And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn,
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies,
Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies.
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element:
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose; thy summer form
Is beautiful; and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach—
Eternity Eternity-and Power.

Charlotte Elizabeth.

{

Born 1790.

Died 1846.

BORN at Norwich, 1st October 1790. Her father was a clergyman of the English Church. She was married when young to Mr George Phelan. After his death in 1837, she married Mr Tonna. She is best known by her religious prose writings, which are chiefly for the young.

THE CHRISTIAN'S WARFARE.

SOLDIER go-but not to claim

Mouldering spoils of earth-born treasure ;
Not to build a vaunting name,

Not to dwell in tents of pleasure.

Dream not that the way is smooth,

Hope not that the thorns are roses;

Turn no wishful eye of youth

Where the sunny beam reposes:—
Thou hast sterner work to do,
Hosts to cut thy passage through:
Close behind thee gulfs are burning—
Forward! there is no returning.

Soldier rest!-but not for thee

Spreads the world her downy pillow;
On the rock thy couch must be,
While around thee chafes the billow:
Thine must be a watchful sleep,
Wearier than another's waking;

Such a charge as thou dost keep
Brooks no moment of forsaking.
Sleep as on the battle-field,

Girded-grasping sword and shield.
Those thou canst not name nor number
Steal upon thy broken slumber.

Soldier rise!-the war is done,
Lo! the hosts of hell are flying;
'Twas thy Lord the battle won;
Jesus vanquish'd them by dying.
Pass the stream-before thee lies

All the conquer'd land of glory;
Hark what songs of rapture rise,
These proclaim the victor's story.
Soldier, lay thy weapon down;

Quit the Cross and take the Crown:
Triumph! all thy foes are banish'd,
Death is slain and Earth has vanish'd.

David Vedder.

BORN in Orkney in 1790.

Born 1790.

Died 1854.

He contributed largely poetical pieces to the periodicals. In 1832 he published "Orcadian Sketches," and in 1842 he issued a collected edition of his poems. Mr Vedder filled the office of tide-surveyor in Leith, and died at Edinburgh in 1854.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

TALK not of temples-there is one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun

And all the stars of heaven;

Its walls are the cerulean sky,

Its floor the earth so green and fair;
The dome is vast immensity-

All nature worships there!

The Alps arrayed in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,

At sunrise and at sunset glow
Like altar-fires to God.

A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
As if with hallowed victims rare;
And thunder lifts its voice in praise—
All nature worships there!

The ocean heaves resistlessly,

And pours his glittering treasure forth;
His waves-the priesthood of the sea—
Kneel on the shell-gemmed earth,
And there emit a hollow sound,

As if they murmured praise and prayer;
On every side 'tis holy ground—
All nature worships there!

The cedar and the mountain pine,
The willow on the fountain's brim,
The tulip and the eglantine

In reverence bend to Him;

The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
From tower and tree and middle air;
The rushing river murmurs praise-
All nature worships there!

Mrs Sigourney.

Born 1791,

LYDIA HUNTLY, a distinguished American poetess, born in Connecticut, in 1791. A writer of poetry almost from her childhood, she published, in 1815, a volume of poetry. In 1819 she married Mr Sigourney, a merchant in Hartford. She has since published numerous volumes in prose and poetry, and her name has obtained European celebrity.

THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE.

"WHAT shall I render Thee, Father supreme,
For Thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?"
Said a young mother, as she fondly watched
Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice
That night in dreams:-

"Thou hast a little bud
Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love :
Give me that bud. "Twill be a flower in Ireaven."
But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep,
Breathless, and terror stricken, that the lip
Blanched in its trance.