Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death-
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, "Behold, he prays!"

The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind;
While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone :
The Holy Spirit pleads;

And Jesus on the eternal throne
For mourners intercedes.

O Thou! by whom we come to God,
The life, the truth, the way;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :
Lord, teach us how to pray!

THE PALE IMAGE.

ALLINGHAM, from whom a short poem was borrowed at p. 12, which has been deservedly received with many warm expressions of admiration by readers to whom it was here introduced for the first time, is the author of the following equally beautiful and still more touching stanzas. The remarkable similarity of his genius to that of Tennyson cannot fail to have been noticed.

WHEN she lieth on her bed,

With a crown of lilies pale

Set upon her peaceful head,

And her true love's kiss would fail

To restore a little red

To the blanched cheek:

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

THE DREAM OF LOVE.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE, who inherited the genius, as well as many of the human weaknesses, that distinguished his father, and who if he had lived longer might have filled a loftier and larger place in the literature of his country, is the author of this sweet sonnet.

Ir must be so-my infant love must find
In my own heart a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,-
Or rebel-spirit bound within the rind
Of some old wreathed oak, or fast enshrined
In the cold durance of an echoing cave.-
Yet better thus than cold disdain to brave;
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind
That decks its temple with unearthly grace.
Together must we dwell, my dream and I.-
Unknown then live, and unlamented die,
Rather than dim the lustre of that face,
Or drive the laughing dimple from its place,
Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.

PRAYER.

To whom is this exquisite poem not familiar? Yet must it be repeated here. A collection of Beautiful Poetry would be incomplete without it. The author is JAMES MONTGOMERY, the sweetest of the religious poets of England.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd or unexpress'd;

The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death-
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, "Behold, he prays!"

The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind;
While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone :
The Holy Spirit pleads;

And Jesus on the eternal throne
For mourners intercedes.

O Thou! by whom we come to God,
The life, the truth, the way;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :
Lord, teach us how to pray!

THE PALE IMAGE.

ALLINGHAM, from whom a short poem was borrowed at p. 12, which has been deservedly received with many warm expressions of admiration by readers to whom it was here introduced for the first time, is the author of the following equally beautiful and still more touching stanzas. The remarkable similarity of his genius to that of Tennyson cannot fail to have been noticed.

WHEN she lieth on her bed,

With a crown of lilies pale
Set upon her peaceful head,

And her true love's kiss would fail

To restore a little red

To the blanched cheek:

When her hands, all white and cold,
On her cold, cold breast are laid,
O'er the strait and snowy fold
Palm to palm, as if she pray'd—
Prayer to rest for aye untold

On that mouth so meek:

Do not gaze on her too much,
You that have the nearest right;
Press her lip with parting touch,
Leaving dimm'd your misty sight;
Death is false-and e'en to such
Gentle ones as she.

If

you feed your loving eyes

Then, when death her bridegroom seems,

She shall come in deathly guise

Through your thoughts and through your dreams ;
And when met in Paradise

Scarcely known shall be.

BLIND MARY.

Among the enthusiasts who madly sought in rebellion the repeal of the Union, and, by their appeals to national emotions, prepared the way for the rising under Smith O'Brien that terminated so fatally for many of themselves, but so happily for their country, the most honest and the most gifted was THOMAS DAVIS, who, fortunately perhaps for himself, died before the last insane step was taken. He had contributed to the journals of his party many poems of extraordinary spirit and beauty, which have been collected in a small volume, but being for the most part addressed to the party-spirit of the time, they are not likely to be much known, especially in England. Some of them, however, deserve to be snatched from the oblivion to which the entire volume is already consigned, as being productions of true genius and of universal interest, and these could not be more appropriately enshrined than in this collection of the Beautiful Poetry of our language. Such will the following be acknowledged.

THERE flows from her spirit such love and delight,
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light,-
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show,
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast-falling snow.

Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,
As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes ;
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,
And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor ends.

Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,
For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that run-
For beauty, and grandeur, and glory, and light,
Are seen by the spirit and not by the sight.

In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade;
In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade;
While the darkness, that seems your sweet being to bound,
Is one of the guardians an Eden around!

EVENING.

Some years ago there appeared a metrical tale entitled Safie, by JOHN HENRY REYNOLDS, which was much admired. Lately, there has been published, with the same name upon the title-page, a small collection of poems. the principal of which is called The Naiad, from which we take this beautiful opening passage. The author is, we believe, an American.

THE gold sun went into the west
And soft airs sang him to his rest;
And yellow leaves, all loose and dry,
Play'd on the branches listlessly;
The sky wax'd palely blue; and high
A cloud seem'd touch'd upon the sky-
A spot of cloud,-blue, thin, and still,
And silence bask'd on vale and hill.
'Twas autumn tide-the eve was sweet,
As mortal eye hath e'er beholden;
The grass look'd warm with sunny heat,—
Perchance some fairy's glowing feet

Had lightly touch'd,-and left it golden:
A flower or two were shining yet;
The star of the daisy had not yet set,-
It shone from the turf to greet the air,
Which tenderly came breathing there: