To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies;
Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile,
With that infant look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,
With the look and the voice of our darling boy-

Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts

He had twined about with his infant arts,

To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,
In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
From that bitter fount in the broken heart;
Cheering us still on our lonely way,

Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be,

Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.

Mrs. E. C. Kinney.

TO POWERS'S GREEK SLAVE.

BEAUTIFUL model of creative art!

My spirit feels the reverence for thee,
That felt the ancients for a deity:

And did the sculptor shape thee, part by part,

Fair, as if whole from Genius' mighty heart

Thou'dst sprung, like Venus from the foaming sea? Ah! not for show, in a disgraceful mart,

Is that calm look of conscious purity;
Nor should unhallowed eye presume to steal

A sensual glance, where holy minds would kneel,
As to some goddess in her virgin youth.
But who could shame in thy pure presence feel,

Save those who, false themselves, must shrink, forsooth,
From the mild lustre of ungarnished truth?

THE WOODMAN.

E shoulders his axe for the woods, and away

HE

Hies over the fields at the dawn of the day,
And merrily whistles some tune as he goes,
So heartily trudging along through the snows.

His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark,
Now sending afar the shrill tones of his bark—-
Then answering the echo that comes back again
Through the clear air of morn, over valley and plain

And now in the forest the woodman doth stand.
His eye marks the victims to fall by his hand,
While true to its aim is the ready axe found,

Ana quick do its blows through the woodland resound

The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form,
Whose freshness and strength have braved many a sto m
And the sturdy oak shakes that never trembled before,
Though the years of its glory outnumber threescore.

They fall side by side-just as man in his prime
Lies down with the locks that are whitened by time:
The trees which are felled into ashes will burn,
As man, by Death's blow, unto dust must return.

But twilight approaches: the woodman and dog Come plodding together through snow-drift and bog; The axe, again shouldered, its day's work hath done; The woodman is hungry-the dog wants his bone.

Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast!
But the brow of the woodman with thought is o'ercast:
He is conning a truth to be tested by all-
That man, like the trees of the forest, must fall.

Elizabeth J. Eames.

CROWNING OF PETRARCH.

ARRAYED in a monarch's royal robes,

With gold and purple gleaming,

And the broidered banners of the proud
Colonna o'er him streaming—
With the gorgeous pomp and

pageantry

Of the Anjouite's court attended, He came, that princely son of song:

And the haughtiest nobles rendered

Adoring homage to the laureate bard,

Whose sky was luminous-with fame and glory starred.

And following his triumphal car,
Rome's youthful sons came singing
His passion-kindled melodies,

With the silver clarion ringing
A prouder music—harp, and lute,
And lyre, all sweet sounds blending-.
And the orient sun-god on his way

In dazzling lustre bending:

And radiant flowers their gem-like splendour shed
O'er the proud march that to the Eternal City led '

In all its ancient grandeur was

That sceptred city dressed,
And pealing notes and plaudits rang

For him its sovereign guest:

The voice of the Seven Hills went up

From kingly hall and bower,

And throngs with laurel-boughs poured forth

To grace that triumph-hour;

While censers wafted rich perfume around,

And the glowing air with mirth and melody was crowned

On, onward to the Capi ›l,

Italia's children crowded

Over three hundred triumphs there

The sun had sat unclouded:

For crowned kings and conquerors haugh.

Had trod that path to glory,

And poets won bright wreaths and names
To live in song and story!

But ne'er before, king, bard, or victor came,

Winning such honours for his name and poet-famę

The glittering gates are passed, and he
Hath gained the imperial summit,
And deep rich strains of harmony
Are proudly floating from it:
Incense sunshine-and the swelling

Shout of a nation's heart beneath him,
Go up to his glorious place of pride,

While the kingly Orsos wreathe him!

Well may the bard's enraptured heart beat high, Filled with the exulting thought of his gift's bright victory.

Crowned one of Rome! from that lofty height

Thou wear'st a conqueror's seeming—

Thy dark, deep eye with the radiance

Of inspiration beaming;

Thou'st won the living wreath for which

Thy young ambition panted;

Thy aspiring dream is realized:

Hast thou one wish ungranted?

Kings bow to the might of thy genius-gifted mind; Hast thou one unattained hope, in the deep heart enshrined ?

O wreathed lord of the lyre of song!

Even then thy heart was haunted

With one wild and passionate wish to lay

That crown, a gift enchanted,

Low at her feet, whose smile was more

Than glory, fame, or power—

For whose dear sake was won, and worn,

The glittering laurel flower!

Oh, little worth thy bright renown to thee, Unshared by her, the star of thy idolatry!