Because no human tone,

Unto the altar-stone,

Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,

Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred solitary way?

Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only! Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,

Which glorious minds have piled

Thro' bright self-offering, earnest, child-like, lone, For mounting to thy throne!

And let my soul, upborne

On wings of inner morn,

Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense
Of that blest work, its own high recompense.

The dimness melts away,

That on your glory lay,

O ye majestic watchers of the skies!

Through the dissolving veil,

Which made each aspect pale,

Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognize;

And once again a shower

Of hope, and joy, and power,

Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.

And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light-
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught,
With more that pierces thro' each fold of thought

Than I was wont to trace

On Heaven's unshadow'd face

Be it e'en so!-be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still

A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart;

Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest! whose blest will All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.

THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.

FATHER, guide me! Day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn
Dies away.

Father! in the forest dim,

Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky,
There are signs of tempest nigh.

Ominous, with sullen sound,

Falls the closing dusk around.

Father! through the storm and shade
O'er the wild,

Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid-
Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast,
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste-
God of might!

Shield the homeless 'midst the waste,
Be his light!

In his distant cradle nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams,
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray,
For the loved and far away. -
Father! guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!

Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!

Darker, wilder, grows the night-
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son, who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,

Where no roof to that blest head
Shelter gave-

Father! through the time of dread,
Save, oh! save!

BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.

SCENE.-The banks of a solitary river in an American Forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. AGNES sitting before the tent with a child in her arms, apparently sleeping.

Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream-a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony

The strange red sunrise-and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,

And the broad lonely river! all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild, singing tones, as they were wont to come,
Through the wreath'd sweet-brier at my lattice panes,
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!

Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,

And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!

(Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling touch!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back-
Now I know all!-dead-dead!—a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,

To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep loving eyes-he's gone-he's gone!

[Her HUSBAND enters.

Husband. Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is comeThe couch made ready for his last repose.

Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!

If he but left me for a few short days,

This were too brief a gazing time, to draw

His angel image into my fond heart,

And fix its beauty there. And now-oh! now,

Never again the laughter of his eye

Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soul, Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!

Thou canst not take him from me.

Husband.

My beloved!

Is it not God hath taken him? the God

That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, "His will be done!"

Agnes.

Oh! that near household grave,

Under the turf of England, seem'd not half,

VOL. VII.

15