But now set free; like to the enfranchised bird, Which high upsoars and fills the air with songs, Forgetting how of late the prison pressed

That love of song within his heart to pain, While with a voiceful flight he mounts to heaven, His home. Though o'er the wide earth none these sounds

May understand, they still are known to God. Ye flowerets! I will gently dream among ye; And I will give to ye a human heart,

And thus empower ye to return my love.

Sweet, even as childhood's sinless beauty, shines The glance that greets me through your trembling

tears.

Fair angels! blooming in eternal youth,
Ye ne'er survive your early loveliness,
But even in death itself are beautiful.
And yet ye do not die,-but sink to rest,
When ruthless northern tempests raging come.
Ye will not look on life when stormful; ne'er
Save when, in child-like sweetness, it disports
With Nature in the western breeze. But when
Destruction, striding o'er the fresh green fields,
Goes forth to battle with this blissful life,
Then ye close down your lovely lids in slumber,
And on your mother's beauteous breast repose,
Until, the contest done, victorious life

In light and song reveals itself once more.
Then God arouses ye again from sleep,
Sending sweet May to whisper in your ears
That spring is blooming in the vaulted heaven,
And that 't is time for you yourselves to bloom.

Ye then put off your verdant veil,—and feel
The spring-breeze spreading life upon your cheeks,
Which vie with roses planted by the Morn
Along the Garden of the East. And when
The sun shall come, your forms so bright and fair,
Will shine forth more magnificently still.
Thus I, too, shall not die;-men call it death,
When mortals soar unto the eternal Father,
Who yonder dwells upon the horizon's verge,
Where earth and heaven mingle in harmony and
joy!

ERIC SJORGEN, Trans. Anon.

THEY

Ministering Spirits.

HEY are winging, they are winging,
Through the thin blue air their way;

Unseen harps are softly ringing

Round about us, night and day.
Could we pierce the shadows o'er us,
And behold that seraph band,
Long-lost friends would bright before us
In angelic beauty stand.

Lo! the dim blue mist is sweeping
Slowly from my longing eyes,
And my heart is upward leaping
With a deep and glad surprise.
I behold them-close beside me,
Dwellers of the spirit-land;

Mists and shades alone divide me

From that glorious seraph band.

Though life never can restore me
My sad bosom's nestling dove,
Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er me
With her own sweet smile of love;
And the brother, long departed,
Who in being's summer died-
Warm, and true, and gentle-hearted-
Folds his pinions by my side.

Last called from us, loved and dearest-
Thou the faultless, tried, and true,
Of all earthly friends sincerest,
Mother-I behold thee too!
Lo! celestial light is gleaming
Round thy forehead pure and mild,
And thine eyes with love are beaming
On thy sad, heart-broken child!
Gentle sisters there are bending,
Blossoms culled from life's parterre;
And my father's voice ascending,
Floats along the charmed air.
Hark! those thrilling tones Elysian
Faint and fainter die away,
And the bright seraphic vision
Fades upon my sight for aye.

But I know they hover round me
In the morning's rosy light,

And their unseen forms surround me

All the deep and solemn night.

Yes, they're winging-yes, they're winging Through the thin blue air their way : Spirit-harps are softly ringing

Round about us night and day.

SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER.

Ministering Angels. MOTHER, has the dove that nestled Lovingly upon thy breast,

Folded up his little pinion,

And in darkness gone to rest?
Nay, the grave is dark and dreary,
But the lost one is not there;
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper,
Floating on the ambient air?
It is near thee, gentle mother,
Near thee at the evening hour;
Its soft kiss is in the zephyr,

It looks up from every flower.
And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing,
Low thou bendest thee in prayer,
And thy heart feels nearest heaven,
Then thy angel babe is there!

Maiden, has thy noble brother,
On whose manly form thine eye
Loved full oft in pride to linger,

On whose heart thou couldst rely,
Though all other hearts deceived thee,
All proved hollow, earth grew drear,
Whose protection, ever o'er thee,

Hid thee from the cold world's sneer

Has he left thee here to struggle,

All unaided on thy way?

Nay; he still can guide and guard thee,
Still thy faltering steps can stay:
Still, when danger hovers o'er thee,
He than danger is more near;
When in grief thou'st none to pity,
He, the sainted, marks each tear.

Lover, is the light extinguished
Of the gem that, in thy heart
Hidden deeply, to thy being

All its sunshine could impart?
Look above! 'tis burning brighter
Than the very stars in heaven!
And to light thy dangerous pathway,
All its new-found glory's given.
With the sons of earth commingling,
Thou the loved one mayst forget;
Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving,
May have power to win thee yet;
But e'en then that guardian spirit
Oft will whisper in thine ear,
And in silence, and at midnight,
Thou wilt know she hovers near.

Orphan, thou most sorely stricken

Of the mourners thronging earth, Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine, Sadness mingles with thy mirth. Yet, although that gentle bosom, Which has pillowed oft thy head,