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DULL November claims his reign
Over nature's wide domain,

Bids his chilly blasts arise,

Bids his clouds obscure the skies,
And the plain, and hill, and dale,
Covers with his misty veil.

Hast thou glitt'ring heaps of wealth?
Cheeks that bloom in roseate health ?.
Dost thou look with eager eye
On the world's gay pageantry,
Hoping from the gaudy show
Highest bliss that mortals know?
As at morn our dreams appear
Trifles to our hope and fear,
So we all shall look upon

Brightest scenes of pleasure gone.
Blooming cheeks that health bestows,

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"And the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth."-Gen. vii. 17.

WHEN the old world, in faithful Noah's day,
Beheld the mighty God of vengeance rise,

While Mercy, lingering o'er her last delay,
Slowly retiring, sought her native skies;


When they beheld, upon the gathering storm,
Stern Justice riding, awful and severe;
Whose heralds loud portentous thunders form,
While vivid lightnings mark his presence near;

When they beheld him loose each raging wind,
Break up the bound'ries of old ocean's rage,
The fountains of eternal wrath unbind,

And bid them all their dreadful warfare wage;

Then to the sinking earth they fondly clung,

E'en till it fail'd beneath their weary feet:
On the high hills their short-liv'd hopes they hung,
The tow'ring mountains form'd their last retreat.

But see, those waves that drown a guilty race,
Bound in obedience by Jehovah's word,
Fulfil the high behests of sov'reign grace,
And safely bear the vessel of the Lord:

So, when the waters of affliction roll,

When creature-comforts die, when troubles roar,
From prop to prop retires the earth-born soul,
Till, drench'd with woe, it sinks to rise no more.

Not so the christian ;-lodg'd within the ark,
The ark, Christ Jesus, safe from all alarm,
On sorrow's waves he rises, in that bark,
Borne on his way by every seeming harm.

Ascending still, as still the ocean swells,

He keeps advancing nearer to the skies:
His heart is fix'd where God his Saviour dwells,
And faith receives from him, its full supplies.

His ark shall land him on no earthly hill,
"Twill bear him safe to the celestial shore;
Pleasures eternal there his soul shall fill,

And fear and danger shall be known no more.

Shall we then seek from suff'ring to be free?—
We bless thy choice, whate'er that choice shall prove,

If it may bring us nearer, Lord, to thee,

Waft us from earth, and bear our souls above.



The following little Poem is from the collection of Poems by Miss Lucretia M. Davidson, lately published in New York, with a biographical Memoir by Mr. Morse, the artist: The Poem was written in the sixteenth year of this young lady, and the last of her life.

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,

I have walk'd the wild winds in the morning's broad light,

I have paus'd o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I cull'd the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high,
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,

I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity- I stay not to save.

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there;
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play ;
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.

The clear stream rolled gladly and bounded along,
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,
And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove.

I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;

O'er the stream which roll'd deeply 'twas recklessly hung,
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,

O'er the newly raised turf, and the rudely carved stone.



Ан tell me not of beauty's pow'r,
'Tis but a frail, a gaudy flow'r, ·
Born to be gazed at for an hour,
Then fade away, and die :
The form I love with ardency,
Is that which kindly smiles on me,
Which joys in my prosperity,
And pities when I sigh.

Ah! tell me not of sordid wealth,
Say, can it purchase life or health,
Or hinder time, with rapid stealth,

From sprinkling hoary hairs:
The friend I love must have a soul,
Far, far above its mean control,
Above the storms that round us roll,
The follies and the cares.

Ah! tell me not of high renown;
The civic and the laurel crown,
Must fude alike before the frown
Of pale unwelcome death:

Be mine the friend whose lasting bliss
Blooms in a better world than this,
Yet sheds its grateful fragrancies,
To cheer this vale beneath.

Then as we journey towards the skies,
Whither our best affections rise,
The thought of this our heav'nly prize
Shall every woe beguile ;

Nor all the clouds that round us spread,
Nor all the thorns on which we tread
Shall cause our stedfast spirits dread,

While Jesus deigns to smile.

Erratum p. 357, for September read October.

X. Y. Z.

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