No idle vision plays

In yon meridian rays,

But secret glories of the world above;

He sees the sapphire-throne,

Where Jesus stands to own

And cheer his servant's heart with looks of love— While heav'n-lit smiles reveal how sweet the sight Of Him he loved unseen, his Joy-his Life-his Light!

Forth from the covert spring

Two lions in the ring,

With rage and hunger bounding on their prey-
Where then the mighty arm,

That awed, as by a charm,

When down at Daniel's feet the monsters lay? Unchecked their course, while he nor quailed nor fled, But stroked their shaggy manes, and 'neath their talons bled.

His earthly sands are run!

Hence! for thy work is done!

A little moment glut thy rage for blood-
He on his Saviour's breast,

Comforted, and at rest,

Basks in the glory of the sons of God:

But thou, O Rome, the foster-nurse of kings !

Flee! for the angel comes-I hear the rushing of his wings!

1 Isaiah lxvi. 18.

Who is the victim now?

I mark thy blasted brow,

Distraught with war, storm, fire, this many an age! Since Death serves not for nought,

Thou hold'st the guerdon sought,

Who sows to sin, must reap its bitter wageBut he, whose blood filled up thy cup of mirth, Joys in his Maker's smile, far from all wrongs of earth.

"Tis sweet to think how soon

The glory of yon moon

Shall cease to glow o'er wrecks of human pride;
All swept before the storm,

That wraps the Saviour's form,

When He descends to claim his ransomed bride ;

When Earth shall own no trophy of Sin's reign,

And CHRIST as King be hailed--the Lamb for sINNERS

SLAIN !

S. ONOFRIO.

THE CONVENT-GARDEN WHERE TASSO Died.

IN QUIETNESS AND IN CONFIDENCE SHALL BE YOUR STRENGTH. ISAIAH XXX. 15.

CROWNING a summit, at whose base, stone-bound,
The sluggish Tiber rolls its yellow flood,

A small and cloistered convent long hath stood,
With its lone garden stretching to a mound
Circled with grass-grown steps, where, towering high,
A broad oak sways its arms athwart the sky.

Sweet is it there, where spreads the expanse of heav'n,
To watch the clustering vine and matted wreath,
Shading the thronging roofs that lie beneath,
Lit by the glowing tints of parting even,

And muse awhile, how swift Man's years decay,

When Night so soon obscures the glories of his Day.

So calm the spot-so sweet-so deeply blest
In its charmed loneliness, that who could greet
The crested city carpetting his feet

In all its pomp and glitter of unrest,

Nor as an altar view this stone-built shell,

Where sorrowing sons of earth may bid the earth farewell!

The couch of stone-type of the bed of death-—
Whence the gay world, which once we loved so,
Lies, like old Rome, with all its glittering show,
A thing to scorn at-while Heav'n's gentle breath,
Erst powerless to dispel the fogs of sense,

Wafts o'er the aching brow her gales of frankincense :

And Hope, like this hoar oak's time-hardened form
Shooting its boughs on high, uprears her head,
And clings, tho' every earthly joy be fled,
Nor heeds the earthquake's shock, nor wasting storm,
But roots the Rock within, and leads the sight
To scenes for ever fair, and skies for ever bright.

'Twas such an eve, when he, who woke the lyre
To chant the woes of Zion, hither strayed,
And, as he mused beneath the broad oak's shade,
The spirit, that was wont his strain t'inspire,
Touched him, and fanned again the dying flame,
While Zion caught his ear, with magic of her name!

He looked-where, gilded by the setting rays,
Rose the proud dome o'ershadowing Peter's shrine;
He looked-where lay the broad Capitoline,
Shrouding its mass of ruins from his gaze-

Then, with desire Rome knew not to supply,

Fixed on Heav'n's golden gleams the rapture of his eye.

The world hath ceased to allure-he sees no more

Its thousand hues of glory and of guilt-

Thoughts of His love, whose blood for Man was spilt,
Rush on his soul, and bid it upward soar,

While, 'mid the tints that bathe yon gorgeous West,
Faith views the shining towers of Zion blest.

He sees a City, lit with living light,

Whose streets with jaspers burn and glowing gold,
While gates of adamant their leaves unfold,

To welcome pilgrims, clad in robes of white-
-O how unlike the Zion of his song!

Fain would he leave the Earth, and mix the crowds among.

One step have I advanced, and longing stand
Here on the threshold of the Eternal Hill,

Bid me not back on Earth to wander still,
Whose joys are bitterness, whose gold is sand-
O let me weave with these their heav'n-born lay!'
He sang, and as he sang, he breathed his soul away.