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From all earth's vanities—

Her guilt-her lying charms

Up through the blue, the bending skies,
To my dear Saviour's arms!

The hounds of grief no more
Should follow me in flight,

When wounded, panting, weak, on shore,
To that sweet Land of Light!

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
On all the scenes of heaven!

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

NOT in the mighty realms of human thought-
Not in the kingdoms of the earth around-
Not where the pleasures of the world are sought—
Not where the sorrows of the earth are found—
Nor on the borders of the great deep sea,

Wilt thou return again from Heaven to me—
No, never more!

Not while the clouds are wafted by the breeze
To deck the azure palace of the sky,
Like ships of gold upon cerulean seas—
Sailing in sunny multitudes on high-
Greening the mountains with refreshing rain-
Wilt thou return to this dark world again—
No, never more!

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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,
And strew my path with flowers of every hue-
Cooling the fever of my heart the while

With goblets brimful of nectarian dew;
Not while the younglings of her lap shall shine,
Wilt thou return to this dark home of mine-
No, never more !

Not till the orange bowers that wooed us long,
Where Love first haunted me in heavenly

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
As they are bitter now to this fond heart;
And all our partings, when we there shall meet,
Be changed to meetings which shall never part;
And never more to meet on earth be given
For never more to part again in Heaven-
No, never more!

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,
In place of thy sweet presence, leave Despair,
With her grim visage and disordered hair?
The past, the future, then had been forgot—
The soul concentred on its blasted lot,

Had rested mute and desolate of care-
Had ceased to question where its treasures were,
And roamed no more the melancholy spot.

But now, too much remembering of the past,
So huge the weight of gloom around me spread
That I, like one within a charnel cast,
Hear but the dirges ringing for the dead—

Feel all the pangs of life, and thought, and breath,
Yet walk I all the time with hand in hand of Death.

CHARITY, IN DESPAIR OF JUSTICE.
OUTWEARIED with the littleness and spite,
The falsehood and the treachery, of men,
I cried "Give me but justice"-thinking then
I meekly craved a common boon, which might
Most easily be granted. Soon the light

Of deeper truth grew on my wandering ken
(Escaped the baneful damps of stagnant fen);
And then I saw that, in my pride bedight,

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,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,
And folded, oh! so lovingly,

Its tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.
There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred
Whose waters nevermore shall rest!
This beautiful, mysterious thing,

This seeming visitant from heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,

To me to me thy hand has given!
The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine:
This life, which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

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
ARMS IN MEXICO.

LIGHT up thy homes, Columbia,

For those chivalric men

Who bear to scenes of warlike strife
Thy conquering arms again;
Where glorious victories, flash on flash,
Reveal their stormy way—

Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,

The heights of Monterey !

They pile with thousands of thy foes
Buena Vista's plain;

With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,
Swell high the list of slain;
They paint upon the southern skies
The blaze of burning domes-
Their laurels dew with blood of babes :
Light up, light up thy homes!

Light up your homes, oh fathers!

For those young hero bands

Whose march is still through vanquished towns
And over conquered lands;

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,
On crimson couches sleeping;

And for home faces wan with grief,

And fond eyes dim with weeping:
And for the soldier, poor, unknown,

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