away, And we be turned to lifeless clay; The roving eye forget the light, And dreamless sleep in death's dark night. The pallid lips may cease to speak: The coffin worm feed on the cheek; The grassy turf o'er us be spread, While earth's cold lap supports the head: And heav'ns own dews the hillock lave, And night winds sigh around our grave.

That narrow house may be our home, Whose only mark is one grey stone. But Christ by entering in the tomb, Has dissipated all its gloom, And shed a bright, benignant ray, That opens on eternal day; And those that sleep in His embrace, Among the just shall find a place.

Lines, on the New Year, 1853.

CONTENTS

  Hark! I hear the clarion shrill Winding up the icy hill, And aloud the bugle horn Proclaims another year is born. Merry voices in the train, Loudly sound it o'er the plain, And the joyful notes I hear, Are wishes for a happy year.

All come with faces bright and gay. None seem to think of yesterday; None seem to hear the passing bell, That bade the dying year farewell. None seem to think this infant year, Which now so gay and bright appears, Will soon by dark oblivion's wave Be chas'd into the silent grave.

But all seem forming airy dreams On future hopes and future schemes, Though other years have prov'd untrue: It will not be so with the new.

Joy beams upon the face of all; Some meet within the festive hall, Where music trills her gayest note; And fairy forms in circles float, And all seem feasting with delight Upon the pleasures of the night, None thinks upon the grief or pain, That soon must follow in their train,-- The coffin shroud, and death's cold pall, That must so soon be flung o'er all; But yet, in that gay circle there, We can detect corroding care, Can plainly see, in sparkling eyes, Sorrow, clad in gay disguise,-- Trying happy to appear, To usher in another year.

Tis ever thus, the heedless throng, That meet in revelry and song,-- Must ever feel within the breast An aching void; while those possessed Of pure Religion, may enjoy Joys nothing earthly can destroy

The Unhappy Marriage.

"Hannah, it will not do," said Captain Currier to his eldest daughter, a neat, quiet looking girl about eighteen, who sat sewing by a window. "I say Hannah," continued he sternly, as her eyes met his, "it will never do for you to throw yourself away upon that miserable scapegrace that has visited 

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