But she is sometimes happy now-
And yet her happiness is not

Such as the buoyant heart may know-
And it is blended with her lot
To chasten every smile with tears,

And look on life with tempered gladness, That, undebased by human fears,

Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness, Like sunshine on the falling rain,

Or as the moonlight on the cloud;-
Nor would she mingle once again
With life's unsympathising crowd;-
But, yielding up to earnest prayer
Life's dark and mournful residue,
She waiteth for her summons where
The pure in heart their faith renew.

The Torn Hat.-N. P. WILLIS.

THERE'S Something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,

His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all-

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now-
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,

And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there-
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace,
Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on these golden wings
Which time has fettered now-

Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,

And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,

That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess-

When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high-
How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all;
And on its silent wing,

How with the clouds he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!

The Memory of the Just is blessed.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THOU too, blest Raikes-philanthropist divine-
Who, all unconscious what thy hands had done,
Didst plant that germ, whose glorious fruit shall shine
When from his throne doth fall yon darkened sun,-

The Sabbath bell, the Teacher's hallowed lore,
The countless throng from childhood's snares set free,

Who in sweet strains the Sire of Heaven adore,
Shall point in solemn gratitude to thee.

Who was with Martyn, when he breathed his last,
A martyr pale, on Asia's burning sod?
Who cheered his spirit as it onward past

From its frail house of clay ?—The hosts of God. Oh! ye who trust, when earthly toils shall cease, To find a home in heaven's unfading clime, Drink deeper at the fountain head of peace,

And cleanse your spirits for that world sublime!

The Wife.-NEW YORK DAILY ADVERTISER.

"She flung her white arms around him-Thou art all
That this poor heart can cling to."

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.

I could have smiled on every blow

From Life's full quiver thrown,

While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be "alone."

I could-I think I could have brooked,
E'en for a time, that thou

Upon my fading face hadst looked
With less of love than now;

For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been " alone."

But thus to see, from day to day,

Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;—
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be " alone;"-

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,

As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say,
"Earth may not claim thee longer;"
Nay, dearest; 'tis too much-this heart
Must break, when thou art gone;
It must not be; we may not part;

I could not live" alone!"

Song of the Stars.-BRYANT.

WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath,
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame,

From the void abyss, by myriads came,
In the joy of youth, as they darted away,

Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung;

And this was the song the bright ones sung:

"Away, away! through the wide, wide sky,--
The fair blue fields that before us lie,-
Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll,
Each planet, poised on her turning pole,
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

"For the Source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides.
Lo, yonder the living splendors play :

Away, on our joyous path away!

"Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,

In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass!

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!

And the path of the gentle winds is seen,

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.

"And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;

And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews;
And, twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round!

"Away, away!-in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air, wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, love is brooding, and life is born,

And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

"Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years.
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent
To the farthest wall of the firmament,-

The boundless visible smile of Him,

To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim."

Summer Evening at a short Distance from the City.— ALONZO LEWIS.

AND now the city smoke begins to rise,
And spread its volume o'er the misty sea;
From school dismissed, the barefoot urchin hies
To drive the cattle from the upland lea;
With gentle pace we cross the polished beach,
And the sun sets as we our mansion reach.

Then come the social joys of summer eve,
The pleasant walk along the river-side,
What time their task the weary boatmen leave,
And little fishes from the silver tide,
Elate with joy, leap in successive springs,
And spread the wavelets in diverging rings.

High overhead the stripe-winged nighthawk soars,
With loud responses to his distant love;
And while the air for insects he explores,

In frequent swoop descending from above,
Startles, with whizzing sound, the fearful wight,
Who wanders lonely in the silent night.