To the mansions of the holy

Where anguish is unknown,

Where the care-worn and the lowly

Do neither sigh nor moan,

Thy spirit from the world's dark woe in joyfulness has flown.

From the earth's soul-wasting prisou,

Thy soul has found release,

And in triumph has arisen

To the joyous realms of peace,

Where the weary are at rest, and the pilgrim's wan

d'ring, cease!

VANISHED HOURS.

Ne'er tell me of beauties serenely adorning

The twilight of life, the calm close of our night-

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of moru

ing-

Its clouds and its tears are worth evening's best light.

MOORE'S MELODITS.

THE vanish'd hours of spring
Back to my heart restore--
Its clouds, its sunshine bring,
E'en as they were of yore;
Its very gloom would now
Light up this woe-worn brow.

The visions of the past

With which my heart was link'd,
Too bright they were to last,

Have now become extinct-
And life itself appears

A scene of clouds and tears.

I ask not for the bloom
And freshness of my youth,
I only would resume

Its purity and truth;
The love of other days
Is all my spirit prays.

Bring back the buoyant heart,
The guileless look of love-
The smile devoid of art,

The thoughts this world above-
Bring back life's vanish'd hours,
Its starlight and its flowers.

Bring back those times endear'd
By cares I since have known,
When life's dark path appeared
A scene of joy alone:

Long as life's lamp may burn,
Those hours will ne'er return.

FAREWELL.

» Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of that friend who once welcomed it too, And his own griefs forgot to be happy with you."

MOORE.

FAREWELL!-my heart must breathe that strain,

Tho' bitter be the sound

For days of joy unmixed with pain

Must ever so be crowned.

I would not mar the present glee,
To ask one sad adieu-

I pray you but to think of me,
As I shall think of you.

The friendship's that in life we form,
How time their force impairs?
They yield before the gloomy storm
Of misery and cares.

But still, as with the oldest tree,

One leaf may keep its hue

pray you but to think of me,

As I shall think of you.

The web that selfishness may weave
To win the unpractised heart,
Would never give us cause to grieve-
In such we had no part.

Our friendship was as all should be,
Pure as the morning dew
And thus I know you'll think of me,
As I shall think of you.

It may be I might leave behind
Some record of the past,

More deep than what ye here may find-
Tho' this may be the last.

But still I trust we'll all agree

This simple thing to do

As frequently to think of me
As I shall think of you.

THE END.