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,
Hushing 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?"

"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 fadeless bloom;
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb-
It is there, it is there, my child!"’

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

prayer:

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears,-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

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

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?

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 where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

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 flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRISTIAN.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty

By the touch of the mountain sod.

Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon

Whose lights must never die;

We are guardians of an altar

Midst the silence of the sky;

The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod,-

For the strength of the hills we bless thee.
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!