When the Chief Shepherd shall appear,
He shall appear in glory, too;

And of his charge, watched over here,
Show thousands, brought in safety through.

AN EARLY DEATH.

Death

The portal, opening into Paradise;

Where grace, that in the bud was here below,
Into the flower of glory straight shall blow.

Francis Taylor; 1658.

We may to our companion go,

And strive to lessen anguish thus, While softened sorrows freely flow But he will ne'er return to us.

We may, recalling all the charms,

And solid worth, that made him dear, Fold round his form affection's arms, And seem to hold the spirit here.

But no

that spirit is away;

We only clasp insensate dust;

That soars in uncreated day,

This waits the rising of the just.

Here, now, at brief corruption's claim,
How slumbers this without a care;
"On wheels of light, on wings of flame,"
How that, for aye, expatiates there!

And can it be, the cheek of bloom,

Which spake of bliss, and days, and health, Is pillowed in the darksome tomb,

To glut the worm's insatiate wealth?

And can it be, that eye of light

Which flashed out boyhood's hope, is dim? And shades of everlasting night

Have lowered, and settled down on him?

And can it be, that dulcet voice,

Which captive held Refinement's throng, And wakened tears, and bade rejoice, Reveals no more the soul of song?

We fondly ask, if all that gave

To parents, friends, associates, joy,
Can sink to an untimely grave?
Can such, Decay indeed destroy?

We ask, dear youth! and from the sod
Which covers all that late was fair,
Turn to the dwelling-place of God,

Thy home, and find an answer there.

THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

I GAZED Upon the mountain's top,
That pierced in twain the passing cloud,
And wondered at its giant form,

So dark, magnificent, and proud.

Can this strong mountain from its base
Be shaken by the tempest's shock?
Can all the gathered thunders, stir
This everlasting, solid rock, -

And scatter forth its dust, like hail
And fling its fragments on the air?
Can aught, created, wield such strength?
Exists such power? - Oh, tell me where?

They may remove, these mountains may
Tremble, and hence for ever pass;

These hills, that pillar up the skies,
Perish, as doth the new-mown grass.

Yea, saith the Lord, they shall depart—
The hills, and all the solid land;
But my sure word of truth remains,
My promise shall for ever stand.
July 27, 1839.

THE LEGACY.

The following is the closing paragraph of Patrick Henry's will: "I have now disposed of all my property to my family; there is one thing more I wish I could give them, and that is the Christian religion. If they had this, and I had not given them one shilling, they would be rich; and if they had not this, and I had given them all the world, they would be poor."

HE willed them lands, and tenements, and gold,-
All that he had by care and caution won,
To those his kinsmen, to enjoy and hold,

Till their predestined course, like his, was run; And each to others should the same devise, Leaving for self the legend, "Here he lies."

All that he had, save one unpurchased gem,
Which, never loaned nor bought, could not be sold
Nor willed away. Yet, though the diadem

Of God were blank without it, 'tis not bold
To say that waters, which the free winds kiss,
Are not more plentiful and free than this.

All that he had, save that, the lord of which,
Ragged and starved, by kings may envied be;
While he without it, though as Croesus rich,
Is but the veriest heir of poverty;

And sad inheritor, than penury, worse,
Of the undying worm-eternity's true curse.

All that he had - My God! what were it all, What the broad universe thou fashionedst well, To that, which, hell possessing, hell we'd call

Heaven; without which, heaven would be a hell? Nothing! and infinitely less than nought,Without the treasure worlds have never bought.

He could devise lands, tenements, and gold,-
All that he had by toil and talents won,-
To those, his kinsmen, to enjoy and hold,
Till their last sand of life was also run;
He could enrich them with earth's shining dust,
And glut, to loathing, avaricious lust;

He could not give them the immortal gem,
For which a man were wise to sell his soul;
Which burns and flashes in God's diadem.

This was beyond the orator's control;—
Beyond, of wit and eloquence, the power,
To loan, or to retain a single hour.

Yet they may have it; - thou mayst have it ;- I
May gather this into my hidden place;
Not to gloat o'er it, with delighted eye,

And see it lessen;-but, with added grace,
To mark its glories, sparkling, blazing far,
Ineffably serene, a bright and blessed Star.