"For ever," still those lips repeat, Thine be the glory evermore; C. SWAIN. HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. There rose the choral hymn of praise, Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, But present still, though now unseen! And, oh! when stoops on Judah's path, Our harps we left by Babel's streams, And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. SIR WALTER SCOTT. SUNSHINE AND SHOWER. Two children stood at their father's gate, And their eyes were bright, and their voices glad, For they said, "We will take that long, long walk, To the hawthorn copse to-day; And gather great bunches of lovely flowers From off the scented May; And oh! we shall be so happy there, "Twill be sorrow to come away!" As the children spoke, a little cloud But the other said, “Oh! heed it not; That little cloud may search the sky For other clouds, in vain." And soon the children's voices rose In merriment again. But ere the morning hours had waned And the children, in their nice warm room, For they said, "When we have aught in store, Now these two fair-haired sisters Had a brother out at sea; With the other sailors round him, Beyond, they saw the cool green land- But above them the burning noontide sun Their throats were parched with bitter thirst, And then that little cloud was sent, Their bark was landward driven. And some few mornings after, When the children met once more, And their brother told the story, When they had wished for sunshine,. And God had sent the shower! ANON. THE MARINER'S CHILD. Он, weep no more, sweet mother! Then the bright blue sky is joyful, But now the wind goes wailing O'er the dark and trackless deep; And I know your grief, sweet mother, Though I only hear you weep. My father's ship will come, mother, When the grapes are dyed with purple The vines were but in blossom When he bade me watch them grow; And now the large leaves, mother, Conceal their crimson glow. He'll bring us shells and sea-weed, I'll watch with thee, sweet mother, L. E. LANDON. CRESCENTIUS. I LOOKED upon his brow,- no sign He stood as proud by that death-shrine He had a power; in his eye A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake. He stood, the fetters on his hand,—– And had that grasp been on the brand, With freer pride than it waved now. Around he looked with changeless brow On many a torture nigh— The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel. I saw him once before: he rode And tens of thousands thronged the road His helm, his breast-plate were of gold, And graved with many a dent, that told Of many a soldier's deed; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale. But now he stood, chained and alone, The plume, the helm, the charger gone; The mightiest, lay broken near; And yet no sound nor sign of fear Came from that lip of |