They sin, who tell us love can die:
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity;
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But love is indestructible;
Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppress'd,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,

An over-payment of delight?

1 “We must not ridicule a passion which he who never felt, never was happy; and he who laughs at, never deserves to feel-a passion which has caused the change of empires, and the loss of worlds a passion which has inspired heroism and subdued avarice."-JOHNSON.

"What higher in her society thou find'st
Attractive, human, rational, love still;
In loving thou dost well, in passion not,
Wherein true love consists not: love refines

The thoughts, and heart enlarges, hath his seat

In reason, and is judicious; is the scale

By which to heavenly love thou may'st ascend,

Not sunk in carnal pleasure."-Paradise Lost, viii. 586.

And is not thy weak work like human schemes

And care on earth employ'd?

Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams,
So easily destroy'd!

So does the statesman, while the avengers sleep,
Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay;
Soon shall destruction sweep

His work away.

Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more
May yet the verse prolong,

For, spider, thou art like the poet poor,
Whom thou hast help'd in song;

Both busily our needful food to win,

We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless painsThy bowels thou dost spin,

I spin my brains.

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.

"And wherefore do the poor complain ?"
The rich man ask'd of me;

"Come walk abroad with me," I said,
"And I will answer thee."

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold;

And we were wrapp'd and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old, bareheaded man,
His locks were thin and white;
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.

The cold was keen, indeed, he said-
But at home no fire had he;
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young barefooted child,
And she begg'd loud and bold;
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a bed;

And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;

She had a baby at her back,

And another at her breast.

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,

When the night-wind was so chill;
She turn'd her head, and bade the child
That scream'd behind, be still;-

Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away;

And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.

I turn'd me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he:

"You ask'd me why the poor complain;
And these have answer'd thee!"

AUTUMN SKETCH.

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain The azure heaven; the blessed sun alone,

In unapproachable divinity,

Career'd, rejoicing in the fields of light.

How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows' heave! one glowing green expanse,

in time

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried;
"The few locks which are left you are gray.

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man!
Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
That I never might need them at last."

'You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away,

And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remember'd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;
"Let the cause thy attention engage:

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
And He hath not forgotten my age!"

REMEMBRANCE.

The remembrance of youth is a sigh.—ALI.

Man hath a weary pilgrimage,

As through the world he wends;
On every stage, from youth to age,
Still discontent attends;

With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,

And still remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.

To school the little exile goes,

Torn from his mother's arms-
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms?
Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours
Before his wish'd return.