adiant wing,
Perchance is hov'ring near.

We watch the dying Christian's bed,
When death has marked his prey;
He struggles painfully for breath,
And longs to pass away.

But suddenly his eye grows bright,
Lit by unearthly fires;
He gazes upward with delight,--
The angels strike their lyres.

The music falls upon his ear,
In sweet seraphic strains;
Nought earthly can detain him here,--
His spirit bursts its chains,

Ossian, old Scotia's ancient bard,
The genius of the past;
Saw ghosts upon the fleecy clouds,
And heard them in the blast.

The spirits of the mighty dead,
That were in battle slain,
Came by his master spirit led,
Back to this earth again,

Their shadowy forms, in mist arrayed,
Rode on the drifting clouds;
The fork'd lightnings round them play'd,
And thunders echo'd loud.

Fiercely they shook their airy spears,
And clos'd in deadly fight
Shriek'd, as in agony and fear,
Then vanish'd from the sight.

Thus did old Scotia's ancient bard,
Hold converse with the dead;
"Back in the dim and shadowy past;
Those phantoms all had fled."

There let them rest; years have rolled on,
Down the dark tide of time;
Our loftier faith is built upon
A structure more sublime.

We know if angel spirits come
From other worlds to this,
They are sent to guide us to our home,
Where God our Father is.

The Widow's Home

Alas, my home is lonely,--
They've parted from my side;
My husband in the church yard's laid,
My daughter is a bride.

She's stood beside the altar,
And breath'd that solemn vow,
From which she may not falter,
Till life is ended now.

But, oh, my home is lonely,--
I miss them by the hearth;
When evening shadows gather 'round,
I miss their social mirth.

I miss the glances of the eye,
The old familiar tone,--
And feel indeed, the widow's home
Is desolate and lone.

And when we gather round the board,
There's each one's vacant chair;
And, oh, I miss them every hour--
And miss them everywhere.

But still there must be changes,
While time is stealing by,
Alternate sun and shadow
Will flit across the sky.

To Mrs. J. C. Bucklin, by Her Father.

My child, why weepest thou? Are these drawn lines of sorrow alone thy
garlands? Why this dreary awe, this languishing on all