They had told him tales of the sunny lands That rose over Indian seas, Where gold shone glancing from river sands And strange fruit bent the trees; They had wiled him away from his father's hearth Now, that fruit and the river gems were near, And he strayed 'neath the tropic sun, But the voice of promise that thrilled in his ear, And the hope he had chased, 'mid the wilds of night Oh I have watched him gazing long Oh well I knew that that weary breast, There was a 'worm i' the bud,' whose fold Consumption's hectic plague-spot told A tale of a broken heart. The boy knew he was dying, but the sleep He died—but memory's wizard power To the dark heart's ruins, at that last hour, Oh talk of Spring to the trampled flower, Of glory to those that in danger's hour Lay cold on the fields of war; But ye mock the exile's heart when ye tell Of ought but the home where it pines to dwell! A. B. P. HEART'S EASE.. I used to love thee, simple flower, For thou did'st seem in childhood's hour, The smiling type of childhood's joy. But now thou only mock'st my grief, For that ne'er tells of what has been, I love thee not, thou simple flower, Anon. WHAT IS TIME? I asked an aged man, a man of cares,— Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled; From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, 'Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode.' I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide Of life had left his veins, Time,' he replied, 'I've lost it! Ah! the treasure!' and he died, years; I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, I asked the seasons, in their annual round, That pierced my soul-I shudder while I speak! It cried, A particle-a speck-a mite Of endless years-duration infinite!': I asked old. Father Time, himself, at last, But, in a moment, he flew swiftly past, His chariot was a cloud-the viewless wind, His noiseless steeds which left no trace behind. One foot on sea, and one on solid land, By Heaven,' he cried,' I swear the mystery's o'er, 'Time was,' he cried, but Time shall be no more." Rev. Joshua Marsden, ON RECEIVING INTELLIGENCE OF A YOUNG FRIEND'S DEATH IN INDIA. Little grief disturbed our breasts that hour, Yes! she bade us check the bursting tears, And pointed out, 'mid the circle of years, Some joyful morrow, when safe to home, |