RAIN ON THE ROOF.

COATES KINNEY.

W

HEN the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres,

And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in

rainy tears,

What a bliss to press the pillow of a cottagechamber bed,

And to listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start,
And a thousand recollections weave their air-threads into woof,
As I listen to the patter of the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother, as she used, in years

agone,

To regard the darling dreamers ere she left them till the dawn:

So I see her leaning o'er me, as I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with the wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother-a serene angelic pair-

RAIN ON THE ROOF.

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Glide around my wakeful pillow, with their praise or mild reproof,

As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes, to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, that her heart was all untrue:

I remember but to love her with a passion kin to pain,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadence that can work with such a spell

In the soul's mysterious fountains, whence the tears of rapture well,

As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS.

BYRON.

There be none of beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sounds were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

A. POPE.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame,
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath,
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes: it disappears:
Heaven opens on my eyes: my ears
With sounds seraphic ring.
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave, where is thy victory?

O Death, where is thy sting?

BISHOP KEN'S DOXOLOGY.

Thomas Ken was born in England, in 1637, and died there in 1710. His morning hymn, which ends with this doxology, was written in 1697, at Oxford, for the students in Winchester College. Mr. H. Butterworth, in his "Story of the Hymns," says this unparalleled doxology "is suited to all religious occasions, to all Christian denominations, to all times, places, and conditions of men, and has been translated into all civilized tongues, and adopted by the church universal. Written more than two hundred years ago, it has become the grandest tone in the anthem of earth's voices continually rising to heaven. As England's drum-call follows the sun, so the tongues that take up this grateful ascription of praise are never silent, but incessantly encircle the earth with their melody." The stanza has been somewhat changed by the hymn-tinkers, as the original reads:

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow:
Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye angelic host,
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost."