He cometh, He cometh! the Lord he is near;
The earth it is reeling, all nature's in fear;
The earthquake's approaching, with terrible form;
But the Lord of Sabaoth is not in the storm.

He cometh, He cometh! the Lord is in ire;
The smoke is ascending, the mount is on fire;
O say, is Jehovah revealing his name!
He is near, but Jehovah is not in the flame.

He cometh, He cometh! the tempest is o'er;
He is come, neither tempest nor storm shall be more;
All nature reposes-earth, ocean, and sky,
Are still as the voice that descends from on high.

How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace,
When the still voice of pardon bids sorrow to cease----
When the welcome of mercy falls soft on the ear,
"Come hither, ye laden-ye weary, draw near!"

There is rest for the soul that on Jesus relies,
There's a home for the homeless prepared in the skies;
There's a joy in believing, a hope and a stay,
That the world cannot give, nor the world take away.

O had I the wings of a dove I would fly,

And mount on the pinions of faith to the sky,
Where the still and small breathing to earth that was given
Shall be changed to the anthem and chorus of heaven.

Mrs Hemans.

{

Born 1793.

Died 1834.

FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born at Liverpool, 25th September 1793, of respectable parents, who afterwards removed to St Asaph, in Wales. So early as the age of fifteen, she published a volume of poetry; and two years later, "The Domestic Affections, and other Poems." This volume brought her into immediate notice. The same year she married Captain Hemans. The marriage seems not to have been a very happy one, for, after the birth of five children, her husband set out on a visit to Italy, and they never met again. In 1819 she published "Sir William Wallace," a poem; and from this time till her death, a constant series of her works issued from the press. It is said of her, "that few have written so much and so well as she." About the year 1830, she removed to Dublin, where she superintended the education of her five boys, and where she died on 26th April 1834.

THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

THE wine month shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound through the Switzers' clime
Than the vintage music rung-

A sound through vaulted cave,

A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon'd streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long-
But amidst his Alp-domains,

The herdsman's arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they entered the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rang the while.

But on the misty height

Where the mountain people stood

There was stillness as of night,

When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness as of deep dead night,
And a pause-but not of fear—

While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.

On wound these columns bright

Between the lake and wood,

But they looked not to the misty height
Where the mountain people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,

With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown,
Oh! the herdsınan's arm is strong!

They came like lauwine hurled

From Alp to Alp in play,

When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,

And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!

The field-but not of sheaves:
Proud crests and pennons lay,

Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves
In the autumn tempest's way.

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore

Thou sat'st a queen.

Thou had'st thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptered men

Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore

As gods were seen-
Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise;

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,

Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With coloured light.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien;

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee,
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid,
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth!

Alas, for love! if thou wert all

And nought beyond, O earth!

William Cullen Bryant.

Born 1794.

He was born

AN American poet, son of a physician in Massachusetts. there on 3d November 1794. Bryant, so early as at ten years of age, published translations of the Latin poets; and at thirteen he wrote the "Embargo," famous in its day. He was intended for the bar, but he was so much interested in literary pursuits, that after a short trial he abandoned the law, and became successively editor of several New York papers, to which he contributed pieces of his poetry, some of which are exceedingly beautiful. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his poems. In 1834 he made the tour of Europe. His poems are only moderately appreciated in this country.

THE INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS

FATHERS.

IT is the spot I came to seek

My fathers' ancient burial-place,

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot-I know it well

Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge towards the river-side;

I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains that, towards the eastern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.