Where sweet transporting voices stole
    On my enraptur’d eye and ear,
  That spoke the Sabbath of the soul. 
    Ceaseless as the eternal year.

  Here angel and arch-angel bow
    In worship round the great white throne;
  And ceaseless hallelujahs rise,
    To the Almighty, Three and One.

  Each has a mission to perform,
    As swift through ambient air they fly;
  ’Tis mine to minister to thee,
    And gently woo thee to the sky.

  Mother, there are jewels bright
    Graven on your deathless soul,
  And brighter shall their radiance glow,
    While everlasting ages roll.

  Mother, they are pure thoughts of heaven,
    Murmur’d oft upon your ear,
  Which God to me had kindly given,
    Your solitary way to cheer.

  Mother, these are memories sweet,
    Deeply treasur’d in your heart,
  Which time, with his restless change,
    May never dare to bid depart.

  Sometimes across your lap I lie,
    And breathe that evening prayer again,
  And looking in your tearful eye,
    Again repeat that sweet amen.

  Then mother, leave your child of earth
    To moulder back to kindred dust,
  And trace my new and heav’nly birth,
    A ransom’d spirit with the just.

  And weep not o’er the casket laid
    Beneath this little heaped up mound. 
  The deathless jewel cannot fade,—­
    A diamond in a Saviour’s crown.

An Evening in Our Village.

Why should we wander in the fields of fiction, to cull fancy’s flowers to feast a morbid imagination, when there are so many thrilling incidents in the pathway of human life, calculated to awaken the most refined emotions, and stir the deepest currents of the human soul?  Would the painter, as he raised his brush to give the last finishing touch to his picture, draw his colors from fancy?  Would he not rather imitate the color of the natural rose, copy the forest green, the azure of the sky, or the brilliant hues of the rainbow, as it spans the heavens with its bow of promise?

Fiction may weave her intricate labyrinths and enchain the fancy by wandering in mazy circuits, and weaving her mystic web; but truth will stand in all its primitive lustre, when the foundations of this earth have passed away.  Then let me record the truth in preference to fiction.

The clouds hung in heavy dense masses, during the day, while a damp chilly wind from the north-east betokened an uncomfortable winter rain.  It was winter, although the bridge of ice that had been formed over the Blackstone was broken up, and floated on its surface in huge masses, as it hurried rapidly along, to empty them into the waters of the Narragansett Bay, reminding the thoughtful observer of the stream of time, bearing away its vast multitudes to the ocean of eternity.

Here, where now stands our beautiful village, a few short years since stood the dense forest—­the growth of centuries.  Here the rude Indian roamed, in native wildness, hunted his prey, built his council fire, or smoked his pipe of peace.  Here, where now stands the temple of the living God, with its heaven directed spire, perchance smoked the blood of some poor victim, as it was offered upon the altar of savage brutality; or the rude wigwam stood.