talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed.

Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and, most of all, it seemed to them, upon her quiet grave; in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

Lo

SCENES OF CHILDHOOD.

ONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene,
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green
The spot where, a schoolboy, all thoughtless, I stray'd,
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade.

I thought of the friends who had roam'd with me there,
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair-
All scatter'd!-all sunder'd by mountain and wave,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave!

I thought of the green banks that circled around,
With wild flowers, and sweetbrier, and eglantine crown'd;
I thought of the river, all quiet and bright

As the face of the sky on a blue summer night.

And I thought of the trees under which we had stray'd,
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find
Of the names and the carvings impress'd on the rind.

All eager, I hasten'd the scene to behold,
Render'd sacred and dear by the feelings of old;
And I deem'd that, unalter'd, my eye should explore
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.

'Twas a dream!—not a token or trace could I view Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew: Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, "Like a tale that is told," they had vanish'd away.

And methought the lone river that murmur'd along Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, Since the birds that had nestled and warbled above, Had all fled from its banks at the fall of the grove.

I paused and the moral came home to my heart:
Behold how of earth all the glories depart!
Our visions are baseless; our hopes but a gleam;
Our staff but a reed; and our life but a dream.

Then, oh! let us look-let our prospects allure—
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time.

ST

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

TAND! the ground's your own, my braves:
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it, ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're afire!

THIS

Tears will unbidden start:

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,

I

press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,
Who round the hearth-stone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,

Who leaned God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

I

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give,

To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.

Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled:
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

WHY DOES YOUR HAIR TURN WHITE?

The following curious piece, found in an old English collection, was written in answer to the question once put to the author: "Why turns your hair white?" It is a good example of labored alliteration, that is, the style in which the same sound is made frequently to recur in the same line.

W

HERE seething sighs and sorrow sobs

Hath slain the slips that nature set;

And scalding showers with stony throbs,
The kindly sap from them hath fet,*
What wonder, then, though that you see,
Upon my head, white hairs to be?

Where thought hath thrilled, and thrown his spears,
To hurt the heart that harmeth him not;

And groaning grief hath ground forth tears,

Mine eye to stain, my face to spot:

What wonder, then, though that you see,
Upon my head, white hairs to be?

Where pinching pain himself has placed,
There peace with pleasures were possessed:
And, where the walls of wealth lie waste,
And poverty in them is pressed;

*Fetch, or bring out. The word is obsolete.