ast.

When the warm sky of childhood was beaming for me,
My days were all joyous, my heart was all glee;
Affection's best ties round my bosom were spun;
No cloud dimmed the lustre of life's morning sun.
If I watched o'er my favorite rose-bud's decay,
And mourned that its bright tints were fading away,
I knew not an anguish more poignant than this,
And the morrow's young brow wore a halo of bliss.
May'st thou long be a novice to feelings like mine,
When the shades of joy's noonday proclaimed their decline,
When death has doomed hearts warm as thine to decay,
Or frigid estrangement has torn them away.

Oh, I sometimes have questioned, when lingering near
The home of the dead, of the friends who were dear,
If the brightest enchantments of earth could repair
The sad devastation that time has made there;
If the joys of the world had a balm to impart,
That would act as a charm to the woes of the heart.
Yes, there is such a balm, but it comes from _above_,
It is wafted to earth on the pinions of love;
'Tis the spirit of piety, spotless and pure,
That teaches us calmly life's ills to endure;
When it reigns in the heart, every error's forgiven,
It resigns us to earth, and prepares us for Heaven.

1825. E. P. K.

THE ALPINE HORN.

"Just at the close of day the Alpine Horn is sounded from the
highest mountain top, and mountain, rock and cave echo the
solemn sound, 'Praised be the Lord.'"

When rainbow hues of closing day
O'er evening's portals faintly play,
The Alpine horn calls far away,
"Praised be the Lord."

And every hill and rock around,
As though they loved the grateful sound,
Send back, 'mid solitudes profound,
"Praised be the Lord."

O God! has man so thankless grown,
He brings no anthems to thy throne,
When voiceless things have found a tone
To praise the Lord?

Ah no! for, see, the shepherds come,
Though hardly heard the welcome home;
From toil of day they quickly come
To worship God.

The look that taught their hearts to bow,
And childhood's laugh and sunny brow,
All, all by them forgotten now
In praise to God.

Kneeling the starry vault beneath,
With spirits free as air they breathe,
Oh, pure should be their votive wreath