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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
With its light of peace and its voice of mirth.

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,
At that joyous time was gone;

And the hope he had chased, 'mid the wilds of night

Had melted away like a firefly's light.

Oh I have watched him gazing long

Where the homeward vessels lay,
Cheating sad thoughts with some old song,

And wiping his tears away.
Oh well I knew that that weary breast,
Like the dove of the deluge, pined for rest.

There was a 'worm i' the bud,' whose fold

Defied the leech's art,
Consumption's hectic plague-spot told

A tale of a broken heart.
The boy knew he was dying, but the sleep
Of death is bliss to those that' watch and weep.'

He died—but memory's wizard power

With its ghostlike train had come
To the dark heart's ruins, at that last hour,

And he murmured ' borne, home, home!'
And his spirit passed with its happy dream
Like a bird in the track of a bright sunbeam.

Oh talk of Spring to the trampled flower,

Of light to the fallen star,
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,
To love thee dearly when a boy,
For thou did'st seem in childhood's hour,
The smiling type of childhood's joy.

But now thou only mock'st my grief,
By waking thoughts of pleasure fled;
Give me,—give me the withered leaf,
That falls in Autumn's bosom dead.

For that ne'er tells of what has been,
But 'warns me what I soon shall be;
It looks not back on pleasure's scene,
But points unto futurity.

I love thee not, thou simple flower,
For thou art gay, and I am lone,
Thy beauty died with childhood's hour,
The hearts ease from my path is gone.

Anon.

WHAT,IS TIME?

I asked an aged man,—a man of cares,—
Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs;
'Time is the warp of life,' he said, ' Oh tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well.'
I asked the ancient venerable dead,—
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 I the treasure!' and he died.

I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,

Those bright chronometers of days and years; .

They answered, ' Time is but a meteor glare,'

And bade me for eternity prepare.

I asked the seasons, in their annual round,

Which beautify or desolate the ground;

And they replied, (no oracle more wise,)

'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize.'

I asked a spirit lost—but, Oh! the shriek

That pierced my soul—I shudder while I speak!

It cried, ' A particle—a speck—a mite

Of endless years—duration infinite!'

Of things inanimate,—my dial I

Consulted, and it made me this reply,

'Time is the season fair of living well,

The path of glory, or the road to hell.';

I asked my Bible, and methought it said,

'Time is the present hour, the past is fled,—

Live, live to-day! to-morrow never yet

On any human being rose or set.'

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.
I asked the mighty angel—who shall stand
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 Marsdtn.

ON RECEIVING INTELLIGENCE OF

A YOUNG FRIENDS DEATH IN INDIA.

Little grief disturbed our breasts that hour,

When from thee, my friend! we parted;

For Hope stood by, heart-soothing power!

And wiped off the tears that started.

Yes! she bade us check the bursting tears,
And drive away thoughts of sorrow,
And pointed out, 'mid the circle of years,
Some distant, yet joyful morrow.

Some joyful morrow, when safe to home,
We should hail thee again returning,

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