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Deep horror, then, my vitals froze,
When suddenly a star arose,-
It was my guide, my light, my all,
Now, safely moored-my perils o'er,
The Star-the Star of Bethlehem !
H. K. WHITE.
Be wise to day, 'tis madness to defer ;
THE TWO ANGELS.
Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Pass'd o'er the village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses, hears'd with plumes of smoke.
Their attitude and aspect were the same,
Alike their features and their robes of white, And one was crowned with Amaranths flame, And one with Asphodels, like flakes of light.
I saw them pause on their celestial way,
Then said I, with deep fear, and doubt oppress'd,
"Beat not so loud my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!”
And he who wore the crown of Asphodels,
I recognised the nameless agony,
The terror, and the tremor, and the pain That oft before had thrilled and haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again.
The door I opened to my heavenly guest,
And knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best,
Then, with a smile that filled the house with light,
"My errand is not death, but life," he said; And ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped.
'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the Amaranthine wreath Pausing descended, and with voice divine, Whisper'd a sound that had a sound like Death!
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin,
And softly from that hush'd and darken'd room Two angels issued, where but one went in!
All is of God! if He but wave his hand, The mists collect, the rains fall thick and loud,
Till, with a smile of light, on sea and land,
Angels of Life and Death alike are His,
Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish, or dare, believing this, Against His messengers to shut the door? H. W. LONGFELLOW.
A CHILD was playing in a garden, a merry little child, [happy fancies; Bounding with triumphant health, and full of His kite was floating in the sunshine-but he tied the string to a twig,
And ran among the roses to catch a new-born butterfly:
His horn-book lay upon a bank, but the pretty truant hid it,
Buried up in gathered grass and moss and sweet wild thyme;
He launched a paper boat upon the fountain, then wayward turn'd aside
To twine some fragrant jessamines about the dripping marble: [of manhoood, So, in various pastimes, shadowing the schemes That curly-headed boy consumed the golden hours; [merry little child, And I blessed his glowing face, envying the As he shouted with the ecstacy of being, clapping his hands for joyfulness,
For I said, "Surely, Oh life! thy name is happiness and hope,
Thy days are bright, thy flowers are sweet,
PRINTED BY J. S. CLARKE, MARKET-PLACE,