ON A DECEASED CHILD.

AND this is, death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,

And yet too beautiful for tears.
The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek has lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half-shaded by the silken hair,

That never looked so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there,

I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel,
That need not, cannot be suppressed.

I wonder not that parents' eyes,

In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs

Are blended with the funeral hymn;

The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet, why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,

Those eyes shall never weep again.

For think not that the blushing flower

Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far
The clouds of death and sorrow fly,
I see thee like a new-born star

Move up thy path-way in the sky:
The star hath rays serene and bright,

But cold and pale compared with thine; For thy orb shines with heavenly light, With beams unfading and divine.

Then let the burthened heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see

The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy-that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin ;
And only breathed life's morning airs
Before its noon-day storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,

My memory warmly treasures yet

Thy features calm and mildly sweet;

But no, that look is not the last,

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,

Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-Farewell!

PEABODY.

HYMN OF NATURE.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers

Where man might commune with the sky;

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lours upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,

To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;

All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;

Her crumbling altars must decay,

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;

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.

PEABODY.

EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID.

It was when from Spain, across the main, the Cid had come to Rome,

He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint

Peter's dome.

"Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they?"—" Seven kings do sit thereon,

As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's throne.

The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss

Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant

show;

For his great puissance, the King of France next to the Pope may sit,

The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit."

"Ha!" quoth the Cid, "now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss,

To see the Castle planted beneath the Flower-de-lys. No harm I hope, good Father Pope, although I move thy chair."

In pieces small he kicked it all ('twas of the ivory fair).

The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day;

Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly; Looks sour and bad, I trow he had, as grim as grim might

be.