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Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,

Or twangs a harp of gold.
Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That tottered as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly paths,

Or stand before their God.

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What bliss is born of sorrow !

'Tis never sent in vain-
The heavenly surgeon maims to save,

He gives no useless pain.

Our God, to call us homeward,

His only Son sent down :
And now, still more to tempt our hearts,

Has taken up our own.

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. [Born in Philadelphia in 1808, of an Irish father. Mr. Gallagher has been mainly occupied as a journalist in Cincinnati, and other cities of the West].

She came in Spring, when leaves were green,

And birds sang blithe in bower and tree-
A stranger, but her gentle mien

It was a calm delight to see.

In every


grace was hers;
On every feature sweetness dwelt;
Thoughts soon became her worshipers---

Affections soon before her knelt.

She bloomed through all the summer days

As sweetly as the fairest flowers, And till October's softening haze

Came with its still and dreamy hours.

So calm the current of her life,

So lovely and serene its flow,
We hardly marked the deadly strife

Disease for ever kept below.

But autumn winds grew wild and chill,

And pierced her with their icy breath; And, when the snow on plain and hill

Lay white, she passed, and slept in death.

Tones only of immortal birth

Our memory of her voice can stir; With things too beautiful for earth

Alone do we remember her.

She came in Spring, when leaves were green,

And birds sang blithe in bower and tree, And flowers sprang up and bloomed between

Low branches and the quickening lea.

The greenness of the leaf is

ne, The beauty of the flower is riven, The birds to other climes have flown,

And there's an angel more in heaven.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. [Born in 1808 at Haverhill, Massachusetts, where his ancestors, of the Quaker denomination, had long been settled. Mr. Whittier was early engaged in farming operations ; and afterwards as a political, and more especially a protectionist, journalist. In 1836 he became one of the secretaries of the Anti-Slavery Society: and some of his most vigorous and rousing poems are devoted to that noble cause.

He has also written various prose works ; one of the chief among which is Supernaturalism in New England, published in 1847. The bulk of Mr. Whittier's poetical writings is considerable. His name stands high in the United States, and ought in England to be better known than as yet it is. An upright manly energy, and the tenderness of a strong yet delicate nature, are constantly conspicuous in his writings. These fine qualities are mostly associated with a genuine poetic grace, and in many in. stances with art truly solid and fine].

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK.1 To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to

day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil

away, — Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful

three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid

free! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison

bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam

of stars ; 1 This ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property for having entertained iwo Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the General Court at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was “fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines.” An attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies.—Vide Sewall's History, pp. 225-6.

In the coldness and the darkness all through the long

night time, My grated casement whitened with Autumn's early rime. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed

to be


The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea.
All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the mor-
The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my

sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and

sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the

fold. Oh the weakness of the flesh was there—the shrinking

and the shame; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me

came : “Why sit'st thou thus forlornly?” the wicked murmur

said, Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy

maiden bed?

“Where be the smiling faces, and 'voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant

street? Where be the youths, whose glances the summer Sab

bath through Turned tenderly and timidly into thy father's pew? “Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?—Bethink thee with

what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright

hearth; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white

and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood half hid in golden nair.


“Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind

words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing

boys are broken ; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunters

braid. “Oh weak, deluded maiden !—by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and

sound; And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sack

cloth-bound. "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things

divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory

lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their

shame. “And what a fate awaits thee !—a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to

the grave! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless

thrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all !" Oh ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's

fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing

tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent

prayer To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert

there ! I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison-shackles


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