E'en, for the marriage altar crown'd,
The lover quits his bride.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!-

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

EVENING PRAYER,

AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

"Now in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee."
BERNARD BARTON.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.

Gaze on

-'tis lovely! Childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought! Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,

Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,

And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things. Therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,

On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-Oh! happy to have given
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto heaven.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

"Il est dans la Nature d'aimer à se livrer à l'idée même qu'on redoute." CORINNE.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour

Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee!

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?—
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
O void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,

And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are,

When from its height afar