HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. THE SOUL'S FAREWELL. IT must be so, poor, fading, mortal thing! And now we part, thou pallid form of clay! Thy hold is broken-I unfurl my wing; And from the dust the spirit must away! As thou at night, hast thrown thy vesture by, Tired with the day, to seek thy wonted rest, Fatigued with time's vain round, 't is thus that I I go to stand unshrouded and alone, Full in the light of God's ail-search ing eye. There must the deeds which we to gether wrought, Be all remembered each a wit ness made; The outward action and the secret thought Before the silent soul must there be weighed. Lo! I behold the seraph throng descend To waft me up where love and mercy dwell; Of thee, frail covering, myself di-Away, vain fears! the Judge will be vest. my friend; It is my Father calls — pale clay, farewell! A NAME IN THE SAND. ALONE I walked the ocean strand; My name-the year- the day. And washed my lines away. With every mark on earth from me: A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place To leave nor track nor trace. And yet, with Him who counts the And holds the waters in his hands, Inscribed against my name, For glory or for shame. JAMES GRAHAME. [From The Sabbath.] SABBATH MORNING. How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear, the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quiet ness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare ELINOR GRAY. ISOLATION. WE walk alone through all life's va- | We cannot reach them, and in vain ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-| Save that from yonder ivy-mantled YARD. Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies; Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindiul of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; [led, If chance, by lonely contemplation Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, |