From all earth's vanities— Her guilt-her lying charms Up through the blue, the bending skies, The hounds of grief no more When wounded, panting, weak, on shore, But such sweet songs of love Out of my heart should pour, A deluge of delight above Should spread from shore to shore. My soul would, free from ill, With power to spirits given, Look down from God's most Holy Hill LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER. NOT in the mighty realms of human thought- Wilt thou return again from Heaven to me— Not while the clouds are wafted by the breeze Not while the streams adown the mountain's slope Like silver serpents through the flowery vales— As joyful as the heart when full of hope— Shall trickle, yielding freshness to the gales From their own murmurings-will thy spirit come To waft new pleasures to my native homeNo, never more! Not while the children of the Spring shall smile, With goblets brimful of nectarian dew; Not till the orange bowers that wooed us long, dreams Where Sorrow voiced itself away in song Shall pass away, with all our crystal streams, Shall such sad partings, on life's barren shore, Be changed for meetings which shall part no more— No, never more! Then shall our never-mores be made as sweet ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. [Daughter of a Mr. Prince. Married at the age of sixteen Mr. Seba Smith, a newspaper-editor and poet, popular under his pseudonym of "Jack Downing." Mrs. Smith has published writings of various kinds, including tragedies, and a novel printed in 1842, named The Western Captive]. DESPONDENCY. WHEN thou didst leave me, Hope, why didst thou not, Had rested mute and desolate of care- But now, too much remembering of the past, Feel all the pangs of life, and thought, and breath, CHARITY, IN DESPAIR OF JUSTICE. Of deeper truth grew on my wandering ken I claimed from weak-eyed man the gift of Heaven, God's own great vested right!—and I grew calm, With folded hands, like stone to Patience given, And pityings of meek love-distilling balmAnd now I wait in hopeful trust to be All known to God, and ask of man sweet charity. EMILY JUDSON. [Mrs. Judson, then Miss Emily Chubbuck, was known as a magazine-writer under the pseudonym of "Fanny Forester," and began to become popular in 1841. In 1846 she made the acquaintance of the missionary Judson, then returned to America from India and Burmah, and recently left a widower. She married him, and, glowing with zeal for the spread of the gospel, went back with him to India, and seconded his missionary efforts. She is not now living, but I cannot give the date of her death]. MY BIRD. ERE last year's moon had left the sky, Its tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, Broad earth owns not a happier nest; This seeming visitant from heaven, To me to me thy hand has given! A silent awe is in my room I tremble with delicious fear; Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; Hear, oh my God! one earnest prayer: Room for my bird in paradise, And give her angel plumage there! SARAH J. CLARKE. [Sister of a barrister. Miss Clarke began writing for the press in 1844, under the name of "Grace Greenwood," which soon became extremely popular; and she has since then continued to be a prolific authoress, chiefly in prose]. ILLUMINATION FOR THE TRIUMPH OF OUR LIGHT up thy homes, Columbia, For those chivalric men Who bear to scenes of warlike strife Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields, The heights of Monterey ! They pile with thousands of thy foes With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz, Light up your homes, oh fathers! For those young hero bands Whose march is still through vanquished towns Whose valour wild, impetuous, In all its fiery glow Pours onward like a lava-tide, And sweeps away the foe! For those whose dead brows Glory crowns, And for home faces wan with grief, And fond eyes dim with weeping: |