Take our message to thy breast,
Let us on thy pillow rest,
From blest clime, and seraph song,
We will not detain thee long,
For Earth's most protracted day
Like our blossom fleets away,
Friend to us, and Nature's smile,
Only for a little while
Come back to us.
DEATH OF MRS. HARRIET W. L. WINSLOW, MISSIONARY TO CEYLON.
Thy name hath power like magic. Back it brings
The earliest pictures hung in Memory s halls,
Tinting them freshly o'er:—the rugged cliff,
The towering trees, the wintry walk to school,
The page so often conn'd, the needle's task
Achiev'd with weariness, the hour of sport
Well earn'd and dearly priz'd, the sparkling brook
Making its slight cascade, the darker rush
Of the pent river thro' its rocky pass,
Our violet-gatherings 'mid the vernal banks,
When our young hearts did ope their chrystal gates
To every simple joy.
I little deem'd
'Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship
That Asia's sun would beam upon thy grave,
Tho' even then, from thy dark, serious eye
