In desert wilds, in midnight gloom;
In grateful joy, in trying pain;
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb;
Oh when is prayer unheard or vain?
The Infinite, the King of kings,

Will never heed the when or where;
He'll ne'er reject a heart that brings
The offering of fervent prayer.

EVENING PRAYER, AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

"Now in thy youth, beseech of Him

Who giveth, upbraiding not;

That his light in thy heart become not dim,

And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee."

Bernard Barton.

HUSH! 't is a holy hour-the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer.

Gaze on 't is lovely!-Childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?-
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you—to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

DISENCHANTMENT.

Do not ask me why I loved him,
Love's cause is to love unknown;
Faithless as the past has proved him,
Once his heart appeared mine own.
Do not say he did not merit

All my fondness, all my truth;
Those in whom love dwells inherit
Every dream that haunted youth.

He might not be all I dreamed him,
Noble, generous, gifted, true,
Not the less I fondly deemed him,
All those flattering visions drew.
All the hues of old romances

By his actual self grew dim;
Bitterly I mock the fancies

That once found their life in him.

From the hour by him enchanted,
From the moment when we met,
Henceforth with one image haunted,
Life may never more forget.
All my nature changed-his being
Seemed the only source of mine,
Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing
Thy sad future to divine?

Once, upon myself relying,

All I asked were words and thought;

Many hearts to mine replying,

Owned the music that I brought.

Eager, spiritual, and lonely,
Visions filled the fairy hour,
Deep with love-though love was only
Not a presence, but a power.

But from that first hour I met thee,
All caught actual life from you,
Alas! how can I forget thee,

Thou who madest the fancied true?

Once my wide world was ideal,

Fair it was-ah! very fair :
Wherefore hast thou made it real?
Wherefore is thy image there?

Ah! no more to me is given
Fancy's far and fairy birth;
Chords upon my lute are riven,

Never more to sound on earth.
Once, sweet music could it borrow
From a look, a word, a tone;

I could paint another's sorrow-
Now I think but of mine own.

Life's dark waves have lost the glitter Which at morning-tide they wore,

And the well within is bitter;

Naught its sweetness may restore :

For I know how vainly given

Life's most precious things may be, Love that might have looked on heaven, Even as it looked on thee.

Ah, farewell!-with that word dying, Hope and love must perish too:

For thy sake themselves denying,

What is truth with thee untrue?
Farewell!-'t is a dreary sentence;
Like the death-doom of the grave,
May it wake in thee repentance,
Stinging when too late to save!

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

"Alas! the mother that him bare,

If she had been in presence there,

In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair

She had not known her child."-Marmion.

REST, pilgrim, rest!-thou 'rt from the Syrian land,
Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know
By the long-withered palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sun-burnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part

So full of hope, for that far country's bourne!
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,

And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return!

Thou 'rt faint-stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze, The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past,

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas.

Thou 'rt faint and worn-hearest thou the fountain welling
By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine?

Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling?
-He that hath left me trained that loaded vine!
S