When through the peaceful parish swells
The music of the Sabbath-bells,
Duly tread the sacred road
Which leads you to the house of God;
The blessing of the Lamb is there,
And “ God is in the midst of her.”

And oh! where'er your days be passed,
And oh! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on Him whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Abroad, at home, in weal, in wo,
That service which to Heaven you owe,
That bounden service duly pay,
And God shall be your strength alway.
He only to the heart can give
Peace and true pleasure while you live;
He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you through the vale of death.
He can, He will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound, hush every fear;
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell for evermore.

FELICIA HEMANS.

Mrs. HEMANS was born in Liverpool on the 21st of September, 1793. Her history is well known. An unhappy marriage embittered the larger part of her life, and after an illness singularly protracted and painful, she died, in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835. The most remarkable characteristics of Mrs. Hemans's poetry are a religious purity and a womanly delicacy of feeling, never exaggerated, rarely forgotten. Writing less of love, in its more special acceptation, than most female poets, her poems are still unsurpassed in feminine tenderness. Devotion to God, and quenchless affection for kindred, for friends, for the suffering, glow through all her writings. Her sympathies were not universal. They appear often to be limited by country, creed, or condition; and she betrays a reverent admiration for rank, power, and historic renown. Yet as the poet of home, a painter of the affections, she was perhaps the most touching and beautiful writer of her age. The tone of her poetry is indeed monotonous; it is pervaded by the tender sadness which forever preyed upon her spirit, and made her an exile from society; but it is all informed with beauty, and rich with most apposite imagery and fine descriptions. Many editions of the works of Mrs. Hemans have appeared in this country, of which the best, indeed the only one that has any pretensions to completeness, is that of Lea and Blanchard, in seven volumes, with a preliminary notice by Mrs. Sigourney.

THE AGED PATRIARCH.

Of life's past woes, the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch's face
Expression, holy, deep, resigned,
The calm sublimity of mind.

Years o'er his snowy head have passed,
And left him of his race the last;
Alone on earth, but yet his mien
Is bright with majesty serene;

And those high hopes, whose guiding star
Shines from eternal worlds afar,
Have with that light illumed his eye,
Whose fount is immortality,
And o'er his features poured a ray
Of glory not to pass away :
He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone;

On earth by naught but pity's tie,
Detained a moment from on high ;
One to sublimer worlds allied,
Onc from all passions purified :
E'en now half-mingled with the sky,
And all prepared, oh! not to die,
But, like the prophet, to aspire
To heaven's triumphal car of fire.

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

FEAR was within the tossing bark,

When stormy winds grew loud ; And waves came rolling high and dark,

And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,

And baffled in their skill ;
But One was there, who rose and said

To the wild sea, “ Be still !"
And the wind ceased-it ceased—that word

Passed through the gloomy sky; The troubled billows knew their Lord,

And sank beneath his eye.
And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast :
As when the righteous fall asleep,

When death's fierce throes are past.

Thou, that didst rule the angry hour,

And tame the tempest's mood, Oh! send thy Spirit forth in power,

O'er our dark souls to brood.

Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride,

Thy mandates to fulfil,-
So speak to passion's raging tide,

Speak and say,—“Peace, be still !"

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

'Twas early day—and sunlight streamed

Soft through a quiet room
That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed-

Still, but with naught but gloom,
For there, secure in happy age,

Whose hope is from above,
A father communed with the page

Of heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright

On his gray holy hair,
And touched the book with tenderest light,

As if its shrine were there ;
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone

With something lovelier far-
A radiance all the spirits own,

Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met

His calm benignant eye;
Some ancient promise breathing yet

Of immortality;
Some heart's deep language, where the glow

Of quenchless faith survives ; For every feature said, “I know

That my Redeemer lives.”

And silent stood his children by,

Husbing their very breath
Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death ;
Silent-yet did not each young breast,

With love and reverence melt ?
Oh! blest be those fair girls—and blest

That home where God is felt.

THE BETTER LAND.

“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 on 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 ruhy 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!