LIKE thy first Sister, when her years were few,
And Nature through her gentlest instinct taught,
(Till Time the Soul's bright pinions outward drew,
And Reason with Imagination wrought,)

Mayst thou take note

as a good child should do Of all things best in her, of deed and thought: Mayst thou be prudent, wise, sweet-tempered, true, Trustful, but by no specious error caught;

God bless thee! May thy blameless life be hung

With garlands of delight! May Peace, the dove, Dwell in thine heart through long and prosperous days! May Truth e'er warn thee with an Angel's tongue! May Earth's best children meet thy love with love; And Heaven smile on thee in a thousand ways!

WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH.

I.

THE PYRAMIDS.

WHENCE and what are ye, or what have ye been?
So the dwarfed pilgrim of the desert sand
Cries, wondering. On Eternity's lone strand,
Unwept by Time's dark waters, they are seen
(Each like that giant old of hoar Cyllene
Who propped the starry axle with his hand)
The Caryatides of Heaven, to stand
In calm and noiseless majesty serene.
Ah! not the minions of an idol fane,

But monuments of Hope, ye tower sublime,
To show despairing man his soul shall reign
Immortal, in some bright and glorious clime,
If thus the labors of his hand remain
Triumphant over Death, and Fate, and Time!

II.

NIPPED BUDS BETTER THAN LATER DISAPPOINTMENTS.

WHO wishes the wild wind to blow, nor grieves
To see spring buds of promise falling down,
As brief as they are fair, before the brown
And faded wreaths the last year's tempest leaves?
There had the small birds on long summer eves

Sung, careless how sere Autumn, with his crown
Of amber beads and saffron-colored gown,

The widowed woods of all their bloom bereaves. Yet are the happiest of the happy they

(Did they but know their happiness) who go Before our hopes, those flowers of life, decay. They rest as soft and silent as the snow

By the sea-shore on some calm winter's day :
Alas! who would not wish the wind to blow!

THOMAS DOUBLEDAY.

I.

THE POET'S SOLITUDE.

THINK not the Poet's life—although his cell
Be seldom printed by the stranger's feet —
Hath not its silent plenitude of sweet :
Look at yon lone and solitary dell;

The stream that loiters 'mid its stones can tell
What flowerets its unnoted waters meet,
What odors o'er its narrow margin fleet;

Ay, and the Poet can repeat as well ;–
The foxglove, closing inly, like a shell ;

The hyacinth; the rose, of buds the chief; The thorn, bediamonded with dewy showers; The thyme's wild fragrance, and the heather bell; All, all are there. So vain is the belief

That the sequestered path has fewest flowers.

II.

LIFE.

COME, track with me this little vagrant rill,
Wandering its wild course from the mountain's breast;
Now with a brink fantastic, heather-drest,

And playing with the stooping flowers at will;
Now moving scarce, with noiseless step and still :
Anon, it seems to weary of its rest,

And hurries on, leaping with sparkling zest
Adown the ledges of the broken hill.

So let us live. Is not the life well-spent

Which loves the lot that kindly Nature weaves
For all inheriting or adorning Earth?

Which throws light pleasure over true content,
Blossoms with fruitage, flowers as well as leaves,
And sweetens wisdom with a taste of mirth.