The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled wayThere's nothing calm but Heaven!

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

WERE not the sinful Mary's tears

An offering worthy Heaven,
When o'er the faults of former years
She wept-and was forgiven ?-

When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stor❜d,

She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet
The precious perfume pour'd,-

And wip'd them with that golden hair,
Where once the diamond shone,

Though now those gems of Grief were there
Which shine for God alone!

Were not those sweets so humbly shed-
That hair-those weeping eyes-
And the sunk heart, that inly bled-
Heav'n's noblest sacrifice?

Thou, that hast slept in error's sleep,
Oh! would'st thou wake in heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
"Love much,"* and be forgiven!

ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DIED A FEW WEEKS
AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

WEEP not for those, whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies, Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it,

'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heav'n has unchain'd it,

To water that Eden, where first was its source !

*Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much."-St. Luke vil. 47.

Weep not for those, whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or Earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now ;

Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow; Oh! then was her moment, dear Spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown,

And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly in dying,
Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own!
Weep not for her-in her spring-time she flew
To that land, where the wings of the soul are
unfurl'd,

And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

"And Miram, the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."-Exod. xv. 21.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
JEHOVAH has triumph'd,-his people are free.

Sing-for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free.

Praise to the CONQUEROR, praise to the LORD,
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the LORD hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,* And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free.

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

WHO is the maid my spirit seeks,

Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No, wan and sunk with midnight pray'r,
Are the pale looks of her I love ;

*"And it came to pass, that in the morning watch, the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians." Exod. xiv. 24.

Or if, at times, a light be there,

Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my soul's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine,
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,

As if themselves were things divine!
No-Heav'n but faintly warms the breast,
That beats beneath a broider'd veil ;
And she, who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away!

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES.
THE bird, let loose in Eastern skies,*
When hastening fondly home,

* The Carrier Pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.