O, let us seize on what is stable,
And not on what is shifting! All
Rushes down life's vast waterfall,
On to that sea interminable

Which has no shore. Earth's pleasures pall,
But heaven is safe, and sacred too.
I told thee so,-I told thee so,—
And, O my soul, the tale was true!

FRANCISCO DI VELASCO, Trans. by BowRING.

"Life, how Fair!"

AT morning I stood on the mountain's brow,

In its May-wreath crowned, and there
Saw day-rise in gold and in purple glow,
And I cried,-"O Life, how fair!"

As the birds in the bowers their lay began,
When the dawning time was nigh,

So wakened for song in the breast of man
A passion heroic and high.

My spirit then felt the longing to soar
From home afar in its flight,

To roam, like the sun, still from shore to shore,
A creator of flowers and light.

At even I stood on the mountain's brow,
And, rapt in devotion and prayer,
Saw night-rise in silver and purple glow,

And I cried,—"O death, how fair!"

And when that the soft evening wind, so meek,
With its balmy breathing came,

It seemed as though Nature then kissed
And tenderly sighed my name!

my

cheek

I saw the vast Heaven encompassing all,
Like children the stars to her came;
The exploits of man then seemed to me small,-
Nought great save the Infinite's name.

Ah! how unheeded all charms which invest
The joys and the hopes that men prize,
While the eternal thoughts in the poet's breast,
Like stars in the heavens, arise!

ERIC SJORGEN, Trans. Anon.

On the Beath of her Brother, Francis the First.

"T IS done! a father, mother, gone,
'T
A sister, brother, torn away,

My hope is now in God alone,

Whom heaven and earth alike obey.
Above, beneath, to him is known,—
.The world's wide compass is his own.
I love, but in the world no more,
Nor in gay hall, or festal bower;
Not the fair forms I prized before,-
But Him, all beauty, wisdom, power,

My Saviour, who has cast a chain
On sin and ill, and woe and pain!

I from my memory have effaced

All former joys, all kindred, friends; All honors that my station graced

I hold but snares that fortune sends: Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast, That we may be his own at last!

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, Trans. by COSTELLO.

O, how Blest are ye whose Toils are

0,

Ended!

HOW blest are ye whose toils are ended! Who, through death, have unto God ascended!

Ye have arisen

From the cares which keep us still in prison.

We are still as in a dungeon living,

Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving;
Our undertakings

Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.

Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping,
Quiet, and set free from all our weeping;
No cross nor trial

Hinders your enjoyments with denial.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ever;
Ye have that for which we still endeavour.
To you are chanted

Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.

Q

Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness?

Who here would languish

Longer in bewailing and in anguish ?

Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us!
Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us!
With thee, the Anointed,

Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.
SIMON DACH, Trans. by HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

On my Front E shew my Mighty Maker's Seal.

BORN unto God in Christ—in Christ, my all!

What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather

Than forfeit that blest name, by which we call

The Holy One, the Almighty God, our Father! The heir of heaven, henceforth I dread not death: In Christ I live, in Christ I draw the breath Of the true life. Let sea, and earth, and sky, Wage war against me; on my front I shew Their mighty Maker's seal! In vain they try

To end my life, who can but end its woe. Is that a death-bed where the Christian lies? Yes! but not his: 'tis death itself that dies! S. T. COLERIDGE.

Thou, who art the Source and
Spring.

TO love, where love is shewn to me,
With smile a smile to greet-

Where tempers, tastes, and thoughts agree,
In friendship's bonds to meet-

To light at others' torch the flame,
And burn, one common fire-
To list the chord, and strike the same
On a responsive wire-

This were not hard, 'twere but to own
The force of Nature's might,
Who ever wakes a kindred tone,
Where harmonies unite.

But for the living torch to burn,
Tho' all around be chill-
Where kindly acts meet no return,
To feed love's fervours still-

To keep the heart in tune, despite
A war of jarring sounds-
Still to preserve the affections right,
And love, where hate abounds—

This, this is hard, for nature spurns
To render good for ill,

And hot the angry spirit burns,

Harsh rules the ungoverned will.