ill gaze on me;
Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,
Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,
I share with him that smile of GOD, which lights the world on high!

LOVE TERRESTRIAL.

They tell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,
And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;
A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,
Too _living_, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.

They tell me he will surely die--and so at last must all;
I know that the Destroyer's blight on all mankind must fall;
Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,
And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!

But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to see
The pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;
Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,
I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.

Perhaps 'tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,
But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?
If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;
Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.

Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tell
How sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;
I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,
I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!

It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;
This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,
The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,
While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.

I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,
While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,
Will ne'er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;
O, GOD! it is a fearful thought--and this it is to die!

B.

THE HERMIT OF THE PRAIRIE.

BY PETER VON GEIST.

'To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.'

BRYANT.

Wednesday, June twenty-first. How little do people who ride along in their
carriages, or rattle over the ground in stage-coaches, or rush over its
surface in rail-ca