THE SLEEPING CHILD

WATCHED BY A DOG.

"SWEET are thy slumbers, baby! Gentle gales Do lift the curtaining foliage o'er thy head, And nested birds sing lullaby; and flowers That form the living broidery of thy couch Shed fresh perfume.

He, too, whose guardian eye Pondereth thy features with such true delight, And faithful semblance of parental care, Counting his master's darling as his own,Should aught upon thy helpless rest intrude, Would show a lion's wrath.

And when she comes,

Thy peasent-mother, from her weary toil,
Thy shout will cheer her, and thy little arms
Entwine her sunburnt neck, with joy as full
As infancy can feel. They who recline
In royalty's proud cradle, lull'd with strains
Of warbling lute, and watch'd by princely eyes,
And wrapp'd in golden tissue, share perchance
No sleep so sweet as thine."

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

MYSTERIES IN RELIGION.

(TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.)

As St. Augustine wander'd once
Upon the barren sea-girt shore,
He thought of God, and inly wish'd
His hidden nature to explore,
That he might publish to the world

What ne'er was understood before.
Full well he knew each sacred text;
And though his mind was sore perplex'd,
He doubted not, as fancy grew,

That heaven would open to his view.

While musing thus with mind elate,
He spied a youth of graceful gait,
And lovely countenance serene
The like of which he ne'er had seen.
The boy applied his slender wand
To perforate the yielding sand;
Then in the hole thus feebly bored
Some ocean-drops with haste he pour'd,
Fetch'd in a silvery muscle-shell,
On which bright tints of azure fell.

MYSTERIES IN RELIGION,

"What art thou doing there, my child?" The sage enquired with aspect mild.

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"What am I doing? canst not see?
I'm bringing the ocean here to me,
That the hole I have dug like a tiny grave
May compass and hold each mountain-wave!"

"Poor boy! such fond attempt is vain,
And will but end in toil and pain!"

Then smiled the boy, and archly cried,
"How so, Sire? have you ever tried?"
Thus saying, he display'd his wings,
And mounted-so the poet sings-
Ascending in a sunbeam bright
To realms of everlasting light.

The sage stood silent, and revolved
The meaning, which his conscience solved:-
"Can finite grasp THE INFINITE?

A worm its Maker fully know? 'Tis folly to expect a sight

Of the Invisible below!

Henceforth I will contented be
With that which is reveal'd to me."

S. H.

DIRGE.

OH! beautiful the streams,
That through our valleys run,
Singing and dancing in the gleams
Of summer's cloudless sun!
The sweetest of them all

From its fairy banks is gone;
And the music of the waterfall
Hath left the silent stone!

Up among the mountains,
In soft and mossy cell,

By the silent springs and fountains
The happy wild flowers dwell!
The queen-rose of the wilderness
Hath wither'd in the wind;-
And the shepherds see no loveliness
In the blossoms left behind!

Birds cheer our lonely groves

With many a beauteous wing,

When happy in their harmless loves, How tenderly they sing!

DIRGE.

O'er all the rest was heard

One mild and mournful strain;—

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But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird;
She ne'er must sing again!

Bright through the yew-trees' gloom
I saw a sleeping dove;

On the silence of her silvery plume,
The sunlight lay in love!
The grove seem'd all her own,

Round the beauty of that breast ;-
But the startled dove afar is flown,
Forsaken is her nest!

In yonder forest wide,

A flock of wild-deer lies;

Beauty breathes o'er each tender side,
And shades their peaceful eyes!
The hunter in the night

Hath singled out the doe,

In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright, Whose hue was like the snow!

A thousand stars shine forth

With pure and dewy ray,

Till by night the mountains of our north Seem gladdening in the day!

N