The sun, his mirrored smile, not yet Upon the loving earth has set. Happy in his caressing fold,

The cottage roofs are domes of gold.
To sip the misty surf he stoops;
Ontarios of light he scoops

In sombrest turf, and still for me
Alone his shining seems to be:
Mine are his thousand rays that burn,
I love and I appropriate;
Who loves enough creates return,
Nor can be isolate.

UBI AMOR, IBI FIDES.
"ALL faith from human hearts is fled,"
I to that gentle lady said;
"Faith is an idle dream, I see,

I'll trust in none, none trusteth me!"
And I was moody, she was still;

Our souls were out of tune,
Because I spoke such words of ill

That summer afternoon.

My lonely heart felt sick and weak-
The gentle lady did not speak.

So silently the path we took
Along the common, by the brook,
And walked together on the shore,
As we had often walked before;

The sky was fair, the sands were white-
Smooth flowed the silvery sea:

I watched the snowy sea-gulls' flight,
And so perhaps did she,
As in the sunshine's parting glow
The fair things sparkled to and fro.
Methought I heard the ocean moan,
In sorrow to be left alone;
And I rejoiced that sea and sky
Should be bereaved as well as I.
Our homeward path we could not miss,
Along a narrow ledge,

And by a beetling precipice

Close to the water's edgeA hoary eminence and gray, Familiar with the ocean's spray. The ocean's spray that o'er it dashed, By strong east winds to madness lashed, Striving to reach the wintry stars. Kind Summer sought to hide the scars Of the huge rock's misshapen side

With light fern's feathery nod,
With yellow colt's-foot simple pride,
And wealth of golden-rod.

I liked in that stern cliff to see
A brother-scorn and savagery!
Thus went we in the evening holy,
Along the sea-line pacing slowly,
When sudden, as from heaven sent,
And free from earthly element,
Stood on the crag a creature fair,
Of bearing free and bold,
Like wings of angels on the air
His curls of shining gold,

And God had given to the face
A beautiful and perfect grace.

Nothing so beautiful before

I saw, and shall see nevermore;
And I were loath to hear again
A tone so full of stifled pain
As when her eyes the lady raised,

Her hand her forehead shading,
And under that fair screening gazed

Upon the sunset's fading,
And knew between us and the sun
That glorious child, her own-her one.

His gaze was on the distance fixed,
Where skies and seas their azure mixed;
Perchance his stainless childhood's thought
The meaning of the ocean caught,
And revelations never given

When the world's vapors dim
Have floated between us and heaven,
Were present then with him.
Plain spoke the sea's majestic roll
In the white chambers of his soul.

Safe stood he, while no downward glance
Broke the glad tenor of his trance;
For lofty thoughts are angel-bands
With charge to bear us in their hands.
'Tis sense of self that peril flings
Around life's lonely peak,

And causes mortal shudderings

As in that infant weak.

No more the seer—the angel bright-
A child is on that dizzy height.

Then rang the lady's silvery tone:
"Mamma will come, my love, my own!
Look up and see the sky's bright hue,
Until mamma can see it too."
Alas! ere we the summit gain,

The boy will lose his hold;
The chilling fingers of the Main

Uncurl those locks of gold;
And Death will kiss the eyelids fair
Where late a mother's kisses were!

She saw that I could climb no more,
So far the hoar crag jutted o'er;
Her look grew strange with agony,
And hope died in her fading eye.
Still the white lips spoke mild and clear-
"Stand now upright, and spring!"
The boy, without one pause of fear,

Or single questioning,
Leaped downward to her glad embrace,
And in her bosom hid his face!

Wounded against the rocks I found her,
A happy paleness breathing round her,
Half like a woman dear and faint,
Half with the look of some sweet saint.
Fondly she clasped her boy the while,
Glad tears were in her eyes;

Then unto me with gentle smile
She said, reproachful-wise,

MISS BARTLETT, a daughter of the late Hon. Levi Bartlett, and a grand-daughter of the revolutionary patriot, Josiah Bartlett, was born in Kingston, New Hampshire, and in 1838 was married to Mr. E. Case, then

THE INDIAN RELIC. YEARS ago was made thy grave By the Ohio's languid wave, When primeval forests dim Echoed to the wild bird's hymn; From that lone and quiet bed, Relic of the unknown dead, Why art thou, a mouldering thing, Here amongst the bloom of spring? Violets gem the fresh, young grass, Softest breezes o'er thee pass; Nature's voice, in tree and flower, Whispers of a waking hour; Village sounds below are ringing, Birds around thee joyous singing— Thou, upon this height alone, No reviving power hast known. Yet wert thou of human form, Once with all life's instincts warm-Quailing at the storm of grief Like the frailest forest leaf: With a bounding pulse-an eye Brightening o'er its loved ones nigh, Till beneath this cairn of trust, Dust was laid to blend with dust. When the red man ruled the wood, And his frail canoe yon flood, Hast thou held the unerring bow That the antlered head laid low? And in battle's fearful strife, Swung the keen, remorseless knife? Or, with woman's loving arm, Shielded helplessness from harm? Silent-silent! Naught below O'er thy past a gleam can throw : Or, in frame of sinewy chief, Woman, born for love and griefThankless toil, or haughty sway Sped life's brief and fitful day. Like the autumn's sapless bough Crumbling o'er thee, thou art now. Rest! A young, organic world, Into sudden ruin hurled, Casts its fragments o'er thy tomb, Midst the woodland's softened gloom! Died those frail things long ago, But the soul no death can know :

of Lowell, and more recently of Portland, Maine, and Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poems and prose writings have nearly all been published in miscellanies edited by her friend, the late Mrs. Edgerton Mayo.

Rest! thy grave, with silent preaching,
Humble Hope and Faith is teaching.

Rest! Thy warrior tribes so bold
Roam no more their forests old,
And the thundering fire-canoe
Sweeps their placid waters through:
Science rules where Nature smiled,
Art is toiling in the wild;
And their mouldering cairns alone
Tell the tale of races gone.

Thus, o'er Time's mysterious sea,
Being moves perpetually :
Crowds of swift, advancing waves
Roll o'er vanished nation's graves;
But immortal treasures sweep
Still unharmed that solemn deep:
Progress holds a tireless way-
Mind asserts her deathless sway.

ENERGY IN ADVERSITY. ONWARD! Hath earth's ceaseless change Trampled on thy heart?

Faint not, for that restless range

Soon will heal the smart.
Trust the future: time will prove
Earth hath stronger, truer love.

Bless thy God-the heart is not
An abandoned urn,
Where, all lonely and forgot,

Dust and ashes mourn:
Bless him, that his mercy brings
Joy from out its withered things.

Onward, for the truths of God-
Onward, for the right!
Firmly let the field be trod,

In life's coming fight:

Heaven's own hand will lead thee on,
Guard thee till thy task is done!

Then will brighter, sweeter flowers
Blossom round thy way,

Than ere sprung in Hope's glad bowers,
In thine early day:

And the rolling years shall bring
Strength and healing on their wing.

MRS. BOLTON resides in Ohio, and has been a contributor to the Herald of Truth in Cincinnati, to the Home Journal in New York,

and to several other periodicals whose authors are accustomed to have meaning in their verses.

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY AN ANECDOTE OF PROFESSOR MORSE.*

DIDST thou desire to die and be at rest,
Thou of the noble soul and giant mind?
Hadst thou grown weary in the hopeless quest
Of blessedness that mortals seldom find?
Had care and toil and sorrow all combined
To bring that sickness of the soul that mars
The happiness that God for men designed,
Till thy sad spirit spurned its prison-bars,
And pined to soar away amidst the burning stars?
Perchance an angel sought thee in that hour-
A blessed angel from the world of light,
Teaching submission to Almighty power,
Whose dealings all are equal, just, and right:
Perchance Hope whispered of a future, bright
And glorious in its triumph. Soon it came:

A world, admiring, hailed thee with delight,
And learning joyed to trace thy deathless name
Upon her ponderous tomes in characters of flame.
Thou brightest meteor of a starry age, [wrought
What does the world not owe thee? thou hast
For scientific lore a glowing page:
Thy mighty energy of mind has brought
To man a wondrous agent: it has taught
The viewless lightning in its fight sublime,

To bear upon its wing embodied thought, Warm from its birthplace to the farthest clime, Annihilating space and vanquishing e'en time. Didst thou look down into the shadowy tomb, And crave the privilege to slumber there,

* In a letter to General Morris, dated Trenton Falls, August 14, Mr. N. P. Willis relates the following curious anecdote: "Among our fellow passengers up the Mohawk, we had, in two adjoining seats, a very impressive contrast an insane youth, on his way to an asylum, and the mind that has achieved the greatest triumph of intellect in our time, Morse, of the electric telegraph, on an errand connected with the conveyance of thought by lightning. .....In the course of a brief argument on the expediency of some provision for putting an end to a defeated and hopeless existence, Mr. Morse said that, ten years ago, under ill health and discouragement, he would gladly have availed himself of any divine authorization for terminating a life of which the possessor was weary. The sermon that lay in this chance remark-the loss of priceless discovery to the world, and the loss of fame and fortune to himself, which would have followed a death thus prematurely self-chosen-is valuable enough, I think, to justify the invasion of the sacredness of private conversation which I commit by thus giving it to print. May some one, a-weary of the world, read it to his profit."

Unhonored and forgotten ?-thou, on whom
Kind Heaven bestowed endowments rich and rare?
Was life a burden that thou couldst not bear?
A lesson this, to those whose souls have striven
With disappointment, sorrow, and despair,
Until they feed on poison, and are driven
To quench the vital spark that Deity hath given.
And it should teach our restless hearts how dim
And erring is our finite vision here-
Should make us trust, through humble faith, in Him
Who sees alike the distant and the near.
The cloud that seems so sombre, cold, and drear,
May hide a prospect lovely, bright, and clear:
When lightning's flash and winds are wild and high,
No radiant beam of sunlight comes to cheer;
But when the wrecking tempest has gone by,
God sets the blessed bow of promise in the sky

THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH.

I DREAMED that I saw, on the fair brow of heaven,
The star-jewelled veil of a midsummer even;
I looked, and, as quick as a meteor's birth,
A beautiful Spirit descended to earth.

Her brow wore a halo of light, and her eye
Was bright as the stars and as blue as the sky;
Her low, silvery voice trembled soft as a spell,
To the innermost chords of the heart, as it fell.
One hand held a banner inscribed with "ACCORD,"
The other, the glorious Word of the Lord:
Then, softly, the beautiful vision did glide
To the palace a rich man had reared in his pride.
Through curtains of crimson the sun's mellow beam
Fell, soft as the tremulous light of a dream,
On all that was gorgeous in nature and art-
On all that could gladden the eye or the heart.

The rich man was clad in fine purple and gold,
The wealth in his coffers might never be told;
The brows of the servants that waited around
Grew bright when he smiled, and grew pale when
he frowned.

Then did that proud nobleman tremble and start, As the bright Spirit whispered these words to his heart:

"If thou wouldst have wealth when life's journey is o'er,

Sell all that thou hast, and divide with the poor."

She stood in the cell, where the death-breathing air
Was rife with the groans of the prisoner's despair,
As sadly he looked, through the long lapse of time,
To days when his soul was unstained by a crime.
She pointed away to his Father above-
She soothed him in accents of pity and love,
And said, as she severed the links of his chain,
"Thy sins are forgiven, transgress not again."
She came in her strength, and the gallows that stood
For ages, all reeking and blackened with blood,
Like a lightning-scared fiend, pointing up to the sky,
Fell prostrate to earth, at the glance of her eye.
She spoke old earth heard, and her pulses were still:
"God's holy commandment forbiddeth to kill."
That spirit of beauty, that spirit of might, [light.
Went forth, till the earth was illumined with her
The strong one relenting, was fain to restore [poor:
The spoil he had wrenched from the hand of the
Injustice, oppression, and wrong, fled away,
Before the pure light of millennial day.

The turbulent billows of faction grew calm;
The lion laid down in the fold with the lamb;
The ploughshare was forged from the sabre and
sword,

And the mighty bowed down to the sway of the Lord.
The heathen with joy cast his idols away,
And knelt 'neath his own vine and fig tree to pray.
By every kindred, and nation, and tongue,
Glad anthems of praise to Jehovah were sung.

KENTUCKY'S DEAD.*

KENTUCKY, mother of the brave!
Let solemn prayers be said,
And welcome to an honored grave
Thy loved and gallant dead.

Thy gallant dead-they come, they come !
What will thy greeting be?
The bugle note, the martial drum,

And banners waving free?

No: toll for them the solemn knell,

Let dirges sad be sung,
And be the flag they loved so well
A pall around them flung.
In other days, when freemen bled
In fearful border strife,

The bones of the Kentuckians who died under the tomahawk at the river Raisin, in 1812. were conveyed to the river shore, at Cincinnati, on the 29th of September, 1848, by an escort of Cincinnati firemen, and placed in charge of the Kentucky committee, to whom their reception was assigned. They were contained in a wooden box, painted black, bearing the inscription:

"KENTUCKY'S GALLANT DEAD. January 18, 1812.-River Raisin, Michigan." The bones of these brave men were found in a common grave, which was accidentally upturned while a street in Monroe, Michigan, was being graded. The fact of the skulls being all cloven with the tomahawk, induced the workmen to make inquiry, and an aged Frenchman, a survivor of the massacre, knew them as the bones of the unfortunate Kentuckians-remembering the spot where they were buried. Information was sent to Kentucky, and that state promptly took means for their removal. The charge was devolved upon Colonel Brooke, a participant in, and survivor of, that unfortunate battle.

When savage tomahawks were red
With unoffending life—
With all the ardor youth imparts,

They sought the battle plain:
Those stalwart forms and noble hearts,
Came never back again.

Oh, they were missed where kindred met
In cottage homes of yore-
Flowers bloomed and died, suns rose and set,
But they returned no more.
Young hopeful hearts in sorrow pined,
Young eyes were wet with tears,
And, fondly mourning, Memory shrined
Their names for weary years.
Theirs was no common battle field,
For savage hearts decreed;
And savage vengeance there revealed
A most inhuman deed.

A grave to rest in was denied

The brave and gallant slain;
And foemen left them where they died,
Upon the battle plain.

No voice to soothe, no hand to bless,
The suffering wounded came;
But they, in all their helplessness,
Were given to the flame.
Where Raisin's sparkling waters glide
Through forest, grove, and glade,
Defending Freedom's soil, they died,
And there their graves were made-
Yes, made beneath the ancient trees,
Deep in the tangled wilds:
Their only requiem was the breeze
Amidst the forest aisles.

The moonbeams came at midnight's hour
And softly trembled there,

And angels made that lonely bower
Their never sleeping care.

And fragrant flowers, of brilliant dyes,
Bloomed o'er the silent sod,
And lifted up their tearful eyes

Like mourners to their God.

The world has changed; for many years
Have come since then and gone,

With joys and woes, and hopes and fear,
And still they slumber on.

The pleasant homes in which they grew
Are now the stranger's care:
The gay, and beautiful, and true,

And loved-they are not there.
The friends who knew their manly worth
Have passed from time away;

The children left beside their hearth
Are growing old and gray.
Another generation bears

Their ashes, sad and slow-
Another generation wears

For them the weeds of wo.
Thy gallant dead! oh, hoard their dust
Within thy holiest shrine:
It is a proud, a sacred trust-

Their deathless fame is thine!