POETRY.

Written for the Monthly Repository, and Library of Entertaining Knowledge,

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

1 HEARD A VOICE FROM HEAVEN, SAYING COME UP HITHER. Ye have a land of mist and shade, Where spectres roam at will,

Dense clouds your mountain cliffs pervade,

And damps your valleys chill;

But ne'er has midnight's wing of wo

Eclips'd our changeless ray,
Come hither" if ye seek to know
The bliss of perfect day.

Doubt, like the Bohun-Upas spreads
A blight where'er ye tread,
And Hope, a wailing mourner sheds
The tear o'er harvests dead;
With us, no traitorous foe assails

When Love her home would make
In Heaven, the welcome never fails,
"Come" and that warmth partake.
Time revels 'mid your boasted joys,
Death dims your brightest rose,
And sin your bower of peace destroys,
Where will ye find repose?
Ye're wearied in your pilgrim-race,
Sharp thorns your path infest,

Come hither," -rise to our embrace,
And Christ shall give you rest.

"Twas thus, methought, at twilight's hour
The angel's lay came down,

Like dews upon the drooping flower

When droughts of summer frown,

How richly o'er the ambient air

Swell'd out the music free,

Oh! when the pangs of Death I bear,
Sing ye that song to me.

Written for the Monthly Repository and Library of Entertaining Knowledge,

BY REV. JOSEPH RUSLING.

REMEMBER ME WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM.

Jesus permit a feeble worm

The visions of thy face to see;

And while in life's conflicting storm,

Remember me.

They heard his words with scorn, and cried, "Is this not Joseph's son?

And whence hath he the wondrous power to be some mighty one? Are not his brethren here with us, and who hath ever seen

The day a noble deed was done by servile Nazarene ?”

The humble sufferer bowed his head, and passing through the crowd,

With patience saw their scornful smiles, and heard their tauntings

loud;

He saw the ox returning to his owner's nightly shed,

But found no friendly dwelling there to rest his weary head.

He passed along where Cedron's brook divides the humble vale,
And heard their sounds of revelry come down the evening gale:
He entered then a garden lone, whose gate invited there,
And kneeling spent the tedious night in solitude and prayer.-

Hark! heard ye not the dreadful cry that rent the yielding air? And saw ye not the gathering gloom on faces of despair?

And mark ye not the astonished dead, slow-bursting from their graves,

Beneath whose feet the kindling earth heaves high like rolling

waves!

And who is he on yon white horse, whose eyes are eyes of flame?
And on his head are many crowns, and on his thigh a name;
And he is clad in vesture red, dipped in his own best blood-
He was the trembling nations cry-he is the SON OF GOD!

CHANGES.

The billows run along in gold
Over the yielding main,

And when upon the shore unrolled,
They gather up again,

They get themselves a different form,
These children of the wind,
And, or in sunlight, or in storm,
Leave the green land behind.

Life's billows on life's changing sea,
Come always to Death's shore,
Some with a calm content, and free,
Some with a hollow roar;
They break and are no longer seen,
Yet still defying time,
Divided, and of different mien,
They roll from clime to clime.

All water courses find the main;
The main sinks back to earth
Life settles in the grave-again,
The grave hath life and birth;
Flowers bloom about the sleeping dust,
Grass grows from scattered clay;
And thus from death the spirit must
To life find back its way.

Life hath its range eternally,

Like water, changing forms;

The mists go upward from the sea,
And gather into storms;

The dew and rain came down again,

To 'fresh the drooping land;

So doth this life exalt and wane,

And, alter, and expand.