"Here, lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus, beneath my head,And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead Shall I be missed?

"Never, beside your knee,

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray, Nor with the morning wake and sing the lay You taught to me!

When

"Oh! at the time of prayer,

you look round and see a vacant seat You will not wait then for my coming feet;You'll miss me there!"

"Father, I'm going home!

To the good home you spoke of that blest 1

"Brother, the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We stayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!

"Plant there some box or pine;
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!"

"Sister, my young rose tree

That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.

"And when its roses bloom,

I shall be gone away-my short life done;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?"

"Now, mother, sing the tune

You sang last night; I'm weary and must sleep— Who was it called my name?-Nay, do not weep,

You'll all come soon!"

STANZAS

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

The world is smiling; the glad earth
Smiles on her gaudy children's dress;
The noisy winds laugh out in mirth,

And the breezes titter in playfulness;
The old sea smiles on the close embrace

Of his fondling waves, as they mingling meet; And the young streams laugh in their onward race, And their tiny shout, like a child's, is sweet: Smiles from the earth, and from the sea,

And yet not one sweet smile from thee?

The warm sun smiles on the earth with pride;

And the chaste moon smiles through her vapoury veil.

Like the love-lit glance of a curtained bride,

While, like eyes that are bright at a lover's tale,
From Heaven's high casement downward peeping,
The bright stars wink at the pranks of earth,
Undimmed, like mortal orbs, by weeping,
They chant the hymn of creation's birth.
The skies on high are rife with glee-
And yet not one sweet smile from thee?