Pleasure, Bewitching Syren! BEWITCHING syren! golden rottenness! Thou hast with cunning artifice displayed Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets. Canst thou, then, dream those powers that from heaven Banished the effect, will there enthrone the cause? To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence; There dwell, for ever drowned in brutish sense. THOMAS CAREW. FEAR Peace! be Still. EAR was within the tossing bark, And waves came rolling high and dark, And men stood breathless in their dread, But One was there, who rose and said And the wind ceased-it ceased-that word And slumber settled on the deep, As when the righteous fall asleep, Thou, that didst rule the angry hour, Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride, Thy mandates to fulfil, So speak to passion's raging tide, Speak and say,-" Peace, be still!" FELICIA HEMANS. Prayer for an Absent Husband. FATHER in heaven! Behold, he whom I love is daily treading He long hath striven Oh, thou most kind! break not the golden bowl. Father in heaven! Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted, Down to the deep abyss of dark despair. Father in heaven! Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessingLet peace and rest descend upon his head, That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing, May not be riven— Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed. Father in heaven! Oh, may his heart be stayed on thee! each feeling Still lifted up in gratitude and love; And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing To him be given, Till he shall praise thy name in realms above. M. ST. LEON LOUD. Raising of Jairus' Daughter. THEY have watched her last and quivering breath, And the maiden's soul has flown; They have wrapt her in the robes of death, And laid her dark and alone. But the mother casts a look behind, Nay, start not,-'twas the gathering wind; And tremble not at that cheek of snow, Didst thou not close that expiring eye, She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed, And heeds not thy gentle tread, And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed, Which dies on its snowy bed. The mother has flown from that lonely room, Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb, Her mother strays with folded arms, She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms; But listen! what name salutes her ear? He leads the way to that cold white couch, Can his be less than a heavy touch? And the fresh blood comes with a roseate hue, Her form is raised, and her step is true, GEORGE W. DOANE. Religion, thou the Soul of Happiness. E'en in this night of frailty, change, and death, |