Made viewless by the circumambient air, And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, As down she hastened to the shining sphere, The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. At her electric touch, young nature smiled, And kindled into rapture; then broke forth With thousand, thousand songs.

The green turf woke

The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore;

The busy bee, upon his honied flower.

Osier and reed became Eolian lyres.

Trees were sweet minstrels; while rock, hill and dell

Sang to each other in a joyous round.

Man, that mysterious instrument of God,

When the warm soul of new-descended power
Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice,
Chanting, "JEHOVAH !"

Since that blessed hour,

While still her home is heaven, Music has ne'er
This darkened world forsaken. She delights,
Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace,
To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart;
And lends her wings to waft it to the skies.
She throws a lustre o'er devotion's face-
Drinks off the tear from sorrow's languid eye-
Tames wild despair-brings hope to fuller bloom-
Puts hate to sleep-love's ruffled plumage smooths-
Pours honey into many a bitter cup;

And often gives the black and heavy hour

A downy breast, and pinions tipped with light.

She steals, all balmy, through the prisoner's grates, Making that sad one half forget their use;

And binds with holy spell the exile's heart,
Pouring her oil upon its hidden wounds.
Kings are her lovers; cottages, her loves:
The hero and the pilgrim walk with her.
Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy;
And from the pillow of the dying saint,
When the glad spirit borrows her blest wings,
To practice for the skies, ere it unfolds

Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay.

True, by man's wanderings for his tempter's lure, Music is often drawn to scenes unmeet

For purity like hers; and made to bear
Unhallowed burdens; or, to join in rites
To turpitude in fellest places held.

Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture trailed
O'er all things staining, still defies a stain,
And is at night withdrawn and girded up,
Warm and untarnished, for the morning skies,-
She comes unsullied from her baser walks,
Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth,
Breathes Zion's air, and warmed with heavenly fire,
Mounts to her glorious home!

'Twas she, who bore

The first grand offering of the free, on high,

When to the shore, through Egypt's solemn sea, The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod, And pæans gave to their Deliverer there.

She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossed
Over old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe,

Still she was with them; and her single breath
Laid the proud painim's city-walls in dust!

In native light she walked Judea's hills,

And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flower,
Before the Sun of righteousness arose.

The prophet chose her to unseal his lips,

Ere God spake through them; and the prophetess,
To lift the heart's pure gift from hers to heaven.
When Israel's king was troubled, her soft hand,
Put close, but gently to his gloomy breast,
Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still,
Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept.
And since, her countless thousands she has brought
To heaven's bright kingdom, happy captives led,
By those sweet, glowing strings of David's lyre!

But, oh! her richest, dearest notes to man, In strains aerial, over Bethlehem poured! When He whose brightness is the light of heaven,

To earth descending for a mortal's form,

Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark,

That moved through space, and o'er the infant hung, He summoned Music to attend him here,

Announcing peace below!

He called her, too,

To sweeten that sad supper, and to twine

Her mantle round Him and his few grieved friends,

To join their mournful spirits with the hymn,

Ere to the Mount of Olives He went out

So sorrowful.

And now, his blessed word,

A sacred pledge, is left to dying man,

That, at his second coming, in his power,

Music shall still be with him; and her voice

Sound through the tombs, and wake the dead to life!

Newburyport, (Mass.)

THE MOTHER OF THE MISSIONARY.

BY S. C. BRACE.

Ir was near the close of a long summer day that Mrs. W. and her little son ten years old were walking in their family garden, to notice the progress of their flowers, and to hallow in its own appropriate way that hour which might properly be called the Sabbath hour. There is a glory in the close of such a day, when the sun is sinking unclouded and majestic in the west, and when, after a day of rapid growth and rejoicing in his beams, there is spread over Nature the aspect of repose. The swallows are sportively darting through their skilful mazes, and twittering gaily in the sky; the robin from an elevated bough pours forth her measured and welllearned evening song, and all things living and inanimate seem satisfied with the long hours of sunshine.

Mrs. W. had planted with her own hand her favorite flowers, that she might enjoy and love them. There was no studied arrangement, or expensive care. Her love of flowers was an instinct of nature. It was not the offspring of ambition aspiring to imitate the taste and the elegancies of fashionable life. It was not affectation, nor did it betray weakness. She walked among them when there were none to observe her; she admired them as noble, beautiful and pure;

and although she never descanted in set and sickly language on the thought, she rejoiced in them as the workmanship and the gift of God.

Little Henry ran before her, carrying a small water-pot, to be used under her direction for the benefit of some choice plants which needed special care. As he danced joyously through the alleys, he was the image of childish happiness and affection. He shouted, as he pointed out here and there a blossom of uncommon beauty, and with wild and noisy enthusiasm urged his mother's attention. Mrs. W. was attentive but calm; and those who know a mother's heart, can tell how much exulting affection she then suppressed, and how her bosom swelled with a proud love, as she looked upon the beautiful boy who was bounding before her. "Oh! look, mother!" he exclaimed, as he stopped suddenly at seeing the sun's orb just half below the horizon, a phenomenon which always attracts the notice of the child. "Yes," replied the mother, "he is now going to shine upon the other side of the world; and he will shine on a great many who have no such pleasant home and pleasant garden as we have." "I know it;" answered Henry hastily, unwilling to have his feelings touched, or at least unwilling to show it; my book tells about them." At that moment a chaise turned off upon the smooth turf by the road-side, and drove up to the house. It was plain, although comfortable, and told the practised eye of Mrs. W. that it was the vehicle of a clergyman, although she did not recognise it as one of those which had become familiar to her, in the circle of her husband's ministerial brethren. She hastened into the house, and found herself called

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