They but wake from their sleep, and their spirits have fled

They but wake into life, to repose with the dead.

And there lay the infant still smiling in death, And scarce heaved its breast as it yielded its breath; And there laythe boy, yet in youth's budding bloom, With the calmness of sleep-but the hue of the tomb!

And there fell the youth in the pride of his prime, In the morning of life-in the spring-tide of crime: And unnerved is that arm, and fast closed is that eye,

And cold is that bosom which once beat so high.

And the fond mother's hope, and the fond father's trust,

And the widow's sole stay, are returning to dust: Egypt has not a place where there is not one dead, From the proud monarch's palace to penury's shed.

And the hearths of that country are desolate now. And the crown of her glory is struck from her brow: But while proud Egypt trembles, all Israel is free— Unfetter'd-unbound, as the wave of the sea.

THE BETTER LAND.

Mrs. Hemans.

I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother, oh! where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs?
Not there, not there, my child.

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies,
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?
Not there, not there, my child.

Is it far away in some region old,

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,

And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?
Not there, not there, my child.

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy,
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy,
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there,
Time doth not breathe on its faultless bloom,
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child.

THERE IS A FRIEND WHICH STICKETH

CLOSER THAN A BROTHER.

Barton.

THOUGH Sunless, moonless, starless seem

Each sufferer's lonely state,

There is a light, whose cheering beam
Its gloom can dissipate :

It comes with healing on its wings,

And heavenly radiance round it flings!

It rises on the darken'd mind
With lustre brighter far

Than that to outward orb assign'd,

Of sun, or moon, or star;

And matchless in its mild control

Over the desolate in soul.

There is a Friend more tender, true,
Than brother e'er can be ;
Who, when all others bid adieu,
Remains the last to flee;

Who, be their pathway bright or dim,
Deserts not those who turn to Him.

The heart by Him sustain'd, though deep
Its anguish, still can bear;

The soul he condescends to keep,
Shall never know despair;

In nature's weakness, sorrow's night,
God is its strength, its joy, its light.

He is the Friend who changeth not,
In sickness or in health;
Whether on earth our transient lot

Be poverty or wealth;

In joy or grief, contempt or fame,

To all who seek Him, still the same!

Of human hearts he holds the key;

Is friendship meet for ours?
Oh! be assured that none but he
Unlocks its purest powers;

He can recall the lost, the dead,
Or give us dearer in their stead.

Of earthly friends, who finds them true,
May boast a happy lot;

But happier still, life's journey through,
Is he who needs them not:

A heavenly Friend-to know we need,
To feel we have-is bliss indeed.

ADAM'S MORNING ADORATION.

Milton.

THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable; who sit'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare