The world is but a broken reed,

And life grows early dim

Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up to Him?

He, who himself was "undefiled?"

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.

'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice-
And for her step we listen-and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming-with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel

That she will no more come-that from her cheek

The delicate flush has faded, and the light

Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,
That was so exquisitely pure, the dew

Of the damp grave has fallen! Who so loved,
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright brief journey gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was loved
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere-the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And, in the light and music of her way,

Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish? It is like

The melting of a star into the sky

While you are gazing on it, or a dream

In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.

z 2

MAY.

Он, the merry May has pleasant hours,
And dreamily they glide,

As if they floated like the leaves
Upon a silver tide;

The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,

And the waters flow to music,

Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land

Is creeping to the hills,

The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets

Are blowing by the rills; The lilach has a load of balm

For every wind that stirs,

And the larch stands green and beautiful

Amid the sombre firs.

There's perfume upon every wind

Music in every tree

Dews for the moisture-loving flowers

Sweets for the sucking bee:

The sick come forth for the healing South,

The young are gathering flowers;

And life is a tale of poetry,

That is told by golden hours.

It must be a true philosophy,

That the spirit when set free

Still lingers about its olden home,

In the flower and the tree,

For the pulse is stirr'd as with voices heard
In the depth of the shady grove,

And while lonely we stray through the fields away

The heart seems answering love.