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No mingling voices sound ;

An infant wail alone,
A sob suppressed ; again
That short, deep gasp--and then

The parting groan !
O change ! O wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars :
This moment there, so low,
So agonised-and now

Beyond the stars !
O change! stupendous change !

There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks,
The new immortal wakes-

Wakes with his God.

NOTHING TO DO.

By Rev. W. J. MATHAMS. Nothing to do ! in a world like this,

With thousands round us dying; Nothing to do! when at every turn

Children for bread are crying. Nothing to do! while widows weep

O'er those now past returning;
With helpless little lives to keep,

Too little to be earning.
Nothing to do! while England's fame

Is trampled down in the dust;
And th’sword doth shine with its work of crime,

And the good old plough doth rust.
Nothing to do ! while men can dare

To spill the blood of brothers ;
And on battle plains lie wounded boys

Of broken-hearted mothers.
Nothing to do! while the burning tongue

Of him in fever raging,
Cries out for water thou couldst bring,

His inward fires assuaging.
Nothing to do ! while God's dear love

Is spurned for the sake of gold ;
And the souls of men in His Church

Like cattle are bought and sold.

Nothing to do! while the drunken fool

Reels back to his cheerless home,
And smites the face which once he kissed,

And in murder seals his doom.

Nothing to do ! while banks do break,

And thieves are great and high;
And the simple souls who trusted them

In penury weep and die.
Nothing to do ! while heathens wait

For words of the better life,
To steal the gloom from eternity,

And end their years of strife.
Nothing to do! are men so weak

As not to feel their blindness ?
As not to bless the hand that seeks

To do a deed of kindness ?

Nothing to do! oh, basest lie

Which blasts the lips with a curse ;
For he who these evils passeth by

Himself shall suffer worse.

Nothing to do ! say, wilt thou dare,

With the judgment-throne in view,
To utter these words of guilt and shame,

"Oh God, I had nothing to do”?

THE DISSIPATED HUSBAND. He comes not; I have watch'd the moon go down, But yet he comes not. Once it was not so ; He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, The while he holds his riot in the town. Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep, And he will wake my infant from its sleep, To blend its feeble wailing with my tears ; Oh ! how I love a mother's watch to keep Over those sleeping eyes, that smile which cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow fix'd and deep. I had a husband once who lov'd me; now He ever wears a frown upon his brow, And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, As bees from laurel-flowers a poison sip;

But yet I cannot hate. Oh! there were hours
When I could hang for ever on his eye ;
And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strewed, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then : he loved me too : my heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile ;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often stings me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and wastes upon the vile,
Caresses which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness; and should sickness come and lay
Its paralysing hand on him, then
I would with kindness all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep and say
How injured ! and how faithful I had been ! •

WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.

L. H. SIGOURNEY.
Deal gently thou, whose hand hath won

The young bird from its nest away,
Where careless, 'neath the vernal sun,

She gaily carolled day by day ;
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,

From whence her timid wing doth soar;
They pensive list at hush of eve,

Yet hear her gushing song no more. Deal gently with her; thou art dear,

Beyond what vestal lips have told, And, like a lamb from fountains clear,

She turns confiding to thy fold ; She, round thy sweet domestic bower

The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, Watch for thy step at vesper hour,

And blend her holiest prayer with thine. Deal gently thou, when, far away,

’Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender care decay

The soul of woman lives in love ;
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear,

Unconscious, from her eyelids break,
Be pitiful, and soothe the fear

That man's strong heart may no'er partake,

A mother yields her gem to thee,

On thy true breast to sparkle rare ;
She places 'neath thy household tree

The idol of her fondest care :
And by thy trust to be forgiven,

When Judgment wakes in terror wild,
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven,
Deal gently with the widow's child.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

BY MRS. HEMANS. It is recorded of Henry I., that, after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished by shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

The barque that held a prince went down,

The sweeping waves roll’d on;
And what was England's glorious crown

To him that wept a son ?
He lived—for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain :
Why comes not death to those who mourn ?

He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms before his throne,

The stately and the brave ;
But which could fill the place of one,

That one beneath the wave ?
Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train ;
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair-

He never smiled again !
He sat where festal bowls went round;

He heard the minstrel sing ;
He saw the tourney's victor crown'd

Amidst the knightly ring ;
A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep

He never smiled again !
Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace

Of vows once fondly pour’d,
And strangers took the kinsman's place

At many a joyous board ;

Graves, which true love had bath'd with tears,

Were left to heaven's bright rain ;
Fresh hopes were born for other years

He never smiled again !

THE DYING SAILOR.

By G. CRABBE, He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message : “Thomas, I must die. Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And, gazing, go! If not, this trifle take, And say till death I wore it for her sake : Yes; I must die. Blow on, sweet breeze, blow on ! Give me one look before my life be gone ; Oh ! give me that, and let me not despair, One last fond look, and now repeat the prayer.” He had his wish-had more. I will not paint The lovers' meeting : she beheld him faintWith tender fears she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew; He tried to smile, and, half-succeeding, said, “Yes, I must die ;" and hope for ever fled. Still long she nurs'd him ; tender thoughts, meantime, Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away : With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read, Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head; She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer ; Apart, she sigh'd ; alone, she shed the tear ; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think, Yet said not so, Perhaps he will not sink ;" A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, A sudden vigour in his voice was heard. She had been reading in the book of prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair : Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew, The friendly many and the favourite few;

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