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Written after seeing among a collection of beautiful paintings,copies from the old masters, recently sent to New York from Italy, one representing the daughter of Herodias, bearing the head of John the Baptist in a charger, and wearing upon her countenance an expression, not of triumph, as one might suppose, but rather of soft and sorrowful remorse, as she looks upon the calm and beautiful features of her victim,-by a name unknown to us, LUCY HOOPER. They appeared in a New York paper.

MOTHER! I bring thy gift:

Take from my hand the dreadful boon, I pray. Take it the still pale sorrow of the face

Hath left upon my soul its living trace,

Never to pass away

Since from these lips one word of idle breath
Blanch'd that calm face,-O mother, this is death!

What is it that I see

From all the pure and settled features gleaming? Reproach! Reproach! My dreams are strange and wild ; Mother! hadst thou no pity on thy child? Lo! a celestial smile seems softly beaming On the hush'd lips,-my mother, canst thou brook Longer upon thy victim's face to look ?

Alas! as yestermorn

My heart was light, and to the viol's sound

I gaily danced, while crown'd with summer flowers,
And swiftly by me sped the flying hours;

And all was joy around

thee nay


Not death. O mother! could I say
Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away.

Take it! my heart is sad;

And the pure forehead hath an icy chill,I dare not touch it, for avenging heaven Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given,

And the pale face appals me, cold and still With the closed lips. Oh tell me, could I know That the pale features of the dead were so?

I may not turn away

From the charm'd brow; and I have heard his name Even as a prophet by his people spoken,

And that high brow in death bears seal and token

Of One whose words were flame

Oh! Holy Teacher! couldst thou rise and live,
Would not these hush'd lips whisper "I forgive?"

Away with lute and harp,

With the glad heart for ever, and the dance;
Never again shall tabret sound for me.
O fearful Mother! I have brought to thee

The silent dead with his rebuking glance,
And the crush'd heart of one to whom is given,
Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven.


These fine descriptive stanzas were taken from one of the Magazines, a few months since.

FLING back the orient gates! behold awaking

Aurora beautiful from tranced sleep.

While with crystalline fingers she is shaking

Morn from her dewy hair, the young hours keep
Watch o'er her car, and round its pathway sweep

Roses, far scattering onward as they flee

Light-rays, flash'd forth like foam from the blue deep; Downward they wheel in dance and revelry,

Waking on earth's grey hills the choirs of melody.

Her eyes are flashing glories! round her head
Iris her diadem ethereal flings;

Her bow, o'er which the sun's rich rays are shed,
Who with all radiant eyes the treasure brings
For his immortal daughter; forth she springs-
Her car is loosed, her banner is unfurl'd,

Life wakes from death like sleep, time plumes his wings, Night's shadows backward to their caves are hurl'd, Behold! great day is born, and walks along the world.


Translated from the German of UHLAND, by Mr. R. M. MILNES, M.P. It cannot fail to please all wholesome tastes. There is a charming simplicity of expression, not altogether lost in the translation, although so difficult to be preserved; and the simplicity and naturalness (the coining of a required word must be excused) of the thoughts will be recognised by every reader.

A POOR man, poorer none, am I,
And walk the world alone,
Yet do I call a spirit free

And cheerful heart my own.

A gleesome child I play'd about
My dear, dear parents' hearth,
But grief has fallen upon my path
Since they are laid in earth.

I see rich gardens round me bloom,
I see the golden grain;

My path is bare and barren all,
And trod with toil and pain.

And yet, though sick at heart, I'll stand
Where happy faces throng,
And wish good-morrow heartily
To all that pass along.

O bounteous God, Thou leavest me not
To comfortless despair;

There comes a gentle balm from heaven
For every child of care.

Still in each dell thy sacred house
Points mutely to the sky,

The organ and the choral song
Arrest each passer by.

Still shine the sun, the moon, the stars,

With blessing even on me,

And when the evening bell rings out,
Then, Lord, I speak with Thee.

One day shall to the good disclose
Thy halls of joy and rest:
Then in my wedding robes even I
Shall seat me as thy guest.


We cut from a newspaper, where it is stated to be from an unknown hand, the following beautiful poem. Surely it must be the composition of some practised writer.

WHEN is the time for prayer?

With the first beams that light the morning sky,
Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare,
Lift up thy thoughts on high;

Commend thy loved ones to His watchful care!—
Morn is the time for prayer!

And in the noontide hour,

If worn by toil or by sad cares opprest,
Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour,
And He will give thee rest :-

Thy voice shall reach Him through the fields of air :-
Noon is the time for prayer!

When the bright sun hath set,—

Whilst yet eve's glowing colours deck the skies ;-
When with the loved, at home, again thou'st met,
Then let thy prayer arise

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For those who in thy joys and sorrows share :-
Eve is the time for prayer!

And when the stars come forth,

When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given,
And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth

To pure bright dreams of heaven,

Kneel to thy God-ask strength, life's ills to bear :—
Night is the time for prayer!

When is the time for prayer?

In every hour, while life is spared to thee-
In crowds or solitude-in joy or care-

Thy thoughts should heavenward flee.

At home-at morn and eve-with loved ones there,
Bend thou the knee in prayer!


The following pretty Sonnet is taken from Tait's Magazine.
Oh listen, ladies, and I'll tell you brief,

A touching tale, and true as history.

The Wind and Leaf held dalliance-" Gentle leaf,"
Began the wind, "awake and fly with me!
For thee I pass'd the beds where roses are;

And though their whispers fragrant woo'd my stay
And every little bud shone like a star,

I thought on thee-arise and come away!
Thy sisters dark are sleeping in the dew,

I would not rouse their coldness with a sigh;
But thou the beautiful, and I the true,

Were meant for common passion-let us fly."

The leaf complied, and ere a day was done,
Was flung aside-a thing to tread upon.



THE cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright isles,
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles!
That wandering shrine of soft, yet icy flame,
Which ever is transform'd, yet still the same,
And warms, but not illumines.



THE place that does

Contain my books-the best companions-is

To me a glorious court, where hourly I

Converse with the old sages and philosophers;

And sometimes, for variety, I confer

With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels, Calling their victories, if unjustly got,

Unto a strict account; and, in my fancy,

Deface their ill-placed statues.


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