HERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours :
Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead-the child of our affection

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
As Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her,

For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child ;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

SONG TO CELIA.

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest;

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

LONGFELLOW.

Song to Celia.

RINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

BEN JONSON.

31

[HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, by far the most successful of the American poets, occupies a distinguished position in a New England University. He is an accomplished linguist, and his poems display the advantages of his careful studies, especially of German literature.]

Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm.

HE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land

The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly, to the listening earth,

Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings, as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball!

What though nor real voice, nor sound,
Amid their radiant orbs be found!

In Reason's ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice,

For ever singing, as they shine,

"The Hand that made us is Divine."

ADDISON.

[JOSEPH ADDISON, the masterly essayist, the elegant classic scholar, and, above all, the sincere Christian, was born in 1672, and educated at Oxford. He had reached his thirtieth year, and was still almost unknown to fame, when the poem of "The Campaign," written in celebration of Marlborough's earlier victories in the great war of the Spanish succession, brought him Court patronage and fortune. He held several high offices, and at last became one of the Under-secretaries of State. Addison's fame is more identified with "The Spectator" than with his poetry. His tragedy of "Cato" has always been popular. He died in 1719.]