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النشر الإلكتروني

Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer,
Firm be his step through each wearisome mile,
Far from the cruel man, far from the plunderer,

Far from the track of the mean and the vile.
And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him,
And all but the last throb of memory fails him,
He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him,
And light up the cold touch of death with a smile.

And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre,
There for his pall shall the oak leaves be spread ;
The sweet brier shall bloom, and the wild grape shall cluster,
And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed.

There shall they mix with the fern and the heather,
There shall the young eagle shed its first feather,

The wolves with his wild dogs shall lie there together,
And moan o'er the spot where the hunter is laid.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

WHAT is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy,"
That the sweet poet spake of ?-Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October's charms-

When the dread fever quits us-when the storms

Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet,
Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colors hung
Upon the forest tops-he had not sighed.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now:
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store:

While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
"What is there sadd'ning in the autumn leaves?”

THE SWEET BRIER.

OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,

In all the blooming waste it left behind,

As that the sweet brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely; yet it grows along

The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door.
Such are the simple folks it dwells among;
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

1

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;
Its sweetness all is of my native land;
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Buy from the odors of the spicy East.
You love your flowers and plants, and will

you

hate

The little four-leaved rose that I love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

"AS THY DAY, SO SHALL THY STRENGTH BE."

WHEN adverse winds and waves arise,

And in my heart despondence sighs,

When life her throng of care reveals,
And weakness o'er my spirit steals,—
Grateful I hear the kind decree,

That "as my day, my strength shall be."

When, with sad footstep, memory roves
Mid smitten joys, and buried loves,—
When sleep my tearful pillow flies,
And dewy morning drinks my sighs,-
Still to thy promise, Lord, I flee,

That "as my day, my strength shall be."

One trial more must yet be past,

One pang, the keenest, and the last;
And when, with brow convulsed and pale,
My feeble, quivering heart-strings fail,
Redeemer, grant my soul to see

That "as her day, her strength shall be."

MISSIONS.

LIGHT for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador!

Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails,

And the mariner wakes no more;

Lift high the lamp that never fails,

To that dark and sterile shore.

Light for the forest child!

An outcast though he be,

From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled,

And the country of the free;

Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild,

For what home on earth has he?

Light for the hills of Greece!

Light for that trampled clime

Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease
Ere it wrecked the boast of time;

If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,
Can ye grudge your boon sublime?

Light on the Hindoo shed!

On the maddening idol-train,

The flame of the suttee is dire and red,
And the Fakir faints with pain,
And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,
By the Ganges laved in vain.

Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,

And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy
Armor when Death invades ;

Hark! Hark-'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh

From Ararat's mournful shades.

Light for the Burman vales!

For the islands of the sea!

For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails
With sighs of agony,

And her kidnapped babes the mother wails

'Neath the lone banana-tree!

Light for the ancient race

Exiled from Zion's rest!

Homeless they roain from place to place,
Benighted and oppressed;

They shudder at Sinai's fearful base;

Guide them to Calvary's breast.

Light for the darkened earth!

Ye blessed, its beams who shed,

Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth,

Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread

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