Bearing her onward to her finished race:

The common doom awaits her, “dust to dust;"
The young may soon receive it, but she must.
What is the Christian's course?— the Scriptures say,
"Brighter and brighter to the perfect day!"
Oh! does her earthly mind, her anxious heart,
Clinging to life, not longing to depart,

Her languid prayer, her graces dim and faint,
Meet that description of the growing saint?
Let her inquire (for far is spent the night)
If she be meeten'd for that world of light:
Where are her highest, best affections placed?—
Death may improve, but not reverse the taste:
Does she indeed the things of time prefer?
Then surely heaven could not be heaven to her.

"THE THINGS THAT ARE UNSEEN ARE ETERNAL."

THERE is a state unknown, unseen,

Where parted souls must be;

And but a step may be between
That world of souls and me.

The friend I loved has thither fled,
With whom I sojourned here:
I see no sight-I hear no tread,
But may she not be near?

I see no light-I hear no sound,
When midnight shades are spread;
Yet angels pitch their tents around,
And guard my quiet bed.

Jesus was wrapt from mortal gaze,

And clouds conveyed him hence; Enthroned amid the sapphire blaze, Beyond our feeble sense.

Yet say not - Who shall mount on high, To bring him from above?

For lo! the Lord is always nigh

The children of his love.

The Savior, whom I long have sought, And would, but cannot see

And is he here? O wondrous thought! And will he dwell with me?

I ask not with my mortal eye
To view the vision bright?
I dare not see Thee, lest I die;
Yet, Lord, restore my sight!

Give me to see Thee, and to feel-
The mental vision clear:
The things unseen reveal! reveal!
And let me know them near.

I seek not fancy's glittering height,
That charmed my ardent youth;
But in thy light would see the light,
And learn thy perfect truth.

The gathering clouds of sense dispel,
That wrap my soul around;
In heavenly places make me dwell,
While treading earthly ground.

Illume this shadowy soul of mine,
That still in darkness lies;

O let the light in darkness shine,
And bid the day-star rise!

Impart the faith that soars on high,
Beyond this earthly strife,

That holds sweet converse with the sky,
And lives Eternal Life!

EXPERIENCE.

How false is found, as on in life we go, Our early estimate of bliss and wo!

Some sparkling joy attracts us, that we fain Would sell a precious birth-right to obtain. There all our hopes of happiness are placed; Life looks without it like a joyless waste; No good is prized, no comfort sought beside; Prayers, tears implore, and will not be denied. Heaven pitying hears the intemperate, rude appeal, And suits its answer to our truest weal. The self-sought idol, if at last bestowed, Proves, what our wilfulness required Ne'er but as needful chastisement, is given

a goad;

The wish thus forc'd, and torn, and storm'd from heaven: But if withheld, in pity, from our prayer,

We rave, awhile, of torment and despair,

Refuse each proffered comfort with disdain,

And slight the thousand blessings that remain;

Meantime, Heaven bears the grievous wrong, and waits

In patient pity till the storm abates ;

Applies with gentlest hand the healing balm,

Or speaks the ruffled mind into a calm;

Deigning, perhaps, to show the mourner soon, 'T was special mercy that denied the boon.

Our blasted hopes, our aims and wishes crost Are worth the tears and agonies they cost; When the poor mind, by fruitless efforts spent, With food and raiment learns to be content. Bounding with youthful hope, the restless mind Leaves that divine monition far behind;

But tamed at length by suffering, comprehends
The tranquil happiness to which it tends,
Perceives the high-wrought bliss it aimed to share
Demands a richer soil, a purer air;

That 'tis not fitted, and would strangely grace
The mean condition of our mortal race;
And all we need, in this terrestrial spot,

Is calm contentment with "the common lot."

ACCOMPLISHMENT.

How is it that masters, and science, and art,
One spark of intelligence fail to impart,
Unless in that chemical union combined,
Of which the result, in one word, is a mind?

A youth may have studied, and travelled abroad,
May sing like Apollo, and paint like a Claude,
And speak all the languages under the pole,
And have every gift in the world, but a soul.

That drapery wrought by the leisurely fair,
Called patchwork, may well to such genius compare,

Wherein every tint of the rainbow appears,

And stars to adorn it are forced from their spheres.

There glows a bright pattern (a sprig, or a spot)
'T wixt clusters of roses full-blown and red hot;
Here magnified tulips divided in three,
Alternately shaded with sections of tree.

But when all is finished, this labor of years,
A mass unharmonious, unmeaning appears;
'Tis showy, but void of intelligent grace;
It is not a landscape—it is not a face.

'Tis thus Education, (so called in our schools,)
With costly materials, and capital tools,
Sits down to her work, if you duly reward her,
And sends it home finished according to order.

See French and Italian spread out on her lap;
Then Dancing springs up, and skips into a gap;
Next Drawing and all its varieties come,

Sewed down in her place by her finger and thumb.

And then, for completing her fanciful robes,
Geography, Music, the use of the Globes,
&c. &c., which, match as they will,
Are sewn into shape, and set down in the bill.

Thus Science distorted, and torn into bits,
Art tortured, and frightened half out of her wits;
In portions and patches, some light and some shady,
Are stitched up together, and make a young lady.