THE HISTORY OF LIFE.

DAY dawned.

Within a curtained room,

Filled to faintness with perfume,

A lady lay at point of doom.

Day closed. A child has seen the light,

But for the lady fair and bright,

She rested in undreaming night!

Spring came.

The lady's grave was green,

And near it oftentimes was seen

A gentle boy, with thoughtless mien.

Years fled. He wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won at last a lofty place.

And then HE DIED! Behold before ye
Humanity's brief sum and story,

Life, Death, and all there is of-Glory.

HOME WHERE THE HEART IS.

'Tis home where'er the heart is, Where'er its loved ones dwell, In cities, or in cottages,

Thronged haunts, or mossy dell! The heart 's a rover ever;

And thus on wave and wild

The maiden with her lover walks,
The mother with her child.

'Tis bright where'er the heart is;
Its fairy spells can bring
Fresh fountains to the wilderness,
And to the desert, spring.
There are green isles in each ocean,
O'er which affection glides;

And a haven on each distant shore,
When Love's the star that guides.

"Tis free where'er the heart is!
Nor chains, nor dungeons dim,
May check the mind's aspirings,
The spirit's pealing hymn!
The heart gives life its beauty,
Its glory, and its power;

'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream,
Soft dew upon its flower!

A NAME IN THE SAND.

ALONE I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped and wrote upon the sand

My name the year- the day.

As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
With
every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of Time, and been to be no more,
Of me
- my day— the name I bore,
To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know the lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part has wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.

MY YOUNGEST.

THEY say my youngest is a pet,
And has too much her way;
It can't be so, I think; and yet
I would not dare say, nay.

For if my memory serve me right,
And truth must be confessed,

Each youngest that has blessed my sight
Has seemed to be loved best.

The youngest came my age to cheer,— On her my love did fall.

'Tis not that she is loved the most,
But she is loved the last;

The youngest may my fondness boast,
But so could all the past.

My youngest, then, is not a pet,
More than each child before;

I think so, certainly — and yet
They say I love her more.

THE FATHERLESS.

"SPEAK Softly to the fatherless!
And check the harsh reply
That sends the crimson to the cheek,
The tear-drop to the eye.

“They have the weight of loneliness,
In this rude world to bear;
Then gently raise the fallen bud,
The drooping floweret spare.

"Speak kindly to the fatherless! The lowliest of their band God keepeth, as the waters,

In the hollow of his hand.

""Tis sad to see life's evening sun
Go down in sorrow's shroud,
But sadder still when morning's dawn
Is darkened by the cloud.

"Deal gently with these little ones, Be pitiful; and He,

The friend and father of us all,

Shall gently deal with thee!"