In vain shalt thou, or any, call

The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say
My spirit is at peace with all.

They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair,

The memory like a cloudless air,
The conscience as a sea at rest:

But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the gates
And hear the household jar within.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THO

OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

HOU that art strong to comfort, look on me!
I sit in darkness, and behold no light!

Over my heart the waves of agony

Have gone, and left me faint!

Forbear to smite

A bruised and broken reed! Sustain, sustain,
Divinest Comforter, to Thee I fly;

Let me not fly in vain !

Support me with Thy love, or else I die!

Whate'er I had was Thine!

A God of mercy Thou hast ever been ;

Assist me to resign,

And if I murmur, count it not for sin !

How rich I was, I dare not

dare not think;

How poor I am, Thou knowest, who can see
Into my soul's unfathomed misery;

Forgive me if I shrink!

Forgive me if I shed these human tears,

That it so hard appears

To yield my will to Thine, forgive, forgive!
Father, it is a bitter cup to drink!

My soul is strengthened! it shall bear
My lot, whatever it may be ;
And from the depths of my despair,

I will look up and trust in Thee!

MARY HOWITT.

SAD

TO A FRIEND.

AD soul, whom God, resuming what He gave, Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb, Cease to oppress the portals of the grave, And strain thy aching sight across the gloom. The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind Than thy storm-tost and heavy-swelling mind Grasp the full import of His means to save. Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful grace Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea. Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars, Down to the level ocean patiently;

Till His loved hand shall touch the Eastern bars,

And His full glory shine upon thy face.

WILLIAM CALDWELL Roscoe.

Addressed to a Friend, after the Loss of
a Child.

WHEN

HEN on my ear your loss was knelled,
And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory welled,

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst.

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as healing dew,

To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,

The story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley's sheltering care,
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green

That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams slide.

But nought can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms their lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go,

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on, o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures, lifted fair,

More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,
Blew on me as the south wind free
O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed
From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision, through the night,
Would all my happy senses sway,
Of the good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the stony way,

Holding our little lamb asleep, —
While, like the murmur of the sea,
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, "Arise, and follow me!"

MARIA LOWELL.

THE CHILD'S PICTURE.

(WHAT IT SUNG TO A SORE HEART.)

LITTLE face, so sweet, so fair,

Pure as a star,

Through the wilderness of air
Twinkling afar!

With what melody divine,
Sweet as a psalm,

Sing those innocent eyes to mine

Out of their calm!

And what echoing chords in me

Wake from their sleep,

God in me to God in thee,

Deep unto deep!

Ah, my pain is not yet old ;

Aching I list,

And thy loveliness behold

Dim through a mist.

Thoughts unbid my spirit stir ;
Fresh in her charms

Comes my tiny wanderer

Back to my arms