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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, lest 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

Did he reject thee then,

While the sharp scorn of men

year.

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.

WOMAN AND FAME.

Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest,
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,

Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
If then the dove-like tone

Of those faint murmurs gone,

O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,

And brow and bosom fair,

And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn ;
O gentle forms, entwined

Like tendrils, which the wind

May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound

A still small voice-a sound

Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
By all the pure meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,

By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die'
O'er her worn spirit shed,

O fairest, holiest dead!

The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!

WOMAN AND FAME.

THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me-a woman-bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine
Into so proud a wreath;

For that resplendent gift of thine,

Heroes have smiled in death:

Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat

As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:

But mine, let mine-a woman's breast,
By words of home-born love be bless'd

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thine eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy-

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For kindly looks to cheer it on,

For tender accents that are gone.

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the drooping recd,

The cool fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need:

Where must the lone one turn or flee ?-
Not unto thee-oh! not to thee!

A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.

DREAMER! and would'st thou know If love goes with us to the viewless bourne ? Would'st thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source of woe In thy heart's lonely urn?

What hath it been to thee,

That power, the dweller of thy secret breast?
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea,
Finding no place of rest:

A precious odor cast

On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by:
A voice of music utter'd to the blast,
And winning no reply.

Even were such answer thine

Would'st thou be bless'd ?-too sleepless, too profound,
Are the soul's hidden springs; there is no line
Their depth of love to sound.

Do not words faint and fail

When thou would'st fill them with that ocean's power?
As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale
In some o'erwhelming hour.

Doth not thy frail form sink

Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot,
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link
Where thy beloved are not?

Is not thy very soul

Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed,
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control,
Bows down thy weary head?

And would'st thou bear all this-
The burden and the shadow of thy life-
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss
With earthly feelings' strife?

Not thus, not thus-oh, no!

Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care,

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

That spirit of my soul should with me go

To breathe celestial air.

But as the skylark springs

To its own sphere, where night afar is driven,
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings,
So must love mount to heaven!

Vainly it shall not strive

There on weak words to pour a stream of fire;
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give,
As light might wake a lyre.

And oh its blessings there

Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear head,
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear,
A joy of sunlight shed.

Let me, then-let me dream

That love goes with us to the shore unknown;
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam
In mercy shall be thrown!

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

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"Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” Childe Harold

WHENCE is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
How canst thou wake by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death!

How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by-..
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?

Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!

What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring?
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by thee!
Vain are those tears!-vain and fruitless all-
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our losom-cells
Something that finds not its answer here-
A chain to be clasp'd in another sphere.

Therefore a current of sadness deep,

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Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky-
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high

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