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Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not!-no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread
Still tend their garden-bower,

Still commune with the holy dead

In each lone hour!

The holy dead!-oh! bless'd we are,

That we may call them so,

And to their image look afar,

Through all our woe!

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,

That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our souls is given,

If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!

HE WALK'D WITH GOD.*
(Genesis v. 24.)

He walk'd with God, in holy joy,
While yet his days were few;
The deep glad spirit of the boy

To love and reverence grew.
Whether, each nightly star to count,
The ancient hills he trode,

Or sought the flowers by stream and fount-
Alike he walk'd with God.

The graver noon of manhood came,

The full of cares and fears;

One voice was in his heart-the same

It heard through childhood's years.

"These two little pieces," (He walked with God,' and 'The Rod of Aaron,') says the author in one of her letters, "are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on Scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." The two following are subjoined, as having been (probably) intended to forin a part of the same series.

THE ROD OF AARON.-THE VOICE OF GOD.

Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,

O'er his green pasture-sod,

A shepherd king on eastern plains-
The patriarch walk'd with God.
And calmly, brightly, that pure life
Melted from earth away;

No cloud it knew, no parting strife,
No sorrowful decay;

He bow'd him not, like all beside,
Unto the spoiler's rod,

But join'd at once the glorified,
Where angels walk with God!

So let us walk!-the night must come
To us that comes to all;

We through the darkness must go home,
Hearing the trumpet's call.
Closed is the path for evermore,
Which without death he trod;
Not so that way, wherein of yore
His footsteps walk'd with God!

THE ROD OF AARON.
(Numbers xvii. 8.)

WAS it the sigh of the southern gale
That flush'd the almond bough
Brightest and first the young Spring to hail,
Still its red blossoms glow.

Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers

With a kindling look of love?

Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers,
That smile of heaven can rove!

No! from the breeze and the living light
Shut was the sapless rod;

But it felt in the stillness a secret might,
And thrill'd to the breath of God.

E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air,
O'er our glad spirits move;

And all such things as are good and fair,
Be the blossoms, its track that prove!

231

THE VOICE OF GOD.

"I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.' —Gen. iii 10. AMIDST the thrilling leaves, thy voice

At evening's fall drew near;

Father! and did not man rejoice
That blessed sound to hear?
Did not his heart-within him burn,
Touch'd by the solemn tone?
Not so!-for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.

Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower
His spirit shook with dread,
And call'd the cedars, in that hour,

To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow,
Each whisper of the shade,

Grant me, my God, thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

"And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.

"And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink?

"And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."-Exodus, xv. 23-25.

WHERE is the tree the prophet threw

Into the bitter wave

Left it no scion where it grew,
The thirsting soul to save?
Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?

Is there no distant eastern bower
With such sweet leaves o'erspread?

Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours
Which yet may well imbue

Earth's many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven's own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of griet
Let faith's deep spirit be!

And every prayer shall win a leaf

From that bless'd healing tree!

THE PENITENT'S OFFERING.

(St. Luke, vii. 37, 38.)

THOU that with pallid cheek,

And eyes in sadness meek,

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.

And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,
From thy long wanderings won,

Before the all-healing Son,

Did'st bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found!
When thou would'st bathe his feet
With odors richly sweet,

And many a shower of woman's burning tear,
And dry them with that hair,
Brought low the dust to wear,

From the crown'd beauty of its festal year.
Did he reject thee then,

While the sharp scorn of men

On thy once bright and stately head was cast?
No, from the Saviour's mien,

A solemn light serene,

Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.

For thee, their smiles no more

Familiar faces wore ;

Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone;
Who raised thee up, and bound

Thy silent spirit's wound?

He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!

But which oh, erring child!
From home so long beguiled,

Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven,
That o'er the bruised reed,

Condemn'd of earth to bleed,

In music pass'd, " Thy sins are all forgiven?"
Was it that perfume fraught
With balm and incense brought,

From the sweet woods of Araby the bless'd?
Or that fast flowing rain,

Of tears, which, not in vain

To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd?
No, not by these restored

Unto thy Father's board,

Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made;
But costlier in his eyes,

By that bless'd sacrifice,

Thy heart, thy full-deep heart, before Him laid.

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THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN,

ON CHANTRY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.

THE monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs. Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble

which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires, and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought from any previous experience that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping: "But something lies,

Too deep and still on those soft sealed eyes."

It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep, that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this and the loveliness of the children. the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened, their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled, all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows:

Sacred to the Memory of

ELLEN JANE and MARIANNE, only children

Of the late Rev. WILLIAM ROBINSON, and ELLEN JANE, his wife,
Their affectionate Mother,

In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence,
Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary,

In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance,
That" of such is the Kingdom of God." *

FAIR images of sleep,

Hallow'd, and soft, and deep,

On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,

Like moonlight on shut bells

Of flowers, in mossy dells,

A. N

Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies!

How many hearts have felt *Your silent beauty melt

Their strength to gushing tenderness away!

How many sudden tears,

From depths of buried years

All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway!

How many eyes will shed

Still, o'er your marble bed,

Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrung-
While hope hath blights to bear,

While love breathes mortal air,

While roses perish ere to glory sprung!

Yet from a voiceless home,

If some sad mother come,

From the Offering, an American annual.

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