Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd
To sudden vision. Such is oft her power
In God's own house, which, in the absorbing act
Of adoration, or inspiring praise,

She with his glory fills, as once a cloud
Of radiance filled the temple's inner court.

Industry and Prayer.-CARLOS WILCOX.

TIME well employed is Satan's deadliest foe: It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend: Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer, Statues, without it in the form of guards.

The closet which the saint devotes to prayer Is not his temple only, but his tower, Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked; His armory, to which he soon retreats When danger warns, his weapons to select, And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead, When taken by surprise and half o'ercome, That, now, to venture near the hallowed place Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul Glad to impose on conscience with a show Of humble veneration, to secure

Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed, It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.

The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near The upper world of purity and light.

He loses sight of his intended prey,

In that effulgence beaming from the throne
Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails
To succor and preserve the tempted soul,
Whose time and talents rest or run to waste.
Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse
A salutary savor through the day,
With charities and duties not well filled.
These form the links of an electric chain
That join the orisons of morn and eve,
And propagate through all its several parts,
While kept continuous, the ethereal fire;
But if a break be found, the fire is spent.

Consolations of Religion to the Poor.-PERCIVAL.

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken; She is a widow; she is old and poor;

Her only hope is in that sacred token

Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er;

She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight

Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?
She lives in her affections; for the grave

Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high, to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.
Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers,-so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days;

Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.
And faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her: Death will come---
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee:
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

Extract from the Airs of Palestine.-PIERPONT, WHERE lies our path ?-Though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all.

Where lies our path?-A poet, and inquire

What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre?
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow;
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow;
There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers;

Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers,
Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides.
Your theme is MUSIC;-Yonder rolls the wave,
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave,
Enchanted by his lyre :-Citharon's shade
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth,
Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth.
And fast by Hamus, Thracian Hebrus creeps
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps,
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along,
Was still melodious, and expired in song.
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell;
There be thy path-for there the muses dwell.
No, no-a lonelier, lovelier path be mine;
Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine.
There purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow.
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;

I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;

I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse:

In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,

And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.
Here arching vines their leafy banner spread,

Shake their green shields, and purple odors shed,
At once repelling Syria's burning ray,

And breathing freshness on the sultry day.

Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing,
Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring;
And here, as musing en my theme divine,-
I gather flowers to bloom along my line,
And hang my garlands in festoons around,

Inwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound;
And fondly, warmly, humbly hope the Power,
That gave perfumes and beauty to the flower,
Drew living water from this rocky shrine,
Purpled the clustering honors of the vine,
And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither,

To weave a garland, will not let it wither;-
Wond'ring, I listen to the strain sublime,

That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time,
Wafted in grand simplicity along,

The undying breath, the very soul of song.

On the Death of Mr. Woodward, at Edinburgh.-
BRAINARD.

"The spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie

On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze."

ANOTHER! 'tis a sad word to the heart,
That one by one has lost its hold on life,
From all it loved or valued, forced to part
In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife
That cuts at once and kills: its tortured strife
Is with distilled affliction, drop by drop
Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife

With grief and sorrow: all that we would prop,

Or would be propped with, falls; when shall the ruin stop!

The sea has one, and Palestine has one,

And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid
Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone,
And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaid-
And from the lonely tomb where thou art laid,
Turn to some other monument-nor know

Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read;
Whose loved and honored relics lie below;
Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo.

There is a world of bliss hereafter-else
Why are the bad above, the good beneath
The green grass of the grave? The Mower fells
Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe
(When he his desolating blade shall sheathe,
And rest him from his work) in a pure sky,

Above the smoke of burning worlds ;-and Death
On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie,

When Time, with all his years and centuries, has passed by.

From "The Minstrel Girl.”-JAMES G. WHITTIEK.

AGAIN 'twas evening.-Agnes knelt,
Pale, passionless,-a sainted one :
On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt
The last beams of the setting sun.
Alone-the damp and cloistered wall
Was round her like a sepulchre;
And at the vesper's mournful call
Was bending every worshipper.
She knelt her knee upon the stone-
Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye,
As it were sin to gaze upon

The changes of the changeful sky.
It seemed as if a sudden thought

Of her enthusiast moments came
With the bland eve-and she had sought
To stifle in her heart the flame

Of its awakened memory:

She felt she might not cherish, then,

The raptures of a spirit, free

And passionate as hers had been,
When its sole worship was, to look
With a delighted eye abroad;
And read, as from an open book,
The written languages of God.

How changed she kneels!-the vile, gray hood,
Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair;
And where the jewelled silk hath flowed,
Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire.

And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul,
Which, all unfit for Nature's gladness,
Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl,

And drain with joy its draught of madness?
Read ye the secret, who have nursed
In your own hearts intenser feelings,
Which stole upon ye, at the first,
Like bland and musical revealings

From some untrodden Paradise,
Until your very soul was theirs;
And from their maddening ecstasies

Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers.