It is not in the summer tide of life

That the heart hoards its treasures: it is when
The storm is loud, and the rude hurricane
Of sorrow is abroad; when solemn strife,

Such as may move the souls of constant men,
Is struggling in our bosoms,—it is then
The heart collects her stores with wisdom rife.

For sadness teaches us the truth of things

Which had been hid beneath the crown of flowers Which gladness wears; and the few silent hours Of quiet, heavenward thought which sorrow brings, Are better than a life in pleasure's bowers, Drinking the poisonous chalice which she pours, To quench our heavenlier spirits' murmurings.

Seek thou the storms of life; fly not the trial
That binds the conqueror's wreath upon thy brow;
And faint not, though the tears of anguish flow,
And though upon thy head the angry vial

Of fate be pour'd: but with the conscious glow
Of honorable thought and deed below,

Look to that Power who watch'd thy self-denial.

THE CURSE OF CAIN.

GENESIS IV. 15, 16.

O THE wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!

Like the tempest that withers the blossoms of spring,
Like the thunder that bursts on the summer's domain,
It fell on the head of the homicide Cain.

And lo! like a deer in the fright of a chase,
With a fire in his heart, and a brand on his face,
He speeds him afar to the desert of Nod-

A vagabond smote by the vengeance of God.

All nature to him has been blasted and bann'd,
For the blood of a brother yet reeks on his hand;
And no vintage has grown, and no fountain has sprung
For cheering his heart, or for cooling his tongue.

The groans of a father his slumber shall start,

And the tears of a mother shall pierce to his heart,
And the kiss of his children shall scorch him like flame,
When he thinks of the curse that hangs over his name.

And the wife of his bosom-the faithful and fair-
Can mix no sweet drop in his cup of despair;
For her tender caress, and her innocent breath,
But stir in his soul the hot embers of wrath.

And his offering may blaze-unregarded by Heaven; And his spirit may pray—yet remain unforgiven; And his grave may be closed-but no rest to him bring: O the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!

TO-MORROW.

PROVERBS XXVII. 2.

TO-MORROW!-mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day
How earthly things may pass away!

To-day-while hearts with rapture spring,
The youth to beauty's lip may cling;
To-morrow-and that lip of bliss
May sleep unconscious of his kiss.

To-day-the blooming spouse may press
Her husband in a fond caress;
To-morrow-and the hands that press'd
May wildly strike her widow'd breast.

To-day-the clasping babe may drain
The milk-stream from its mother's vein;
To-morrow-like a frozen rill,
That bosom-current may be still.

To-day-thy merry heart may feast
On herb and fruit, and bird and beast;
To-morrow-spite of all thy glee,
The hungry worms may feed on thee.

To-morrow!--mortal, boast not thou
Of time and tide that are not now!
But think, in one revolving day
That even thyself mayest pass away.

TIME.

JOB IX. 25, 26.

TIME speeds away-away-away:
Another hour-another day-
Another month-another year—

Drop from us like the leaflets sere;
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,
The tresses from the temples fall,
The eyes grow dim and strange to all.

Time speeds away-away-away:
Like torrent in a stormy day,

He undermines the stately tower,

Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;

And sweeps from our distracted breast

The friends that loved-the friends that bless'd:
And leaves us weeping on the shore,
To which they can return no more.

Time speeds away-away-away:
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills, can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage
He bears us on-from youth to age;
Then plunges in the fearful sea
Of fathomless Eternity

THE WORLD DELUSIVE.

THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of wo,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow:

There's nothing true but heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb:
There's nothing bright but heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we 're driven; And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way: There's nothing calm but heaven!

TO LAURA, TWO YEARS OF AGE.

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow-
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,