Thou shalt ascend the Zion of the skies, THE GRAVE. [MONTGOMERY.] THERE is a calm for those who weep; Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky, That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head, From all my toil. The grave that never spake before, Hath found at length a tongue to chide; O listen!-I will speak no more: Be silent pride! 'Art thou a mourner? hast thou known Endearing days for ever flown, And tranquil nights? O live! and deeply cherish still For peace at last. Tho' long of winds and waves the sport Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam; Live! thou shalt reach a shelt'ring port, A quiet home. Seek the true treasure, seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound With heav'nly balm 'Whate'er thy lot-where'er thou beConfess thy folly-kiss the rod; And in thy chast'ning sorrows see The hand of God. A bruised reed he will not break, Afflictions all his children feel; He wounds them for his mercy's sake; He wounds to heal! • Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his providence adore: 'Tis done! arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. Now, traveller in the vale of tears! Pursue thy flight. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found: And while the mould'ring ashes sleep Low in the ground; The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, A star of day. The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The soul, immortal as its sire, Shall never die!" A CHRISTMAS LEGEND. [MARY HOWITT.] 'A venerable, grave old gentleman, He was, who told the story as we sate Last Christmas eve around the crackling fire.' "TWAS in my happy, thoughtless youth, when we, A pleasant household, ere my mother died, Dwelt in a palace, standing solemnly A mile from Florence, by the Arno's side. The house was ancient, grey, and ruinate, With splendid vestige of its former state, Where the old line of Maffei dwelt of yore. Around it woods of pine and sycamore, Ilex and chesnut, to the hill-tops grew, Hiding its ruins from the traveller's view,A spirit-haunting, wild, and solemn place, Meet dwelling for some dark unearthly race, That have with man no sympathies, yet throw Around him awful spells of fear and woe. Within, each room was large, and dim, and lone; The walls gave back a deep sepulchral tone, When mirth or music made a revel there; And often, when the evening fire's red glare Reveal'd the dusky portraits on the wall, My father's guests have told of dismal things, Which in that house of mystery might appal; And even now the haunting terror clings Unto my soul-of deeds of frightful sin That had been done those desolate rooms within: In my small chamber as I stole to bed; And then had dreams, the strangest that e'er came I always dreamed, that as I lay and slept, And clasped her hands, and moaned, and inly prayed, Like one in agony, and sore afraid As if she dreaded some severe command, Whose fearful ban had left her broken-hearted- Such was my dream-and more—for always she From which each night a scented bead she took, I looked to find the bead of which I dreamed. We knew not that the chamber where he slept, 'Tis said her room is in the western tower- Wife to Lorenzo Maffei, whose mood Was like the earthquake's, unrelenting, fell; Making his life a desert desolate : All men abhorred him, women at his name Grew pale, and crossed themselves; guests never came Within his gate; nor menial would have borne, Save for their lady's sake, his fiendish scorn. She was the mother of a gentle child, A boy, like her so delicate and mild, That his stern father cursed him as he lay Resting his dear head on his mother's breast; Mother and child should dwell, because he needed A harsher teacher to arouse the pride And passion of his soul. Ah! little heeded And from her chamber silently she crept, |