Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, — It is there, it is there, my child !" THE HOUR OF DEATH. And stars to set—but all, Day is for mortal care, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer: But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, There comes a day for grief's o’erwhelming power, A time for softer tears,—but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose And smile at thee--but thou art not of those Leaves have their time to fall, And stars to set—but all, We know when moons shall wane, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain : But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ?— They have one season--all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art around us in our peaceful home, Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And stars to set-but all, HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRISTIAN. For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! By the touch of the mountain sod. Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod; Our God, our fathers' God ! We are watchers of a beacon Whose lights must never die ; Midst the silence of the sky; Struck forth as by thy rod, - Our God, our fathers' God ! For the dark, resounding heavens, Where thy still small voice is heard, For the strong pines of the forests, That by thy breath are stirred ; For the storms on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master Seeks there his wild delights; But we for thy communion Have sought the mountain sod,---For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves; The war-horse of the spearman Cannot reach our lofty caves ; Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom's last abode ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! For the shadow of thy presence Round our camp of rock outspread ; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead ; For the snows, and for the torrents, For the free heart's burial sod, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. MRS. SIGOURNEY, formerly Miss Lydia Huntley, was born in Nor. wich, Connecticut, about the year 1794, and in 1819 was married to Mr. Charles Sigourney, an opulent merchant of Hartford, in which city she now resides. She began to write verses at a very early age, and in 1815 gave to the press her first book, under the title of “ Moral Pieces." She has since published six or seven volumes in verse, and about as many in prose. “ The Aborigines,” her longest poem, appeared anonymously, at Cambridge, and attracted but little attention. During a visit which she made to Europe in 1810--41, a selection from her poetical writings was printed in London, and soon after her return, in 1842, the most finished and sustained of her longer poems, “ Pocahontas," was published in a volume with some minor pieces, in New York. Among her prose works are “ Connecticut Forty Years Since," " Letters to Young Ladies," " Letters to Mothers," " Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands," “ Scenes in My Native Land," and “Myrtis, and other Sketchings,” the last of which appeared in the fall of 1816. In a reviewal of the poems of Mrs. Sigourney, published by the late Hon. Alexander H. Everett, this accomplished critic remarks that “ they commonly express, with great purity, and evident sincerity, the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart, and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being, which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principle in art, as well as in nature. Love and religion are tho unvarying elements of her song. This is saying, in other words, that the substance of her poetry is of the very highest order. If her powers of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton, or a Christian Pindar.” A full and splendidly illustrated edition of the Poetical Works of Mrs. Sigourney, has just been published by Carey & Hart, of Philadelphia. BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. “Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother.”—2 Sam. xix. 37. Son of Jesse !-let me go, Why should princely honors stay me?- Thither would I turn and die ;- King of Israel - bid them lay me. Bury me near my sire revered, Who early taught my soul with awe Majestic as a God :- To yonder blissful skies, Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, Jehovah --Lord of hosts, the glory shall be thine. Cold age upon my breast The wine-cup hath no zest, Yet still the sweet tone lingereth there. Dim is my wasted eye To all that beauty brings, Are half-forgotten things ;- Memory, with traitor-tread Methinks, doth steal away Up for a wintry day. |