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And then they sleep. Oh, peaceful cradle-sleep!
Oh, childhood's hallowed prayer ! religion deep

Of love, not fear, in happiness expressed !
So the young bird, when done its twilight lay
Of praise, folds peacefully at shut of day
Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest.
Pray thou for all who living tread

Upon this earth of graves;
For all whose weary pathways lead

Among the winds and waves ;
For him who madly takes delight
In pomp of silken mantle bright,

Or swiftness of a horse;
For those who, labouring, suffer still;
Coming or going-doing ill-

Or on their heavenward course.
Pray thou for him who nightly sins

Until the day dawns bright-
Who at eve's hour of prayer begins

His dance and banquet light;
Whose impious orgies wildly ring,
Whilst pious hearts are offering

Their prayers at twilight dim;
And who, those vespers all forgot,
Pursues his sin, and thinketh not

God also heareth him.
Child ! pray for all the poor beside ;

The prisoner in his cell,
And those who in the city wide

With crime and misery dwell ;
For the wise sage who thinks and dreams;
For him who impiously blasphemes

Religion's holy law.
Pray thou—for prayer is infinite-
Thy faith may give the scorner light,
Thy prayer forgiveness draw.

From the French of Victor Hugo.

“ UWrite Soon.”
Long parting from the hearts we love

Will shadow o'er the brightest face;
And happy they who part and prove

Affection changes not with place.
A sad farewell is warmly dear,

But something dearer may be found
To dwell on lips that are sincere,

And lurk in bosoms closely bound.
The pressing hand, the stedfast eye,

Are both less earnest than the boon
Which, fervently, the last fond sigh

Begs in the hopeful words, “Write soon!”
“Write soon !” oh, sweet request of Truth !

How tenderly its accents come !
We heard it first in early youth,

When mothers watched us leaving home;
And still amid the trumpet-joys,

That weary us with pomp and show,
We turn from all this brassy noise

To hear this minore cadence flow.

We part, but carry on our way

Some loved one's plaintive spirit tune,
That, as we wander, seems to say,
Affection lives on Faith, -“Write soon !"

Eliza Cook,

Wrongs in themselves are feeble weeds,

And yet how fast they grow !
For slaves make tyrants, and the seeds

Of all that tyrants sow.-E. Elliott. - Wrong is twice wrong against those who never wronged us.--Shakespere.

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What is Youth? The crimson blush
On beauty's cheek-the rich wild gush
Of the gay lark—the violet's bloom
That clusters fondly round the tomb-
The buoyant footstep of a fay-
The noontide glory of the day-

A hopeful thought with joy express’d-
The sparkling wave on ocean's breast-
The church-bells' merry wedding peal,
As o'er the ear they gently steal-
All that is glad, and gay, and free,

Is in Youth's hour of revelry.

It is a fleeting vision, it is a noonday dreamAll, all a bright, a glowing, but evanescent beam ; A fitful hour of pleasure, array'd in fairest dress; A little soft green oasis in life's wilderness; A brimful cup of joy, we scarce can call our own, When age's cares will mingle, and all its thrill has flown.

Youth and age.

Days of my youth! ye have glided away ;
Hairs of my youth ! ye are frosted and grey ;
Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth ! ye are furrow'd all o'er ;

Strength of my youth ! all your vigour is gone;
Thoughts of my youth ! your gay visions are flown.

Days of my youth ! I wish not your recall ;
Hairs of my youth ! I'm content you should fall;
Eyes of my youth! ye much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth ! bathed in tears you have been
Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth ! why lament your decay ?
Days of my age ! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age ! yet awhile can ye last;
Joys of my age ! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age ! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age ! dread not the cold sod ;
Hopes of my age ! be ye fix'd on your God!

Hon. G. Tucker.


A point at which reputation often stumbles.

That abode, which gaining—we gain all ;
Losing—we lose all.
To light us safely there, we have one lamp,
To lead us rightly-one guide,
To reach it there is—one way,
To enter it there is one door :
The Bible is the lamp, Faith the true guide,
Jesus the living way–Jesus the open door.--C. L. B.

The Sunbeam.
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall :
A joy thou art, and a wealth to us all-
A bearer of hope unto land and sea :
Sunbeam ! what gift has the world like thee?


Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles :
Thou hast touch'd with thy glory his thousand isles !
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades :
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I look'd on the mountains—a vapour lay,
Folding their heights in its dark array :
Thou brokest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot :
But a gleam of thine on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp, to shed
A tender light on the ruin's head.
Through the dim church-aisle thou takest thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day ;
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where flowers to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatter'st its glooms like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness ! joy of the sea !
One thing is like thee,—to mortals 'tis given,-
The Faith, touching all things with bright hues of heaven!

J. & W. RIDER, Printers, 14, Bartholomew Close.

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