There hangs the wreath which yesterday,
  Like thee, was blooming bright and gay;
  Emblem still, its leaves are dead,
  Their colors gone, their beauty fled;
  But withered roses shed perfume,
  That live beyond the mould’ring tomb.

  Happy child of the angel brow,
  Brighter wreaths entwine thee now;
  Thy paths are spread thro’ fairer bow’rs,
  Adorned with amaranthine flow’rs,
  And ever happy thou wilt be,
  Thro’ a blest eternity.

  But I must bid thee farewell now,
  Beautiful child of the death cold brow.

Lines, Written on the Death of Ellen A——­ B——.

  Could infant grace and beauty’s bloom
    Turn fate’s decrees aside,
  Death had not borne her to the tomb,—­
    Thy Ellen had not died.

  But God, in mercy, from his throne
    Looks down, on earth below,
  And plucks from thence, to be his own,
    The fairest flowers that grow.

  What once was clay, suff’ring, distress’d,
    Subject to pain and ire,—­
  A happy spirit, with the bless’d,
    Now tunes a seraph’s lyre.

  One little lock of silken hair
    Is all that’s to thee given;—­
  The rest lies buried deep in earth,—­
    The soul with God in heaven.

  The night winds sigh around her grave,
    The night dews there descend;
  And there the tears of anguish lave
    Thy pallid cheeks, my friend.

  But, oh! forbear, nor let thy tears,
    Drop on this mould’ring sod;—­
  Reflect, ’tis dust that slumbers here,
    The spirit’s with its God.

  For ere her fragile life had closed,
    What blissful hopes were given;—­
  Those parted lips and beaming eyes
    Spake less of earth than heaven,

  And soon thy dream of life will close,—­
    Its hopes and joys be o’er;
  In death’s cold arms thy limbs repose,—­
    Thy soul to glory soar.

  And then, perhaps, this cherub form,
    From sin so soon set free,
  May, with a daughter’s greeting warm,
    Be first to welcome thee.

  Perhaps, the joys on earth denied,
    In full fruition given,
  May more abundant be supplied,
    For rip’ning thus, in heaven.

  Perhaps, ’mid splendor spread around,
    Which thou shalt see, and hear,
  Mother, may be the sweetest sound
    That strikes thy ravished ear.

  Then do not mourn those early called
    To yonder blissful sky,—­
  They drink full draughts of living bliss,
    From founts that never dry.

The Order of Nature.

The strictest harmony and order pervade nature in all her works.  She is governed by laws and regulations which the nicest art may attempt in vain to imitate.  If we contemplate the azure sky, with all its glittering host of golden stars, and watch them as they run their nightly course through the boundless fields of ether, we shall readily perceive they are led by a systematic hand.