THE SYNAGOGUE.

For yet the tenfold film shall fall, O Judah! from thy sight,
And every eye be purged to read thy testimonies right,
When thou, with all Messiah's signs in Christ distinctly seen,
Shalt, by Jehovah's nameless name, invoke the Nazarene.

CLOSWELL

God's-Acre.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garner'd in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloom'd on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God.

This is the place, where human harvests grow!

H. W. LONGFELLOW,

On the Death of a Young Girl.

SHE hath gone in the spring-time of life,

Ere her sky had been dimm'd by a cloud,

While her heart with the rapture of love was yet rife, And the hopes of her youth were unbow'd

From the lovely, who loved her too well;

From the heart that had grown to her own;

From the sorrow which late o'er her young spirit fell,
Like a dream of the night she hath flown;
And the earth hath received to its bosom its trust-

Ashes to ashes, and dust unto dust.

The spring, in its loveliness dress'd,

Will return with its music-wing'd hours,

And, kiss'd by the breath of the sweet south-west, The buds shall burst out in flowers;

And the flowers her grave-sod above,

Though the sleeper beneath recks it not,

Shall thickly be strown by the hand of Love,
To cover with beauty the spot-

Meet emblems are they of the pure one and bright,

Who faded and fell with so early a blight.

Ay, the spring will return-but the blossom

That bloom'd in our presence the sweetest,

By the spoiler is borne from the cherishing bosom, The loveliest of all and the fleetest!

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.

The music of stream and of bird,

Shall come back when the winter is o'er;

But the voice that was dearest to us shall be heard

In our desolate chambers no more!

The sunlight of May on the waters shall quiver-
The light of her eye hath departed for ever!

As the bird to its sheltering nest,

When the storm on the hills is abroad,

So her spirit hath flown from this world of unrest
To repose on the bosom of God!

Where the sorrows of earth never more

May fling o'er its brightness a stain;

Where, in rapture and love, it shall ever adore,

With a gladness unmingled with pain;

And its thirst shall be slaked by the waters which spring, Like a river of light, from the throne of the KING!

There is weeping on earth for the lost!

There is bowing in grief to the ground!

But rejoicing and praise 'mid the sanctified host,

For a spirit in paradise found!

Though brightness hath pass'd from the earth,

Yet a star is newborn in the sky,

And a soul hath gone home to the land of its birth,

Where are pleasures and fulness of joy!

And a new harp is strung, and a new song is given
To the breezes that float o'er the gardens of heaven!

WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.

"THOU bidst me go! Thou sayst thy God
Will guide my course, and guard my child;
But when hath human footstep trod

In safety o'er yon trackless wild?
Calm is thy brow, thine accents mild;
But were the father in thy heart,
When thus thy guiltless offspring smiled,

Thou couldst not breathe the word- Depart!"

"I had not quail'd beneath that word

Could I have wander'd forth alone;

Then, ruthless man! thou hadst not heard
One murmur'd sigh, one whisper'd moan!
I would have sought some lair unknown,
Where Ishmael had not seen me die;
Redeem'd his life-blood with my own,
And welcomed death with liberty.

"I knew that I was born a slave,

And all that I could claim of thee Was the slave's lot—the scourge—the grave; But sterner yet was Heaven's decree.

Thy Sarai bade thee fix on me

For strange espousals;-I obey'd,

For choice is only for the free ;

Then spurn'd the wretch herself had made!

ම

ABRAHAM DISMISSING HAGAR.

"But, Heaven, in mercy, gave my boy;—

Oh, then my bosom seem'd to swell With the first thrill of love-the joy Which words were all in vain to tell. Then ceased my proud heart to rebel; Then brighter scenes arose to view, Till, as I look'd on Ishmael,

I learn'd to love his father too!

"To Sarai now a child is born,

Though not a lovelier-and on me
Falls the wild storm of hate and scorn.
I did not curse the barren tree,
But I would curse her now:-May she-
Oh, no! my heart recalls the prayer,
Though 'tis her voice that speaks by thee,
To doom his death, and my despair!

"No home except the desert den

No shelter but the cold dark sky

No track, no sign, no voice of men—

No fresh cool fountain murmuring nigh

My boy! we wander forth to die.

But come! no ruth is in his heart,

No love is glistening in his eye:

He must not bid us twice, 'Depart !'