I strive with yearnings vain,
This spirit to detain,

Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore, disturbing dreams

Trouble the secret streams

And founts of music that o'erflow my breast;
Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine,

Haunts my worn heart and will not let me rest.
Shall I then fear the tone

That breathes from worlds unknown ?-
Surely these feverish aspirations there
Will grasp their full desire,

And this unsettled fire
Burn, calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

One more then-one more strain,
To earthly joy and pain,

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell !
I pour each fervent thought

With fear, hope, trembling fraught,

Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.

MRS. HEMANS.

IRAD, A SON OF CAIN,

On the Summit of Ararat-the Flood rising-the Ark seen in the distance.

Flash on, ye lightnings! till ye've wrenched
Earth's last torn bough away!

Rise, rise ye waters! till ye have quenched
The sickly eye of day!

Here, on this parting speck of land,
Defying thee and death, I stand

Life's latest thing of clay,

Whose dust may into darkness fall,
Whose spirit shall survive ye all.

Sun, fare-thee-well! death's rolling haze
Swathes round thy god-like hue;
Ah! how unlike those happy days,
When, on the mountain's blue,

We worshipped thy departing light-
The brave the beautiful-the bright!
Now, to my lonely view,

Thou look'st amid each closing cloud,
Like earth's last spirit in its shroud.—

Hark! from their everlasting thrones
The giant hills are hurled,
While roused creation madly groans
As ruin clasps the world!
The mighty eagles that have flown
For many a day, now weary grown,
With their strong pinions furled,
Fall screaming in that ocean's war,
Whose billows roll without a shore.

Hell laughs at Heaven, whose lightning sears
The millions such as I,

Who never dream'd in happier years,
In the wild deep to die!

Their countless forms float past me now,
With faded cheek and ghastly brow,
With dim and blood-shot eye,
Fix'd where is heard Jehovah's voice
In thunder, bidding death rejoice!

Thou ocean! thunder yet, and flash
Above the highest hill;

But there is none to hear thee dash-
The soul of life is still;

None but those dwellers of the Ark
Can list, from their sky-guarded bark,
The great Eternal's will,

Yet can they lift the voice of praise
Lone in the Earth of their young days.

(the Ark passes by.)

Drift on, proud bark of God !-drift on,
I seek no home in thee;

I could not live when there are none
To taste life's cup with me!

Earth's young and beautiful are dead,
Her glorious millions perished-

Their grave is in the sea :

Then be my home, where death has hurl'd

The joys of an extinguished world!

(He springs off the rock, and the ark passes on.)

D. MOORE.

THE DYING GIRL'S LAMENT.

Why does my mother steal away
To hide her struggling tears;
Her trembling touch betrays uncheck'd
The secret of her fears;

My father gazes on my

face

With yearning earnest eye;

And yet there's none among them all,
To tell me I must die!

My little sisters press around

My sleepless couch, and bring
With eager hands their garden gift,
The first sweet buds of spring;
I wish they'd lay me where those flowers
Might lure them to my bed,

When other Springs and Summers bloom,
And I am with the dead.

The sunshine quivers on my cheek,
Glitt'ring, and gay, and fair,
As if it knew my hand too weak,
To shade me from its glare!
How soon 'twill fall unheeded on
This death-dew'd glassy eye!
Why do they fear to tell me so?
I know that I must die.

The summer winds breathe softly through

My lone, still, dreary room;

A lonelier and a stiller one

Awaits me in the tomb !

But no soft breeze will whisper there,
No mother hold my head!

It is a fearful thing to be

A dweller with the dead!

Eve after eve the sun prolongs
His hour of parting light,

And seems to make my farewell hours
Too fair, too heavenly bright!
I know the loveliness of earth,
I love the evening sky!
And I should not murmur, if
They told me I must die.

My playmates turn aside their heads
When parting with me now,
The nurse that tended me a babe,
Now soothes my aching brow.
Ah! why are those sweet cradle-hours
Of joy and fondling fled?

Not e'en my parents' kisses now
Could keep me from the dead!

Our Pastor kneels beside me oft,
And talks to me of Heaven;
But with a holier vision still,

My soul in dreams hath striven:
I've seen a beckoning hand that call'd
My faltering steps on high;

I've heard a voice that trumpet-tongued,
Bade me prepare to die!

They whisper! Hark! what stifling sobs
Burst from my mother's breast;
They should not grieve that one so young
Is hastening home to rest!

My father bends with warning voice,
Oh! that his words were said!
If I should tremble now, he'd weep
When I am with the dead!

He clasps me in his struggling arms,
He strives to speak-in vain!

Ah! whence this bitter anguish ?—GOD
Be with me in my pain!

Sisters, draw nearer !

-Mother, raise

MRS. GORE.

ye not

Say is not this to die?

THE WORLD WE HAVE NOT SEEN.

There is a world we have not seen,
That time shall never dare destroy;
Where mortal footstep hath not been,
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy.

There is a region lovelier far

Than sages tell or poets sing;
Brighter than summer beauties are,
And softer than the tints of spring.

There is a world—and O, how blest !—
Fairer than prophets ever told;
And never did an angel guest

One half its blessedness unfold:

It is all holy and serene,

The land of glory and repose;
And there to dim the radiant scene,
The tear of sorrow never flows.

It is not fanned by summer gale,
'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers.
It never needs the moon-beam pale,
For there are known no evening hours

No for this world is ever bright
With a pure radiance all its own;

The streams of uncreated light

Flow round it from the Eternal Throne.

There forms that mortals may not see,

Too glorious for the eye to trace,

And clad in peerless majesty,

Move with unutterable grace.

In vain the philosophic eye

May seek to view the fair abode,

Or find it in the curtained sky:

It is THE DWELLING PLACE OF GOD.