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,- Where she no longer needs our poor protection, Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. "HAST thou seen that lordly castle, The clouds float gorgeously. "And fain it would stoop downward "Well have I seen that castle, "The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?” "The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly; But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, "And sawest thou on the turrets And the wave of their crimson mantles, THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The sound of a door that is opened, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper, and then a silence: A sudden rush from the stair way, They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, Rev. Robert Montgomery. { Born 1807. Died 1855. LITTLE is known of his early history, and he first appears before the public in his nineteenth year, as the author of "The Inspector," a weekly publication. After the publication of some minor pieces, in 1828 appeared "The Omnipresence of the Deity," and in 1829, "Satan," &c., both of which had considerable popularity. Encouraged by his success as an author, Robert Montgomery studied for the church, and was ordained in 1835 curate of Whittington, in Shropshire. He removed in 1836 to Percy Street Chapel, London, and from thence to St Jude's Episcopal Church, Glasgow. He was very popular there, and drew large audiences. In 1843 he returned to Percy Street Chapel, where he continued till his death, on 3d December 1855. Besides the poems already referred to, he is a voluminous theological writer. FROM "SATAN." THEN, is there not a spirit-world?—The blind And feel what cannot in the flesh be known- On earth; by longings which no language speaks; By the dread torture of o'ermastering doubt; Now is mine hour, the hour of conflict come, Again, and Thought, within her cell retired, James Ballantine. Born 1808. AN Edinburgh poet, and author of some of the most exquisite songs in the Scottish dialect ever written. In 1856 he collected and published them in one volume. Mr Ballantine is also author of some amusing prose pictures of Scottish life. He is a master house-painter, and has gained great credit by his stained glass transparencies, and the art displayed in house decoration. ILKA BLADE O' GRASS. CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, Though pressed an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles, nae doubt ye've been, Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een, Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and clud less sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parch'd and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine, we should feel owre proud and hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or how, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. CASTLES IN THE AIR. THE bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in the ase, His wee chubby face, an' his tousy curly pow, He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld; He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by Night; Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken-heads are turned-wi' castles in the air. |