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That ow still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of ligat, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to cach ho.y star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, In the earth's garden-'midst the mountains old,

And the low thrillings of the forest shade,

And the wild sounds of waters uncontroll'd, And upon many a desert plain and shoreNo solitude-for there I felt thee more: I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd cye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings
spread,

To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart-if I have kept it free
And pure-a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power-if thou hast made Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,

And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home: I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song, hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer-for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved-that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,

Tinges and glorifies all earthly things
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine: I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken,

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed; That passing storms have only fann'd the fire, Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day;
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows
pale,

I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing even→→

IN the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,
With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone :-she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer-the tearful
prayer

Of woman's quenchiess, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear!
Look on the inmost heart to be reveal'd,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!

Hear, Father! hear and aid!

If I have loved too well, if I have shed,
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid.
If I have sought to live

But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,

Thou that art Love! oh! pity and forgive!

Chasten'd and school'd at last,

No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns-
What have I said ?-the deep dream is not past!
Yet hear! if still I love,

Oh! still too fondly-if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father! throned above!
If still a voice is near,

(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear.

SCENE- Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.

D'AUBIGNE, an aged Royalist-BLANCHE, his
Daughter, a young girl.
Blanche. What was our doom, my father?-In
thine arms

I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.

The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her letters from France, gave rise to this little scene These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice.

Blanche.

Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire ?-Will the old hamlet spire And the gray turret of our own château, Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms? Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes, Welcome us back at last ?-But how is this?Father! thy glance is clouded-on thy brow There sits no joy!

D'Aubigné. Upon my brow, dear girl, There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian, who receives And recognizes, in submissive awe, The summons of his God.

Oh! swiftly now,

And suddenly, with brief dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke.-But of that hour
As yet I know not.-Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!

Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand

On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness, Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, Ere we are call'd.

D'Aubigné. If I may speak through tears!Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently, Child of my heart!-thou who dost look on me With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love! Thou that hast been a brightness in my path, A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul, stainless lily in my widow'd house, There springing up-with soft light round thee

Father!

arms

clasp

thine

Who hath not panted as a dove, to flce,
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil,
The burden'd air?-Our God upon the cross-
Our king upon the scaffold*-let us think

A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and nearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamenttations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him: 'My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross-your king upon the scaffold--and he

shed

For immortality!-Meek child of God!

I bless thee-He will bless thee!-In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast.-And thou wilt die!
As thou hast lived-my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche, (rising.)

Now is there strength Infused through all my spirit.-I can rise And say, "Thy will be done."

D'Aubigné, (pointing upwards.) See'st thou, my child,

Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating! Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy Fear or wavering Faith
Silenced the strain ?-No! let it waft to Heaven
The prayer, the hope of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more!-And we will sleep-
Yes-calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
[They sing togetner

PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN.
`We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies:

who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him Meet your fate as becomes a man.'

How every colour'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;

Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.

We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All Just!

And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild evil days,
The red sword in th' oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last-
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-
We trust thee!-As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.

We know thou reign'st!-All Holy One, All Just! And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer-and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on-
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment-

And by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woes-
We know that Thou mayst wound, mayst
break

The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!

Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, In our deep meed to Thee we turn! J'o whom but Thee?-All Merciful, all Just! In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust.