Death of the Aged.

THEY are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which the hills are dressed,
After the sun's remove.

O holy hope! and high humility!

High as the heavens that are above!

These are your walks, and you have shewed them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

OCCASIONAL.

The changing Year.

GOD of the changing year, whose arm of power
In safety leads through danger's darkest hour,
Here in thy temple bow thy creatures down,
To bless thy mercy, and thy might to own.

Thine are the beams that cheer us on our way, And pour around the gladdening light of day; Thine is the night, and the fair orbs that shine To cheer its hours of darkness, all are thine.

If round our path the thorns of sorrow grew,
And mortal friends were faithless, thou wert true;
Did sickness shake the frame, or anguish tear
The wounded spirit, thou wert present there.

O, lend thine ear, and lift our voice to thee;
Where'er we dwell, still let thy mercy be;
From year to year, still nearer to thy shrine.
Draw our frail hearts, and make them wholly thine.

E. TAYLOR.

Spring.

THE Snow-plumed angel of the north
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.

"Bear up, O mother nature!" cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
"Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee."

So in these winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear
O'erswept from memory's frozen pole,
Will sunny days appear.

The night is mother of the day,

The winter of the spring,

And ever upon old decay

The greenest mosses cling.

Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his hope for all.

WHITTIER.

Winter.

SAD soul, dear heart, O, why repine?
The melancholy tale is plain-
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers,
Have bloomed and died again.

Some buds there were

sad hearts, be still —

Which looked a while into the sky, Then breathed but once or twice to tell How sweetest things may die.

And some must blight where many bloom; But blight or bloom the fruit must fall; Why sigh for spring or summer flowers, Since winter gathers all?

Sad soul, dear heart, no more repine;

The tale is beautiful and plain;

Surely as winter taketh all,

The spring shall bring again.

T. B. READ.

New Year's.

THE more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages;
A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals, lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the falls of death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange - yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding;
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding?