Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease;

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends-such death be mine!

MONTGOMERY.

A MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

3OW beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck,
nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full orbed glory yonder moon divine

Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray

The desert circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky:

How beautiful is night!

SOUTHEY.

SUNSHINE

HO loveth not the sunshine? oh! who loveth not the bright

And blessed mercy of His smile, who said, "Let

there be light?"

Who lifteth not his face to meet the rich and glowing beam? Who dwelleth not with miser eyes upon such golden stream? Let those who will accord their song to hail the revel blaze That only comes where feasting reigns and courtly gallants gaze!

But the sweet and merry sunshine is a braver theme to sing, For it kindles round the peasant while it bursts above the king.

Sunshine.

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We hear young voices round us now swell loud in eager joy,
We're jostled by the tiny child, and sturdy, romping boy;
In city street and hamlet path, we see blithe forms arise;
And childhood's April life comes forth as glad as April skies.
Oh! what can be the magic lure that beckons them abroad
To sport upon the grassy plain, or tread the dusty road?
'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has called them out
to play,

And scattered them, like busy bees, all humming in our way.

We see old age and poverty forsake the fireside chair,

And leave a narrow, cheerless home, to taste the vernal air; The winter hours were long to him who had no spice-warmed

cup,

No bed of down to nestle in, no furs to wrap him up.

But now he loiters 'mid the crowd, and leans upon his staff, He gossips with his lowly friends, and joins the children's

laugh.

'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has led the old man

out,

To hear once more the Babel roar, and wander round about.

The sweet and merry sunshine makes the very churchyard fair; We half forget the yellow bones, while yellow flowers are there;

And while the summer beams are thrown upon the osiered

heap,

We tread with lingering footsteps where our "rude forefathers sleep."

The hemlock does not seem so rank-the willow is not dull; The rich flood lights the coffin nail and burnishes the skull. Oh! the sweet and merry sunshine is a pleasant thing to see, Though it plays upon a grave-stone through the gloomy cypress tree.

There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer e'en than

this;

That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper

bliss;

That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own,
As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's throne.
It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away;
And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its ray:
'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's gentle light,
That never wears a sullen cloud, and fadeth not in night.
ELIZA COOK.

GRACIOUS RAIN.

HE east wind had whistled for many a day,
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain
And the sun muffled up in a dull robe of gray,

Looked sullenly down on the plain.

The butterfly folded her wings at if dead,

Or awaked ere the full destined time;

Every flower shrank inward, or hung down its head
Like a young heart frost-nipped in its prime.

I, too, shrank and shivered, and eyed the cold earth,
The cold heaven with comfortless looks:

And I listened in vain for the summer bird's mirth,
And the music of rain-plenished brooks.

But, lo! while I listened, down heavily dropt

A few tears from a low-sailing cloud;

Large and few they descended—then quickened—then stopt; They poured down abundant and loud.

Oh, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound,
That succeeded that soft gracious rain!

With laughter and singing the valleys rang round,
And the little hills shouted again.

The wind sank away like a sleeping child's breath,
The pavilion of clouds was upfurled;

And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death,
Smiled out on this beautiful world.

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On this "beautiful world" such a change had been wrought

By these few blessed drops. Oh, the same

On some cold stony heart might be worked too, methought,
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.

If a few virtuous tears by the merciful shed,

Touched its hardness, perhaps the good grain

That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead,
Might shoot up and flourish again.

And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven,
Might chase the dark clouds of despair;

And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven,
Might gush out and soften all there.

Oh, to work such a change-by God's grace to recall
A poor soul from the death-sleep! To this!
To this joy that the angels partake, what were all
That the worldly and sensual call bliss?

CAROLINE SOUTHEY.

IT SNOWS.

3T snows! it snows! from out the sky The feathered flakes, how fast they fly

Like little birds, that don't know why They're on the chase, from place to place, While neither can the other trace.

It snows! it snows! a merry play
Is o'er us on this heavy day!

As dancers in an airy hall,

That hasn't room to hold them all,
While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift, then, thick and swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That waving up, so dazzling white,

Is rising like a wall of light.

But now the wind comes whistling loud,

To snatch and waft it as a cloud,

Or giant phantom in a shroud;

It spreads! it curls! it mounts and whirls!
At length a mighty wing unfurls;
And then, away! but where, none knows,
Or ever will. It snows! it snows!

To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then out will come the golden sun:
And we shall see, upon the run
Before his beams, in sparkling streams,
What now a curtain o'er him seems.
And thus, with life, it ever goes;

'Tis shade and shine! It snows! it snows!

H. F. GOULD.