Canst thou not bear them up

Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim
And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him
Who drank for us the cup,

O Night,

The cup of wrath for hearts in faith contrite?

To Him, for them who slept

A babe all lowly on His mother's knee,
And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary,

In all our sorrows wept,

O Night,

That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering light.

So, lay their little heads

Close to that human breast, with love divine
Deep beating, while his arms immortal twine
Around them as he sheds,

O Night,

On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless might.

Let them immortal wake

Among the breathless flowers of Paradise,
Where angel-songs of welcome with surprise.
This their last sleep may break,

O Night,

And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite.

There can come no sorrow,

The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears,
Forever young through heaven's eternal years,
In one unfading morrow,

O Night,

Nor sin, nor age, nor pain their cherub-beauty blight.

Would we could sleep as they,

So stainless and so calm, at rest with thee,
And only wake in immortality!

Bear us with them away,

O Night,

To that ethereal, holier, happier height.

WILLIAM CROSWELL.

THE Rev. William Croswell, D. D., is a son of the Rev. Dr. Croswell, of New Haven, and was educated at Yale College, where he was graduated in the summer of 1824. He was subsequently, for two years, associated with Dr. Doane, now Bishop of New Jersey, in the editorship of the "Episcopal Watchman," at Hartford, after which he removed to Boston, and then to Auburn, in the western part of the state of New York. He is now rector of church in New Ha

ven. Bishop Doane, in a note to his edition of Keble's "Christian Year," remarks that "he has more unwritten poetry in him" than any man he knows. His published poems are characterized by an elegant fancy and a fine vein of religious sentiment.

"But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart. Nev ertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away."-ST. PAUL I SAW them in their synagogue,

As in their ancient day,
And never from my memory

The scene will fade away,

For, dazzling on my vision, still
The latticed galleries shine
With Israel's loveliest daughters,

In their beauty half-divine!

It is the holy Sabbath eve,—
The solitary light

Sheds, mingled with the hues of day,
A lustre nothing bright;

On swarthy brow and piercing glance
It falls with saddening tinge,
And dimly gilds the Pharisee's

Phylacteries and fringe.

The two-leaved doors slide slow apart
Before the eastern screen,

As rise the Hebrew harmonies,

With chanted prayers between,

And mid the tissued vails disclosed,
Of many a gorgeous dye,
Enveloped in their jewelled scarfs,

The sacred records lie.

Robed in his sacerdotal vest,

A silvery-headed man

With voice of solemn cadence o'er
The backward letters ran;

And often yet methinks I see

The glow and power that sate

Upon his face, as forth he spread
The roll immaculate.

And fervently that hour I prayed,
That from the mighty scroll
Its light, in burning characters,
Might break on every soul,

That on their hardened hearts the veil
Might be no longer dark,

But be forever rent in twain

Like that before the ark.

For yet the tenfold film shall fall,
O, Judah! from thy sight,

And every eye be purged to read
Thy testimonies right,

When thou, with all Messiah's signs.
In Christ distinctly seen,

Shall, by Jehovah's nameless name,
Invoke the Nazarene.

"Cloud land! Gorgeous land !"-COLERIDGE.

I CANNOT look above and see

Yon high-piled, pillowy mass Of evening clouds, so swimmingly In gold and purple pass,

And think not, Lord, how thou wast seen
On Israel's desert way,

Before them, in thy shadowy screen,
Pavilioned all the day!

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue
Which the Redeemer wore,

When, ravished from his followers' view,
Aloft his flight he bore,
When lifted, as on mighty wing,

He curtained his ascent,

And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing
Above the firmament.

Is it a trail of that same pall
Of many colored dyes,
That high above, o'ermantling all,

Hangs midway down the skies-
Or borders of those sweeping folds
Which shall be all unfurled
About the Saviour, when he holds
His judgment on the world?

For in like manner as he went,-
My soul, hast thou forgot ?—
Shall be his terrible descent,

When man expecteth not!

Strength, Son of man, against that hour, Be to our spirits given,

When thou shalt come again with power, Upon the clouds of heaven!

ALAS for me if I forget

The memory of that day

Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet

E'en sleep can take away!

In dreams I still renew the rites

Whose strong but mystic chain The spirit to its God unites,

And none can part again.

How oft the bishop's form I see,
And hear that thrilling tone

Demanding with authority

The heart for God alone!

Again I kneel as then I knelt,
While he above me stands,
And seem to feel, as then I felt,
The pressure of his hands.

Again the priests in meet array,
As my weak spirit fails,
Beside me bend them down to pray
Before the chancel-rails;

As then, the sacramental host

Of God's elect are by,

When many a voice its utterance lost,
And tears dimmed many an eye.

As then they on my vision rose,
The vaulted aisles I see,

And desk and cushioned book repose

In solemn sanctity,—

The mitre o'er the marble niche,

The broken crook and key,
That from a bishop's tomb shone rich
With polished tracery;

The hangings, the baptismal font,
All, all, save me unchanged,

The holy table, as was wont,

With decency arranged; The linen cloth, the plate, the

cup,

Beneath their covering shine, Ere priestly hands are lifted up

To bless the bread and wine.