Part of the 19th Psalm.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.

THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow,
And sparkling spheres of golden light,
Jehovah's work and glory show,

By burning day or gentle night.
In silence, through the vast profound,
They move their orbs of fire on high,
Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound,
Is heard upon the tranquil sky;
Yet to the earth's remotest bar

Their burning glory, all is known;
Their living light has sparkled far,
And on the attentive silence shone.

God, 'mid their shining legions, rears

A tent where burns the radiant sun:
As, like a bridegroom bright, appears
The monarch, on his course begun,
From end to end of azure heaven

He holds his fiery path along;
To all his circling heat is given,
His radiance flames the spheres among.
By sunny ray, and starry throne,

The wonders of our mighty Lord
To man's attentive heart are known,
Bright as the promise of his word.

What is that, Mother ?-GEORGE W. DOANE. WHAT is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,

When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy-Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?—

The dove, my son.

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?—

The eagle, boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm in his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?

The swan, my love.

He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;

He is floating down by himself to die;

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when Death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

Scene at the Death-Bed of Rev. Dr. Payson.-
MRS. SIGOURNEY.

"His eye spoke after his tongue became motionless. Looking on Mrs. Payson, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on Edward, his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all pres ent to say, as plainly as if it had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, 'Behold thy Mother!'"-Memoir of Payson, p. 425.

WHAT SAID THE EYE?-The marble lip spake not,
Save in that quivering sob with which stern Death
Doth crush life's harp-strings.-Lo, again it pours
A tide of more than uttered eloquence!-
"Son!-look upon thy mother!"-and retires
Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids,
To hide itself forever. 'Tis the last,
Last glance!-and mark how tenderly it fell

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

-"ystal urn

Lith of Colton & Co