But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing,

Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done! Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,

Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son?— Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was yours! your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by th' unsealed sepulchral stone,
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,

That He they sought had triumphed, and was gone! Now have ye left us for the brighter shore,

Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over, When, midst the palm trees, man your footsteps met? Are

ye not near when faith and hope rise high,

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,

Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams!-but a deeper thought our souls may fill— One, One is near-a Spirit holier still!

A PENITENT'S RETURN.

Can guilt or misery ever enter here?

Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim,

The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,

And wins him o'er to virtue.

WILSON.

My father's house once more,

In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,

Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,

Broods, never mark'd before!

Is it the brooding night,

Is it the shivery creeping on the air,

That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,

O'erwhelming to my sight?

All solemnized it seems,

And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,

Since the rich clustering roses met my view,

As now, by starry gleams.

And this high elm, where last

I stood and linger'd-where my sisters made
Our mother's bower-I deem'd not that it cast

So far and dark a shade!

How spirit-like a tone

Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair!

Now those grey locks are gone!

My soul grows faint with fear!

Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.

I tremble where I move-the voice of God

Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night

That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted! 'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed

The inborn gladd'ning light!

No outward thing is changed;

Only the joy of purity is fled,

And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.

Therefore, the calm abode,

By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;

And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God

Makes thy sick heart afraid!