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Whose voices blend in a mysterious hymn
Of liquid melody, that fills the night
With worldless worship to the Living God;
Worship far more appropriate and pure
Than all the studied harmony of words
That man has mind to frame, or voice to

chant.
Flashing like ice-drops in the morning beam,
A group of glorious creatures swept along :
First, one of lofty and majestic mien,
And strange and dreamy beauty, which the

eye

Could gaze upon forever, and not tire.
Her foot upon the snow-drift left no print,
And waked no echo; silently and swift
She moved, like a bright dream, all únadorn'd
Save her own heavenly beauty. In one hand
She held the seal of fate and key to heaven;
The other grasp'd a sceptre of strange power,
The touch of which changes all things on

earth,
And writes on all life's glories, “ Vanity.”
I knew the silent angel ; she is Time,
The eldest daughter of Eternity ;-
Immortal youth and chastity are hers.

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At her side
With measured solemn pace, and weary air,

A fair ethereal creature held her way;
Her feet were staind with blood, and her dark

locks Were thickly gemm’d with tears, and deep sad

sighs Were breathing round her, like the atmosphere Which the green nightshade gathers round its

bower. Her ample robe, which had been purely white, Was written o’er with myriad tales of sin, And dark deceit, and suffering, and woe; While glittering here and there, like radiant

gems, Amid the dross and blackness of the mine, Worthy and generous deeds were chronicled, And penitential tears were sprinkled o’er, In beautiful relief to the dark lines That spoke of shame and wrong. She bore a

vase, Filled with sweet faded flowers which she had

torn From many a bleeding stem.

Hark! A deep peal Startled the dreaming midnight, and a sigh Heaved the dark bosoms of the solemn wood, And died in cold dark silence. Lo! a sound, And a young regal spirit was display'd

In robes of glistening white. A radiant smile Play'd o'er her features, like the morning

beam Upon the robe of May. Her right hand bore A dewy cluster of the richest balm That ever grew on Gilead. But a sword, Keen as the quivering lightning, graced her

left. “Sister!" she cried, as the Old Year advanced, “God calls thee to thy rest. I come to bring Healing unto the wounds that thou hast made, And to inflict others as dread and deep.” They joined their hands a moment, while the

winds Paused on their moonlit pinions. Then young

Hope Came with her magic smile, and golden curls, Gemm'd with sweet dewy buds from the wild

rose; Her silver lute was perfectly in tune, And warbled symphony to all her songs Of soul-enthralling promise. Gracefully She led the welcome New Year. But I saw Time walking still beside them, unperceived By those who revell’d in their joyousness. The Old Year dropp'd the pale flowers from her

grasp; Gather'd her robe of record round her form,

And the pavilion of Eternity
Inclosed her in its misty drapery,
And she was gone forever. Then remained,
Of all the pageant of that midnight chime,
One pensive angel, with bright fragrant tears
Upon her smiling beauty. Carefully
She gather'd from the snow those scatter'd

flowers, Wreath'd them in garlands for her breast and

brow, And sung such sweet sad legends of their

bloom, Mingling their incense with her tuneful song, That the pent waters of my swollen heart

gushed And flowed in cooling drops o'er all the wounds That burned within my bosom. Memory! How kind thou art, thus to preserve life's flow

ers, And soothe the mourning spirit with thy hymn, When years have past, and Hope sped gayly

by, To dwell with young glad hearts.

MRS. L. J. PEIRSON.

Xouthful friendship.

The days of youthful friendship,
When heart to heart is lightly bound
In rosy wreaths that bind them round,

More beautiful than strong;
And, even in breaking, scatter flowers,
The rapid growth of sunny hours,
That heal their wounds ere long.

MRS. A. M. WELLS.

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Friendship's Entuence.

Thet

Is

And

I am now
Happy in quiet feelings ; for the tones
Of a most pleasant company of friends
Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts
From spirits whose high character I know;
And I retain their influence, as the air
Retains the softness of departed day.

WILLIS.

W

'T

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