ON A NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS.

BY THE LATE MRS. HENRY TIGHE.

THESE moments stolen from sleeping hours,
Thou fairest, frailest of all flowers,
To thee I dedicate;

For, ah! before to-morrow's dawn,
Thy present beauty will be gone,
So transient is thy state.

Thoughts, while I gaze, crowd on so fast,

I seize my pen in eager haste,

Lest they should perish too;

Instruction to attentive hearts,

Our God by various means imparts—
Him in this plant I view.

Why so much beauty lavish'd here,
Fragrance, that fills the ambient air,
But gratitude t' excite?

Well pleased, parental goodness gives

To all that on his bounty lives,

The means of pure delight.

In strength, and beauty, man appears
Fitted to stand the shock of years,

We look, and lo, he's gone;

He sinks untimely to the grave,

Nor friends, nor riches, then can save, Nor birth, nor high renown.

And is it thus with life I cry,

Thus do my short-lived pleasures die,
And yet to life I cling?

And dream I still of bliss below,
Where disappointment oft, and woe,

The soul with anguish sting?

Thus have I seen the faithful friend, O'er some lov'd object fondly bend, And watch the slow decay,

Exert in vain the healing art,

Then with a hopeless broken heart,

Resign to death its prey.

Come, ye fair flowers of human race,
Adorned with each external grace,

Come, learn th' unheeded truth;

For you these glories are displayed, 'Tis thus ye blossom, thus ye fade,

E'en in the bud of youth.

Give me those joys that perish not,
Give resignation to my lot-

The gifts of earth enthrall:

Thy gracious presence, Lord, impart,
Speak peace and pardon to my heart,
And let the world take all.

'Tis wisdom's voice-I hear her say, To young and old, Seek God, this day: To-morrow is not yours.

The sacred pages all declare,

Redeeming mercy, sought by prayer,
Eternal bliss insures.

But see, these streaks of orient light,
Remind me of departing night,

And coming day foretell.

The faded flower no longer blows,

Its stamens droop, its petals close-
Sweet monitress, farewell.

THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.

BY ROBERT BELL.

THERE's a spirit in the forest speaking,

From the lovely trees and the fairy flowers→→→ There's a spirit through the white foam breaking, Through the babbling brook and the hidden bowers..

It is the spirit of life, pervading

The waters that moan and the leaves that stir :

That spirit shall live in bloom unfading,

And unconscious lips shall breathe balm on her.

List to the tones of the tangled river,

As it falls through the twisted boughs and reeds; Oh! its lulling notes shall last for ever,

Whether it glideth through mountains or meads!

List to the giant tree's incantation,

As it sweeps its majestic voice along-
List to the young flower's lamentation,
In the pining tones of its mournful song.

Heard'st thou the silver echo, at even,

Of the wild harebells, as their silken nets Caught the last breath that, wafting from heaven, Came floating to sleep in their minarets?

Heard'st thou the sigh of the sad, sweet blosom,
That fearfully creeps underneath the bank,
As a lone kiss fell on its white bosom,
And fragrantly into deep slumber sank?

There's a harmony every where breathing,

The humming of numberless speechless things; "Tis the lovely stems their green folds wreathing— From their delicate tendrils music springs.

Oh! the Spirit of Nature is sleeping

In these deep dells, and the voices we hear Are the hum of flowers their vigil keeping,

And the watch-song of caves and fountains near.