Up! worshippers! unto your Eyrie dwelling
If ye would never death or torture know!
Like a wild torrent from the mountains swelling
Burst the red foe!

And lo! while fiery curse and imprecation
Pour in hot volleys on the praise-stirred air;
The mountain-flood,-swift herald of salvation,—
Itself is there !

Their foam-flecked crests o'er hill and valley flinging,
On on the raving, thundering waters pour!
On that wild sea no wave-washed corse is swinging,
One yell!-'twas o'er !

While high above, unheard amid the thunder,
The Covenanters praise that vengeful God,
Who flung the mighty from his prey asunder
On that dark flood!

That spirit reigneth still! So, Christian, waging
A terrible war along life's corse-strown road,
Fear not! One power can calm thy foe's fierce

raging

Oh! trust in God!

WHAT WOULD YE ASK?

BY GEORGE

W. LAMB

WHAT Would ye ask-a restless strife of soul
For wealth, or fame, or aught beneath the sun?
Alas! man's life is short to have such goal,
And what is human glory when 'tis won!

The grave receiveth all. The hero's crown
And poet's laurels crumble into dust ;
Soon are their names forgot, though long renown
And deathless honor was their fondest trust.

The eye grows dim and youthful fire burns low,
The strong limbs bend, the once warm heart grows

cold;

Yet onward still this toiling world doth go,

As if man ne'er should lay beneath the mould.

Bend to your tasks, ye who amid the clash
And clang of life's hard strugglings win your way,
Strive on unceasing though the bitter lash

Of hopes all blighted smite your hearts each day.

Press on untiring 'mid the jostling crowd,

Heed not the weak ones crushed beneath your tread,

Think not upon the coming pall and shroud

And narrow grave-your home when life has fled.

And this ye say is happiness, and tell

Of ends attained and high ambition crowned!
Ye cannot hear how oft is rung a knell
Where doth one shout of victory resound.

Ye reck not of the withering, wasting heart,
The life-long toil unblessed by fortune's smile,.
The sickening grief that bids the life depart,
And the dark woe no soothing can beguile.

Triumphant notes are ringing in your ears,

Ye list not when is struck a mournful strain, Though round ye blight, decay, and hurrying years, And mouldering dust, tell how 'tis all in vain.

WHAT WOULD YE ASK?

Live out your little span, on honor's scroll

Your names and glorious deeds emblazon high, All aims accomplish, reach the utmost goal

177

For which ye strove then lay ye down and die !

'Tis the sure end. When in the funeral urn
Thy head, once proudly lifted, lieth low;
Long generations, thronging in their turn,
Will trample on thine ashes as they go.

The grave receiveth all. Within its breast
The peasant lies-the prince is at his side-
Long are their slumbers, silent is their rest,
And equal now is poverty and pride.

It matters not what they may leave behind,
One lays aside his staff and one his crown,
To his last resting place of clay consigned,
Each in his nothingness has laid him down.

So

go we on, still struggling, to the tomb ;
Each bubble breaking, yet we grasp again;
Each hoped for pleasure bringing deeper gloom,
And every joy with sorrow in its train.

AN AIR-CHATEAU.

BY NEHEMIAH CLEAVELAND.

How beauteous in the glowing west,
Those thousand-tinted isles that float;
On the broad sea of light they rest,
Or pass to lovelier realms remote.

Methinks it were a bliss to roam

Where those far fields in beauty lie; Methinks there were a welcome home, In the soft clime of yonder sky.

On some bright, sunny cloud, I'd build My palace, in the verge of heaven; On marble fix it firm, and gild

Its cornices with gold of even.