The wayfarer's foot on its petals is laid,

And the gravel marreth its velvet bloom; Nor the morning sun nor the evening

shade

Its perishing beauty can ever relume.

The infant stoops down to lift up its stem, And he blows in its cup with his balmy breath;

But the leaves fall apart like some broken gem;

Ye may kill, but who can restore from death!

And now they are eddying high in air

With a wave-like motion round and round; Not long will the wind its burden bear;

Lo! they are dropping again to the ground.

Oh, thus like the delicate summer blossom, Do the lovely and good breathe life away, And the turf that is rounded over their bosom

Is heedlessly trod by the idle and gay:

865

Yet boots it not much, when the bloom is filed
And the light is gone from the lustrous eye,
And the sensitive heart is cold and dead,
Where the mouldering ashes are left to lie:
It matters not much, if the soaring mind
Like the flower's perfume was exhaled to
heaven,

That its earthly shroud should be cast behind,
To decay wherever a place is given.
J. HUNTINGTON Bright.

DEATH.

This poem is supposed to be the last, or among the very last, of Nicoll's compositions.

THE dew is on the summer's greenest grass, Through which the modest daisy blushing

peeps ;

The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,
A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps ;
But I who love them all shall never be
Again among the woods, or on the moorland
lea!

The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it

shine

Blessed is the brightness of a summer day; It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine,

Although among green fields I cannot stray?

Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you

wave,

Familiar with death, and neighbor to the grave!

These words have shaken mighty human souls —

Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls The ivied remnants of old ruins round. Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?—

Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away?

Are there not aspirations in each heart,

After a better, brighter world than this? Longings for beings nobler in each part — Things more exalted steeped in deeper bliss?

Who gave us these? What are they? Soul!

in thee

The bud is budding now for immortality! Death comes to take me where I long to be; One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower;

Dropping down the winding river,

To the wide and welcome sea;
Dropping down the narrow river,
Man's weary, wayward river,

To the blue and ample sea;
Where no tempest wrecketh ever,
Where the sky is fair and free;
O joyous, joyous sea!
Dropping down the noisy river,

To our peaceful, peaceful home;
Dropping down the turbid river,
Earth's bustling, crowded river,
To our gentle, gentle home:
Where the rough roar riseth never,
And the vexings cannot come,
O loved and longed-for home!

Dropping down the eddying river,

With a Helmsman true and tried; Dropping down the perilous river, Mortality's dark river,

With a sure and heavenly Guide; Even him, who to deliver

My soul from death hath died;
O Helmsman true and tried!

Dropping down the rapid river,

To the dear and deathless land; Dropping down the well-known river, Life's swollen and rushing river,

To the resurrection-lind; Where the living live forever,

And the dead have joined the band,

In that fair and blessed land!

HORATIUS BONAR

PRAYER ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS.

RICHARD MANT, Bishop of Dromore, was born at South ampton, England, Feb. 12, 1776, and died Nov. 2, 1848. He was educated at Oxford, and became a voluminous writer.

He published a version of the "Psalms and Hymns
Roman Breviary for Domestic Use."

GOD of the spirits of mankind,

from the

As o'er the fading form inclined,
We watch a brother's fleeting breath,
Fix in our minds the thought of death!

Oft as the bell with solemn toll
Informs us of a parting soul,

Teach us to think how short the space

Ere ours must quit its resting-place

When to the earth the corpse we trust,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Remind us of the coming day
When ours must join its native clay

!

And when we hear the awful word
That speaks of doom and life restored,
Prompt each to ponder, "What shall be
That doom, that future life, to me?"

God of our life, whose records give
Thy flock instruction how to live,
That, through thy Son our sins forgiven,
Our death may be the gate of heaven :

Oh, may each act, when others die, Prove to ourselves a warning cry, Advance us on our heavenward road, And fit us more to meet our God!

RICHARD MANT, D. D.

IN THE VALLEY.

The author of the following poem, EMILY BRADLEY, of Hudson, N. Y., began to write under the name "Alice G. Lee." In 1847 she was married to Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia, and assumed the name "Alice" at his request. Soon left a widow, she married, in 1853. Mr. Joshua L. Haven, a New York broker having his suburban home at Mamaroneck, on Long Island Sound, where she lived until her death in 1863. The most of her books were written in Philadelphia

GENTLY sloped the rugged pathway,

To her fainting, failing tread,
Downward to the dreaded valley,

By her Saviour gently led.
Day by day she neared the darkness,
Leaning on that steadfast arm,
As a child who fears no danger

Shrinks not from approaching harm;
Till she walked within the shadow,

Little dreaming where she trod, Knowing not "the staff" sustaining,

As she passed beneath" the rod"; Knowing not how short the distance

To the home she longed to see ; Thinking, in the far-off future,

There were terrors yet to be.
For the Love in which she trusted

Upward drew her waiting eyes,
Till we saw them change and brighten
With a smile of glad surprise.
She had guessed not of the darkness
Till she saw the breaking day;

Caught no glimpse of death's dark shadows

Till they changed and fled away.

Gentle life, with gentlest closing,

Could we wish for aught more blest, Could we ask more sweet transition To the promised Land of Rest?

ALICE BRADLEY HAVEN.

867

NOW THE CRUCIBLE IS BREAKING.

"Endlich bricht der heisse Tiegel."

KARL FRIEDRICH HARTMANN, a pious and most useful minister in Würtemberg, was born in 1743, and died in 1815 His truly spiritual hymns were published, after his death, by Albert Knapp.

JAMES WADDELL ALEXANDER was born at Hopewell, Va., March 13, 1804, and died in Virginia, July 31, 1859. He was one of the most successful translators of German hymns. He was for years professor in Princeton College, and at the time of his death was the beloved pastor of the Presbyterian Church, then on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Nineteenth Street, New York City. A new edifice has since been erected farther up the Avenue. Dr. John Hall is now the pastor.

Now the crucible is breaking;
Now my faith its seal is taking;
Molten gold, unhurt by fire,
Only thus 't is ever given,
Up to joys of highest heaven,
For God's children to aspire.

Thus, by griefs, the Lord is moulding
Mind and spirit. here unfolding

His own image, to endure.
Now he shapes our dust, but later
Is the inner man's creator;

Thus he works by trial sure.
Sorrows quell our insurrection,
Bring our members to subjection,

Under Christ's prevailing will;
While the broken powers he raises
To the work of holy praises
Quietly and softly still.
Sorrows gather home the senses,
Lest, seduced by earth's pretences,

They should after idols stroll,
Like an angel guard, repelling
Evil from the inmost dwelling,

Bringing order to the soul.
Sorrow now the harp is stringing
For the everlasting singing,

Teaching us to soar above;
Where the blessed choir, palm-bearing,
Harps are playing, crowns are wearing.
Round the throne with songs of love.
Sorrow makes alert and daring;
Sorrow is our clay preparing

For the cold rest of the grave;
Sorrow is a herald, hasting,
Of that spring-tide whose unwasting
Health the dying soul shall save.
Sorrow makes our faith abiding,
Lowly, child-like, and confiding:
Sorrow! who can speak thy grace!
Earth may name the tribulation,
Heaven has nobler appellation;
Not thus honored all our race.

Brethren, these our perturbations,

Step by step, through many stations,

Lead disciples to their sun.

Soon

though many a pang has wasted, Soon - though many a death been tasted,

Sorrow's watch of sighs is done.

Though the healthful powers were willing,
All the Master's will fulfilling

By obedience to be tried,
Oh, 't is still no less a blessing,
Such a Master's care possessing,
In his furnace to abide.

In the depth of keenest anguish,

More and more the heart shall languish
After Jesus' loving heart,

For one blessing only crying:
"Make me like thee in thy dying,
Then thy endless life impart."

Till at length, with sighs all breaking,
Through each bond its passage taking,

Lo the veil is rent in twain !
Who remembers now earth's treasure!
What a sea of godlike pleasure

High in heaven swells amain!

Now, with Jesus ever reigning
Where the ransomed home are gaining,
Bathing in the endless light,
All the heavenly ones are meeting!
Brothers-sisters let us, greeting,
Claim them ours, by kindred right.

KARL FRIEDRICH HARTMANN, 1782. Translated
by JAMES W. ALEXANDER, D. D., 1850.

When brightly pictured in the light before me,

What eye hath never seen, my eyes shall

see?

What shall I be? Ah! blessed and sublime Is the dim prospect of that glorious time! What shall I be, when days of grief are ended, From earthly fetters set forever free ; When from the harps of saints and angels blended,

I hear the burst of joyful melody? What shall I be, when, risen from the dead, Sin, death, and hell I nevermore shall dread? What shall I be, when all around are thronging The loved of earth, where I have come to dwell;

When all is joy and praise no anxious longing,

No bitter parting, and no sad farewell? What shall I be? Ah! how the streaming

ANTICIPATION.

"Wie wird mir sein?"

MRS. SARAH FINDLATER, wife of the Rev. Eric Findlater, of Lochernhead, Scotland, is joint translator with her sister, Miss Jane Borthwick, of "Hymns from the Land of Luther," and it is often difficult to say to which sister particular translations are to be attributed. The productions in the present collection have been assigned to the proper authors by Miss Borthwick herself. EMANUEL CHRISTIAN GOTTLIEB LANGBECKER was born in Berlin, Aug. 31, 1792, and at the time of his death was secretary to the household of Prince Waldemar of Prussia. He wrote the Life of Paul Gerhardt. His death occurred Oct. 24, 1843.

WHAT shall I be, my Lord, when I behold thee

In awful majesty at God's right hand, And mid the eternal glories that infold me,

In strange bewilderment, O Lord, I stand? What shall I be? - these tears, they dim my sight,

I cannot catch the blissful vision right.
What shall I be, Lord, when thy radiant glory,
As from the grave I rise, encircles me;