And they own their wretched bondage,
Strive to rend their cursed chains;
Feeling they are slaves degraded,

While a thought impure remains.

Young and old, go gaze upon her,
And with reverential awe,
While ye marvel at the artist,
Still the artist's God adore!
Though the brightest gem in woman,
Be your portion, and your guide,
Shrink not, there are unseen angels,
Guarding her on every side!

There are those who sneer and trample
On the holiest. Heed them not!
Though they taunt us long and often,
We will seek that hallowed spot;
Owning there are gleams of heaven,
In that pure and holy face,
Calm with sorrow-and acknowledge
Grief has sanctified the place!

TO LADY FRANKLIN.

Lady Franklin, worn out with "hope deferred," is at length seriously indisposed.-Providence Journal.

"Does she still hope?" my heart has often questioned, Whene'er I thought of thee, and thy sad fate;

And voiceless prayers were breathed, that Heaven in mercy, Would shield, and yet restore thy bosom's mate—

For life would be a cheerless desert wild,

Shorn of his love, though clasping his fair child!

And I have listened to thy holy pleadings,
And felt the beatings of thy throbbing heart,
As in thy lonely midnight vigil weeping,

I saw thy grief, and yearned to share a part.
This was thy soul's appeal, breathed low to Him,
Before whose eye the rising sun is dim.

"Have I not striven, oh! my God, my Father!
Daily, and hourly, with this load of woe?
Has my heart faltered, though this fearful darkness
Hides the loved star, that taught its founts to flow?
E'en when cold ice bands chilled its chords around,
Throbbed it not high, deeming the lost one found!

Have I not laid my aching head down nightly, Planning new means to save-breathing his name, Yet looking unto thee-so sleep has fallen

Upon my heavy lids: then angels came

And whispered sweetly in my listening ear,

'Despair thou not, he comes, that friend so dear.'

And then my dreams were sweet; I had arrayed me
In my pure bridal robe that once I wore,
And clasping to my breast his orphaned darling
Hastened to greet him on the sea-girt shore:
But oh! the vision changed, and terror rife
O'ercame the broken hearted, lonely wife!

Thou―Thou alone, canst know the soul sick anguish,
I've struggled hourly with, since last we met ;
Not the dear friend who daily sits beside me,
Whom I love fondly, and can ne'er forget,-

She may not know-'tis thou, 'tis thou alone,
Hast heard the inward sigh, the smothered groan !

Now hope is past! Father, the cup is bitter:
Must I, then, drink it foaming to the brim?
Oh! then, as to thy son in his deep anguish,

Let angels minister to me as unto Him!—
Giving me strength to say, 'Thy will be done,'
Though he return no more-the lost-lost one!"

Lady, dear lady-there are wives and mothers
In my own native land, who weep for thee;
To whom the sight of thy sweet name awakens
Sad memories of home, and of the sea;
Who read with breathless interest all that's known,
With moistened eyes, as though thou wert our own

With heart-felt sympathy, though seas divide us,

We greet thee, suffering one, in this dark hour;
While in our hearts we cherish the sweet picture
Of his last eve beside his drooping flower!

Thy hope is gone-all human aid is vain;
But in that better world, ye two shall meet again!

!

I THINK OF THEE.

"Thou art not here!

Yet memory brings thy softly beaming eye,
And thy sweet voice, with cadence low and clear,
Steals o'er my spirit, like an angel's sigh!"

"The soul of my

was itself an apparition upon this earth, and never forgot its native world. At this moment, I think I see her; and from the abyss of distance and of sumless elevation, she appears not more radiant or divine than she did here below; and I think of her, far

aloft in the heavens and behind the stars, as in her natural place, and as of one but little altered from what she was, except by the blotting out of her earthly sorrows."

I think of thee; I think of thee,

When flowers are blooming bright;
Of thee, the dearest human flower
That cheered the darkened night.
I wait thy coming, as of yore,
Hear thy low thrilling tone,
That murmurs ever in mine ear,
"I live; still, still thine own."

It was thy care my vase to fill

With spring's first fragrant bloom;
Thou'rt mindful of me now beloved,
Though mouldering in the tomb !
Oh! didst thou know, my tried, my true,
That yearly to my home

They'd come, the roses from that vine,

Planted by thee alone!

They breathe a language none can hear
Save her who loved thee well;

Their presence wakes new thoughts of Heaven,-
Thoughts that I may not tell.

Surely each tiny, half-blown bud,

Round which my heart-strings twine,

Knew, ere it opened to the light,

Its mission was divine!

Thou bad'est earth farewell, dear friend,

In the rich month of June;

Yet the perfume of thy bright-hued flowers
Filleth my little room!

I'm gazing on them now, beloved,
While children gather round,
Still dear to thee; but do they know
They tread on hallowed ground?

I think of thee; I think of thee
When stars are in the sky;
I single out the tiniest one
That twinkles far on high;
I whisper thy sweet name, beloved,
And, lo! thou'rt by my side;
The pressure of thy spirit hand
Calms the tulmultuous tide !

I think of thee; I think of thee
An angel up on high!

Thy mission still to soothe, and hear
The faint heart's lonely sigh;
A living presence, sure thou art,

Though dwelling with the blest;
Not severed, though my home is here;
Thine;-where the weary rest!

THE ANGEL VISITANT.

TO MRS. C. C. E.

"Sure 'tis weak to mourn,

Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts

Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come

Such angel-visitants at even-tlde,

Or midnight's holy hush, to cleanse away

The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch Pure and ethereal, to sublimate

The erring spirit."

SIGOURNEY.