ppresses by day:
For one to the faithful is ever at hand,
As the shade of a rock in a weary land.

We met as soldiers meet,
Ere yet the fight is won--
Ere joyful at their captain's feet
Is laid their armor down:
Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear,
In hope of the crown which the victors wear.

Though daily the strife they renew,
And their foe his thousands o'ercome,
Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view
Of safety, protection, and home:
Where they knew that their sov'reign such favor conferred,
"As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard."

We met as seamen meet,
On ocean's watery plain,
Where billows rise and tempests beat,
Ere the destined port they gain:
But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave,
Assured that their pilot is mighty to save.

They dwell on the scenes which have past,
Of perils they still may endure--
The haven of rest, where they anchor at last,
Where bliss is complete and secure--
Till its towers and spires arise from afar,
To the eye of faith as some radiant star.

We met as brethren meet,
Who are cast on a foreign strand,
Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet
And commune of their native land--
Of their father's house in that world above,
Of his tender care and his boundless love.

The city so fair to behold,
The redeemed in their vestments of white--
In those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures untold,
They finally hope to unite:
Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend
To God and the Lamb in a world without end.

But of all these poetesses, the most remarkable, certainly to us, is
Maria Brooks, who died in 1845, the author of a curious poem entitled
_Zophiel_, which Southey admired, and which Charles Lamb declared to be
too extraordinary to have been conceived in the mind of a woman.
Unfortunately, in Mr. Griswold's volume, we have only an incomplete
analysis, with some brief fragments, of this poem. Notwithstanding its
incompleteness, however, there is enough to show a powerful life and a
wonderful imagination. There is in the poem a surprising union of Thomas
Moore and Shelley. Imagine the bowers of _Lalla Rookh_, through which is
sweeping the northern tempest of Shelley, bending the trees and
scattering the r