And the bright prospects which had gilded here
Thy hopeful years. How are the joyous lights
Of thy short pilgrimage by sorrow's shades
Soon overcast!

I see thy cherub form

In rosy childhood. On thy dappled neck
The flaxen ringlets press, and the bright eye,
The damask cheek, the ruby lip, the smile
Of innocence are there. Upon my knee
Thy lovely head reclines, and in my face,
Wistfully looking, "Brother," I hear thee say
In lisping tongue-thy little hands the while
Outstretched in glee.

'Tis changed; I see thee now
In youth, with busy look, and in thy hands
The daily lesson. To thy opening mind
Knowledge her ancient and expanding page
Displays; nor on that page with careless eye
Thou look'st-aspiring to the laurelled ranks
Of famed Apollo's sons.

Towards manhood now

I see thy hastening growth. To civil use
Thy hand industrious turns; whilst in thy path
Religion's holy lamp its radiance sheds.

But who can penetrate the future veil
Of Providence? Let mortal man be dumb
Before his God! Affliction's cup is sent,
Brother, and thou must drink. I see thee now
With drooping efforts. But thy patient spirit
Meekly attunes itself to pious strains

Of resignation, from thy plaintive muse
Flows forth the note of praise!

Apace beneath

The burning stroke triumphant, shrinks thy form,
Quivers thy nerve, departs thy flattering bloom,
Thy cheek is worn and wasted is thy strength:
And on the verge of manhood-when the stream
Of life flows buoyant-with last accents uttering
Thy firmest faith and hope. The silver chord
Is softly loosed-for ever art thou gone-
And now the eye of faith to that of sense
Succeeds. I see thee in a happier state,
Where virtue, purified in works of love

And wisdom, triumphs; where is no more death,
Nor pain, nor sorrow, nor the keener pang
Of separation. In immortal youth

There shalt thou live-never to us return;
But, rapturous prospect! may our spirits rise,
And join thee in those everlasting realms!

R. A., Intellectual Repository.

"MUSIC, before I die!

Let me hear those thrilling sounds once more,
Ere I depart to a brighter shore,

To my home on high;

And sing me the strains which thou sang'st before
With a tearful eye.

"Sing hymns and songs of praise,

For my heart is panting again to hear
Thine own sweet voice, my mother dear;
Ere I hear the lays

Which shall shortly burst on my ravish'd ear,
Where no joy decays.

"Wipe off those bitter tears

That scorching fall on thy pallid face,
Where anxious watching has left its trace,
For the morn appears,

And I must depart from thy lov'd embrace
To celestial spheres.

"Mother, thine own sweet voice

Is the sweetest music now to me,
For it soothes my soul with its melody,
And makes my heart rejoice;

And to die with my thoughts fixed on heav'n and thee,
Was my heart's first choice!

"We'll meet my mother there;

We'll meet above in that blessed clime
Whose glories we cannot know in time,
Nor can words declare

The peace, the joy, and the bliss sublime,
That our hearts will share."

Then ceased the tones so mild!

And the mother her darling sang to rest;
Ere that song was done she was with the blest;
Her beloved child,

With bright gems crown'd, and in white robes drest,
Pure and undefiled.
Fraser's Magazine.

WE celebrate nobler obsequies to those we love by drying the tears of others than by shedding our own; and the fairest funeral wreath we can hang on their tomb is a fruit-offering of good deeds. Jean Paul Richter.

As the fair flower which shuns the golden day,
And blooms amidst the shades of silent night,
Spreads her pale petals to the lunar ray,
And hails with balmy breath the silver light;
So virtue shuns the world's applause and gaze,
In secret sheds her balmy sweets abroad,
Nor seeks the voice of fame, nor glory's blaze,
But blooms and blossoms to the praise of God.
Lady Flora Hastings.

How sweet is the fragrance of that happiness, which through the Divine Mercy, your own hand has mediately conferred on another; and how does this fragrance intensify itself while your grateful heart joyfully ascribes that happiness, and the power of producing it, to the only Fountain of Good. Intellectual Repository.

BENEVOLENCE, like the industrious bee which cheerfully roves through the wilds of nature, and gathers honey wherever it is to be found, derives pleasure from every scene of happiness she beholds. Benevolence is of all others the most fruitful source of enjoyment; even when it leads us to share the afflictions of others. The tender emotions of compassion, though necessarily productive of pain, are at the same time accompanied by a calm self-complacence, and heartfelt satisfaction, that greatly outweigh all the uneasy

sensations which the sight of misery must always create in the hearts of the humane. Even when humanity receives the deepest wounds, and bursts forth in floods of sympathetic tears, the good man wishes not to part with his tender feelings, nor thinks it hard that nature obliges him to bear another's burdens, as well as his own. Now if even the sorrows of benevolence are attended with pleasure, what shall we say of its joys? If it be a good thing to "weep with those who weep," how good and pleasant must it be to rejoice with them that rejoice."

66

Enfield's Sermons.

FRIENDSHIP-true friendship, is the heavenborn offspring of divine charity; heaven is her native country. In that pure and gentle element she lives and moves without constraint; free, cheerful, delighting, and delighted. If ever she deigns to associate with the sons of men, it is among the truly virtuous alone she can be found. She visits none but those "whose conversation is in heaven;" who have within them a birth congenial with her own; whose hearts and affections are governed by the spirit of love, and can only be wooed and won by corresponding temper and character.

Duché.