Pity.

BY THE REV. RALPH HOYT.

WAS heard, 'tis said, one tranquil eve, A low sad voice along the sky,Can heavenly natures ever grieve? Can holy angels weep on high? Sigh,-sigh!

There spread a cloud of golden hue
And curtain'd day's declining light,
'Down floating from the distant blue
It came with gentle silent flight,
Bright,-bright!

A form upon celestial wings!Wherever press'd her glittering feet, Came gushing forth from hidden strings Soft music, earth can ne'er repeat,

She paused, and on a sunbeam stood,
Above a gently sloping hill,

Mute wonder fell on field and wood,

Meandering stream, and mountain rill -
Still,-still.

But that sad voice along the sky

Yet mingled with the passing gale ;— Ah, do the loved in heaven die?

Can sorrow seraph hearts assail?
Wail,-wail!

She gazed o'er all the haunts of men,

And saw how sorrow's fountains flow;

Gay city, or secluded glen

No refuge from the certain blow,
Wo,-wo!

Amid the gay voluptuous throng,

Mourn❜d many bosoms sad and lone, Crush'd in the grasp of want and wrong,The world's cold heart relentless grown, Stone,-stone !

The captive pining in his chain,

The famish'd, vainly asking bread;

Sad partings, ne'er to meet again;

Love's rose, that once sweet odors shed, Dead,-dead!

She saw, where, at the pallet side,
While orphan babes unconscious slept,
A scanty morsel to provide,

The widow toilsome vigil kept,
Wept,-wept !

The weary stranger sought for rest;
(Ah, who the goal hath ever won ?)
No door swung open for a guest,

None wish'd the pilgrim's journey done,
None,―none.

From rugged Labor's earnest hand
Uprose the palace-teem'd the soil,
And navies swarm'd at his command,
For lordly avarice a spoil,—
Toil,-toil!

All mournful sat the maniac maid,
No lover's voice in music spoke ;

Confiding innocence,—betray'd!

Poor heart, what anguish when it woke !
Broke,-broke!

Where lay a child in death's cold sleep,

A mother sobb'd in wild despair;

Alas! the slumber was too deep,

The wakeful spirit was not there!
Where, where !

With feeble step deserted Age

Went groping in a sightless gloom, This all his prayer on life's last page, Take me, ye dwellers of the tomb ! Room,-room!

Thus, gazing o'er the haunts of men,
She saw how sorrow's fountains flow;
Gay city, or secluded glen,

Still all resistless fell the blow,
Wo,-wo!

For this upon that tranquil eve
Came that sad voice along the sky;
For this that heavenly one could grieve,
That angel, from the realms on high,
Sigh,-sigh.

Her tears upon the sunbeam spread
A bow of hope for every breast,
A solace for each heart that bled ;—
Earth's mourners saw, and sank to rest,
blest!

Blest,

And still when sorrow presses sore

They see that radiant one above, The cloud of anguish passes o'er, Descends again the heavenly dove,

Immortal PITY! Power Divine ;

Down-trodden !-lo, a sure release!
Desponding hearts, no more repine,

Oppression, grief, and want shall cease,—
Peace, peace.

Sonnet.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

WHO twined these flowers to grace my natal day?
Emblems of hope and love that life redeem,
Whose fragrance charms desponding thoughts away,
And newly kindles youth's immortal dream ;
The rose-geranium-token blest of choice,
Verbena, in whose odor feeling lies,
Sweet mignionette-true merit's floral voice,
And heliotrope that souls devoted prize?
Who but the gentle one that trial keeps

Free from the selfish tyranny of earth,
Whose heart in music's holy temple sleeps
Where kindly impulse hath its constant birth :
O not with barren thanks will I profane
The cheerful faith thy gift hath woke again