"LOOK ON THIS PICTURE."

O, IT is life! departed days

Fling back their brightness while I gaze'Tis Emma's self- this brow so fair,

Half curtained in this glossy hair,
These eyes, the very home of love,
The dark twin arches traced above,
These red-ripe lips that almost speak,
The fainter blush of this pure cheek,
The rose and lily's beauteous strife-
It is - ah no! 'tis all but life.

'Tis all but life

art could not save

Thy graces, Emma, from the grave;
Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past,
Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last;
Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid,

All we adored of thee is hid;

Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell,

Is throbless in the narrow cell;

Thy gentle voice shall charm no more;

Its last, last, joyful note is o'er.

Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung,
The requiem of the fair and young;

The theme is old, alas! how old,
Of grief that will not be controlled,
Of sighs that speak a father's woe,
Of
pangs that none but mothers know,
Of friendship with its bursting heart,
Doomed from the idol-one to part —
Still its sad debt must feeling pay,
Till feeling, too, shall pass away.

O say, why age, and grief, and pain,
Shall long to go, but long in vain;
Why vice is left to mock at time,

And

gray in years, grow gray in crime;
While youth, that every eye makes glad,
And beauty, all in radiance clad,
And goodness, cheering every heart,
Come, but come only to depart;
Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day,
Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away.

'Tis darkness all! black banners wave
Round the cold borders of the grave;
There when in agony we bend
O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend,
One only comfort then we know
We, too, shall quit this world of woe;
We, too, shall find a quiet place
With the dear lost ones of our race;
Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend,
And life's sad story find an end.

Beams no glad light beyond the tomb?
Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride;
They do not quench the orb they hide;
Still there it wheels- the tempest o'er,
In a bright sky to burn once more;
So, far above the clouds of time,
Faith can behold a world sublime -
There, when the storms of life are past,
The light beyond shall break at last.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

Addressed to two Swallows that flew into Chauncy Place church during divine

service.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep.
Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

In

And join the choirs that sing

yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay,

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

"Twere Heaven indeed

Through fields of trackless light to soar, On Nature's charms to feed,

And Nature's own great God adore.