My prison walls cannot control
The flight, the freedom, of the soul.

Oh! it is good to soar,

These bolts and bars above,
To Him whose purpose I adore,
Whose providence I love ;
And in Thy mighty will to find
The joy, the freedom, of the mind.
Translated by Prof. T. C. UPHAM.

William Leggett.

1802-1839.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

The birds, when winter shades the sky,
Fly o'er the seas away,

Where laughing isles in sunshine lie,
And summer breezes play;

And thus the friends that flutter near
While fortune's sun is warm,

Are startled if a cloud appear,
And fly before the storm.

But when from winter's howling plains

Each other warbler 's past,

The little snow-bird still remains,

And chirrups 'midst the blast.

Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng
With fortune's sun depart,
Still lingers with its cheerful song,

And nestles on the heart.

George Denison Prentice.
1802-1870.

SABBATH EVENING.

How 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 high,
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 rivenOur spirits to the gates of heaven.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

Alone I walked the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year and day :-
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast,-
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my line away.

And so, methought, 't will quickly be
With every mark on earth from me :
A wave of dark oblivion's sea,
Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more—
Of me, my day, the name I bore,
To leave no track or trace,

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the water in His hands,

I know a lasting record stands,

Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part has wrought,
Of all this thinking soul has thought,
And from these fleeting moments caught,
For glory or for shame.

Sarab belen Whitman.

1803-1878.

A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN.

I love to wander through the woodlands hoary,
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.

How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers, Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls,

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining, Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls.

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining,

Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and flowers,

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,