But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

THE RISING MOON.

THE moon is up! How calm and slow
She wheels above the hill!
The weary winds forget to blow,
And all the world lies still.

The way-worn travellers, with delight,
The rising brightness see,
Revealing all the paths and plains,
And gilding every tree.

It glistens where the hurrying stream
Its little ripple leaves;
It falls upon the forest-shade,
And sparkles on the leaves.

So once, on Judah's evening hills,
The heavenly lustre spread,
The Gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.

And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendour throws:
Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.

The waning moon, in time, shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;
But God hath warmed this bright light
With fire that never dies.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.

O SACRED star of evening, tell
In what unseen, celestial sphere,
Those spirits of the perfect dwell,
Too pure to rest in sadness here.

Roam they the crystal fields of light,
O'er paths by holy angels trod,
Their robes with heavenly lustre bright,
Their home, the Paradise of God?

Soul of the just! and canst thou soar
Amidst those radiant spheres sublime,
Where countless hosts of heaven adore,
Beyond the bounds of space or time?
And canst thou join the sacred choir,
Through heaven's high dome the song to raise,
Where seraphs strike the golden lyre
In ever-during notes of praise?

Oh! who would heed the chilling blast
That blows o'er time's eventful sea,
If bid to hail, its perils past,

The bright wave of eternity!

And who the sorrows would not bear
Of such a transient world as this,
When hope displays, beyond its care,
So bright an entrance into bliss!

F. S. ECKHARD

Is known to us only as the author of the following beautiful poem.

THE RUINED CITY.

THE days of old, though time has reft
The dazzling splendour which they cast;
Yet many a remnant still is left

To shadow forth the past.

The warlike deed, the classic page,
The lyric torrent, strong and free,
Are lingering o'er the gloom of age,
Like moonlight on the sea.

A thousand years have rolled along,
And blasted empires in their pride;
And witnessed scenes of crime and wrong,
Till men by nations died.

A thousand summer-suns have shone,

Till earth grew bright beneath their sway,

Since thou, untenanted, and lone,

Wert rendered to decay.

The moss-tuft, and the ivy-wreath,

For ages clad thy fallen mould,

And gladdened in the spring's soft breath;
But they grew wan and old.

Now, desolation hath denied

That even these shall veil thy gloom:
And Nature's mantling beauty died
In token of thy doom.

Alas, for the far years, when clad

With the bright vesture of thy prime,
Thy proud towers made each wanderer glad,
Who hailed thy sunny clime.

Alas, for the fond hope, and dream,

And all that won thy children's trust,
God cursed-and none may now redeem,
Pale city of the dust!

How the dim visions throng the soul,
When twilight broods upon thy waste;
The clouds of woe from o'er thee roll,
Thy glory seems replaced.

The stir of life is brightening round,
Thy structures swell upon the eye,
And mirth and revelry resound
In triumph to the sky.

But a stern moral may be read,

By those who view thy lonely gloom:
Oblivion's pall alike is spread

O'er slave, and lordly tomb.

The sad, the gay, the old, and young,

The warrior's strength, and beauty's glow,
Resolved to that from which they sprung,
Compose the dust below.

GEORGE W. DOANE.

THIS delightful Author, a specimen of whose works we add to this new edition, is now Bishop of New Jersey, and labours to emulate the character of Ravenscroft, whose loss he laments with such Christian feeling in the first of the following pieces.

ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP RAVENSCROFT.

THE good old man is gone!

He lies in his saintly rest,

And his labours all are done,

And the work that he loved the best.

The good old man is gone—

But the dead in the Lord are blessed!

I stood in the holy aisle,
When he spake the solemn word,

That bound him, through care and toil,
The servant of the Lord:

And I saw how the depths of his manly soul
By that sacred vow were stirred.

And nobly his pledge he kept—
For the truth he stood up alone,
And his spirit never slept,
And his march was ever on!

Oh! deeply and long shall his loss be wept,
The brave old man that's gone.

There were heralds of the cross,

By his bed of death that stood,

And heard how he counted all but loss,

For the gain of his Saviour's blood;

And patiently waited his Master's voice,

Let it call him when it would.

The good old man is gone!

An apostle's chair is void;

There is dust on his mitre thrown, And they've broken his pastoral rod!

And the fold of his love he has left alone,

To account for its care to God.

The wise old man is gone!

His honoured head lies low,

And his thoughts of power are done,

And his voice's manly flow,

And his pen that, for truth, like a sword was drawn, Its still and soulless now.

The brave old man is gone!

With his armour on, he fell;

Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn,

When his spirit fled, to tell;

For mortal sufferings, keen and long,

Had no power his heart to quell.

The good old man is gone!

He is gone to his saintly rest,
Where no sorrow can be known,

And no trouble can molest;

For his crown of life is won, And the dead in Christ are blessed!

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

WHAT is that, mother?—

The lark, my child.

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The dove, my son,

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some chrystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick retnrn.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love,

What is that, mother?

The eagle, boy,
Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?—

The swan, my love.—

He is floating down from his native grove,

No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.