Footprints whereon sweet heart-flowers blow,

By worldly storms unriven,

That we may mark them as we go,
And find our way to Heaven.

A Hundred Years.

ANNA BLACKWELL.

A HUNDRED years, and still and low

Will lie my sleeping head;

A hundred years, and grass will grow
Above my dreamless bed.

The grass will grow; the brook will run;
Life still as fresh and fair

Will spring in beauty 'neath the sun;
Where will my place be? where?

A hundred years! some briefer space
My life perchance had spann'd;
But ere they lapse my feet must pass
Within the silent land.

While on the plains, the lasting hills,
In shadow and in shine,

Still dial Time's slow chronicles;

What record will be mine?

A hundred years! O yearning heart!

O spirit true and brave!

With Doubt and Death thou hast no part,

No kindred with the grave!

For we shall last as lasts the Earth,

And live as lives the Sun;

And we shall know that Death is Birth

Ere a hundred years have run!

The Parting Spirit.

Ch, Teach Me to Love Thee.
T. MOORE.-Air, Haydn.

OH, teach me to love Thee, to feel what Thou art,

Till, fill'd with the one sacred image, my heart

Shall all other passions disown;

Like some pure temple that shines apart,

Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and sorrow, through praise and through blame, Thus still let me, living or dying the same,

In Thy service bloom and decay,

Like some lone altar, whose votive flame
In holiness wasteth away.

Though born in this desert, and doom'd by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and death,
On Thee let my spirit rely-

Like some rude dial, that fix'd on earth

Still looks for its light from the sky.

The Parting Spirit.

W. E. STAITE.-Music by W. M. Rooke.

I go to the isles

Where the golden light gleams; I go the land

Ye have pictured in dreams; I soar to the realms

Where the bright spirits dwell, Where hearts know no sorrow Farewell! oh, farewell!

The Dove's Departure.

REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

G

O, beautiful and gentle dove,

And greet the morning ray;

For lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm are pass'd away:
No longer drooping, here confined,
In this cold prison dwell;

Go, free to sunshine and to wind,

Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well.

O beautiful and gentle dove,

Thy welcome sad will be,

When thou shalt hear no voice of love
In murmurs from the leafy tree:
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison's cell:

Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,

Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well.

Winter.

Guardian Angels.

J. E. CARPENTER.

GUARDIAN angels! do we doubt them?

Night by night, and day by day,

Could we guide our steps without them,
Where would wavering fancy stray?
Every noble thought that's spoken,
Every smile, and every sigh,
Are they not a sign-a token
That some guardian angel's by?

Guardian angels, hovering o'er us,
Keep the soul, in mercy, pure;
Had we not bright hope before us,
Could we this frail world endure?
Then, be sure, that ever near us

Voices come from forms unseen,

Breathed by angels sent to cheer us-
Watching earth and heaven between!

Winter.

ROBERT BURNS.

HE wintry west extends his blast,

THE

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

93

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join :

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine.

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy Will!

Then all I want, (oh, do Thou grant

This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou must deny,
Assist me to resign.

The Slave Singing at Midnight.

L

H. W. LONGFellow.

OUD he sang the Psalm of David!

He, a negro and enslaved,

Sang of Israel's victory,

Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear,
That I could not choose but hear,

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reach'd the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast

Perish'd Pharaoh and his host.

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