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Was not my spirit born to shine

Where yonder stars and suns are glowing ? To breathe with them the light divine,

From God's own holy altar flowing ? To be, indeed, whate'er the soul

In dreams hath thirsted for so long-
A portion of Heaven's glorious whole

Of loveliness and song ?
Oh! watchers of the stars at night,

Who breathe their fire, as we the air-
Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light,

Oh! say, is He, the Eternal, there? Bend there around his awful throne

The seraph's glance, the angel's knee?
Or are thy inmost depths his own,

O wild and mighty sea ?
Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go!

Swift as the eagle's glance of fire,
Or arrows from the archer's bow,

To the far aim of your desire !
Thought after thought, ye thronging rise,

Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them

your

sacrifice Of music unto God!

And shall these thoughts of joy and love

Come back again no more to me ?Returning like the Patriarch's dove

Wing-weary from the eternal sea, To bear within my longing arms

The promise-bough of kindlier skies,
Plucked from the green, immortal palms

Which shadow Paradise ?
All-moving spirit !—freely forth

At thy command the strong wind goes;
Its errand to the passive earth,

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose,

Until it folds its weary wing

Once more within the hand divine ; So, weary

from its wandering, My spirit turns to thine ! Child of the sea, the mountain stream,

From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam,

By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest,

O’erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast

So turns my soul to Thee !

O Thou who bidst the torrent flow,

Who lendest wings unto the windMover of all things! where art thou ?

Oh, whither shall I go to find
The secret of thy resting-place ?

Is there no holy wing for me,
That, soaring, I may search the space

Of highest heaven for Thee ?

Oh, would I were as free to rise

As leaves on Autumn's whirlwind borneThe arrowy light of sunset skies,

Or sound, or ray, or star of morn Which melts in heaven at twilight's close,

Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through Earth and Heaven; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee!

When the BREATH DIVINE is flowing,
Zephyr-like o'er all things going,
And as the touch of viewless fingers,
Softly on my soul it lingers,
Open to a breath the lightest,

Conscious of a touch the slightestAs some calm still lake, whereon Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan, And the glistening water-rings Circle round her moving wings.: When my upward gaze is turning Where the stars of heaven are burning Through the deep and dark abyss-Flowers of midnight's wilderness, Blowing with the evening's breath Sweetly in their Maker's path : When the breaking day is flushing All the East, and light is gushing Upward through the horizon's haze, Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays Spreading, until all above Overflows with joy and love, And below, on earth's green bosom, All is changed to light and blossom: When my waking fancies over Forms of brightness flit and hover, Holy as the seraphs are, Who by Zion's fountains wear On their foreheads, white and broad, 66 HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD !” When, inspired with rapture high, It would seem a single sigh Could a world of love createThat my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fill Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still ! Then, O Father !—Thou alone, From the shadow of Thy throne, To the sighing of my

breast And its rapture answerest. Al my thoughts, which, upward winging,

Bathe where thy own light is springing-
All my yearnings to be free
Are as echoes answering Thee!

Seldom upon lips of mine
Father! rests that name of thine-
Deep within my inmost breast,

In the secret place of mind,

Like an awful presence shrined,
Doth the dread idea rest!
Hushed and holy dwells it there-
Prompter of the silent prayer,
Lifting up my spirit's eye
And its faint, but earnest cry,
From its dark and cold abode,
Unto thee, my Guide and God!

THE FEMALE MARTYR.

(MARY G- , aged 18, a “SISTER OF CHARITY," died in ons of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.)

“BRING out your dead!” the midnight street

Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feetGlanced through the dark the coarse white shietHer coffin and her pall.

What—only one !” The brutal hackman said, As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead.

How sunk the inmost hearts of all,

As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall ! The dying turned him to the wall,

To hear it and to die !

Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver stayed,
And hoarsely clamored, “ Ho !—bring out your

dead.”

It paused beside the burial-place;

“Toss in your load !”—and it was done.-
With quick hand and averted face,
Hastily to the grave's embrace

They cast them, one by one-
Stranger and friend—the evil and the just,
Together trodden in the churchyard dust!
And thou, young martyr !—thou wast there-

No white-robed sisters round thee trod-
Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer
Rose through the damp and noisome air,

Giving thee to thy God;
Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave
Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave!
Yet, gentle sufferer !—there shall be,

In every heart of kindly feeling,
A rite as holy paid to thee
As if beneath the convent-tree

Thy sisterhood were kneeling,
At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping
Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping
For thou wast one in whom the light

Of Heaven's own love was kindled well.
Enduring with a martyr's might,
Through weary day and wakeful night,
Far more than words

may
Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown-
Thy mercies measured by thy God alone!

tell :

Where manly hearts were failing, ---where

The throngful street grew foul with death, O high-souled martyr!—thou wast there,

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