Let Thy servants now depart,
Let them see Thee as Thou art,

Nothing here enslaves our eyes.
If Thou bid'st us stay below,
Grant us with Thy Child to grow;

Grant in Him at last to rise.

Amen.

THE CLAIRVOYANCE OF DEATH.

OH! deem not those are idle dreams,
Memories of days long fled,

Or phantasies, that crowd around
The sick one's dying bed.
Closed against sight of earthly things,

Blind to the world of sense,
God's grace hath lent the spirit wings
To bear it far from hence.

And fast as fades the visual ray
To mortal objects given,

Brighter and brighter grows the ken

That looks from earth to Heaven.
And Angel-wings are fluttering near,
And Angel-voices sound,
And heavenly music on the ear

Of death is stealing round.

So at the Prophet's earnest prayer,
To calm his servant's fear,
The veil was lifted, and his eyes

Encountered far and near

Thousands and tens of thousands ranged
Around the Seer, to guard

God's minister from foeman's arm

With holy watch and ward.

The worldling lives but in the past;
The Saint, with forward gaze,
Discerns the twilight of the Dawn
Beyond the feverish haze.

One 'babbles of green fields,' or fights'

His battles o'er again;

The other muses on the thought

Of God's Angelic train,3

Or lives 'mid memories of the past,
With hopeful visions blent

Of future joys, which aye have cheered
His path where'er he went.
Parents and children, partners, friends,*
Removed for many a day,
Now crowd around his dying bed,
And beckon him away.

Along the shadowy vale of death,
Grant to Thy Saints, O God,
To lean upon Thy strengthening staff,
And feel Thy guiding rod!

With parting breath commend their souls
To Thee, and pass away

Soothed by Seraphic tongues and forms

To realms of endless day.

S. W. C.

STREET CHILDREN.

Is there a thought that can alloy
The freshness of the vernal morn,

The hopes with primal moments born?
It is the thought-this thrill of joy

'Death of Falstaff. Shakspeare's Henry V., Act II., Scene III.

"'a babbled of green fields.'

The 5th (of May, 1821) was another day of tempests; and about six in the evening, Napoleon, having pronounced the words, "Tête d' armée," passed away from the dreams of battle.-Life of Napoleon.

Just before the death of Hooker, Dr. Saravia, seeing him deep in contemplation, and not inclinable to discourse, inquired what were his present thoughts? To which he replied "That he was meditating the number and nature of Angels, and their blessed obedience and order, without which peace could not be on earth; and oh that it might be so in Heaven!'

The account of the actual death of this poor little Prince (Louis XVII.) is perhaps the least melancholy part of his history; for the prison walls could not prevent his hearing the mysterious and beautiful music which occasionally comes to the ears of the dying. From what direction do you hear this music?' asked the keeper, Gomin, whose heart, to do him justice, was full of pity for the unfortunate child. From above,' was the answer. 'Do you not hear it? Listen-listen! Through all the voices I can distinguish my mother's.'

Sure on that everlasting shore

The breath of some supernal breeze
Shall murmur thro' the fadeless trees,
And fan those cheeks for evermore;
And veil those pallid faces o'er

With rosy hues of glowing health,

And fill the little hands with wealth;

And cool the pain'd exhausted brow,

That droops and works and wearies now.

ΜΑΤ.

THE STORY OF MASTER LAURENT COSTER,

AS TOLD BY HIS SERVANT CORNELIUS.

'When the tree is grown the planter is dead.'

OLD? Yes, I think I am old-but my master was older than I;
I was only a boy, I remember, when I first saw him passing by,
With his grave unhurried step, in his sweeping burgher's gown,
No gauds on his collar and cap, but a sober suit of brown.

I have heard women say that his dress and his eyes were just the same—
Both were brown, but the eyes were a brown that could leap into flame;
Eyes that could hold you fast-I have felt them many a day—

Hold you, and pierce you through, till you thought they would sweep

you away.

Not always, though, for at times they were blind to all visible things,
And told no more than a dolt's of his inward communings;
Self-absorbed and upwrought, a man might have smitten his face,
And my master have doffed his cap, and thanked him for the grace.
Saints! how often we laughed, Fust, and Hans, and I;

Fust, the villain, he laughed all the while that he played the spy.
-I ask your pardon, my masters; as you say, I'm no longer young,

And my years might have taught me at least to keep a check on my

tongue.

But Fust-if you had but known him!-oh, you know of his works, no doubt,

His Tractatus and Doctrinale there's so much stir about;

His! I tell you, Master Talesius, though the Virgin were standing by,
That I marvel the earth does not open, and swallow him up for the lie.
-There, hold your peace, Christina, you can never leave one alone-
A man can't talk of a villain, and keep as still as a stone;

And my master so gentle to him! He was never unkind; but then,
He trusted me and Fust above all the other men.

So you want to see his house? Christina can show you to-day,
A large old rambling place, with the palace across the way;
And a dog carved over the arch, just where the windows divide,
And a yew tree, clipped, in the court, with a pond on either side.
If you look up as you enter, his name is cut in the door,
'Laurent Coster, of Haarlem; Fourteen hundred and twenty-four.'
He was always graving and moulding;-that chair belonged to him;
Nobody else would have carved the alphabet round its rim:
And up in the Church of St. Bavon-Christina will take you there-
She can show you a De profundis at the head of the organ stair.

How much he loved that church! He was sacristan of it, you know, When he might have been something grander-his wife often told him

So,

And he answered her with a smile that was just as firm as a frown;
I knew 'twas no good to say more, but a woman is never put down.
And she was a tiresome woman, made up of care and strife,

Wanting my master to think of nothing but these all his life;

He with his great good thoughts, which her wisdom called high-flown, Till she tried to drag him down to a level as low as her own.

Well-What of the printing? you ask. He had always a dream of the kind;

We used to think it was dreaming-we could not follow his mind,
It seemed too strange to be true. I confess it stuck in my gizzard,
And his wife declared outright they would burn him alive for a wizard.
So, perhaps to get out of our way, who could do no more for him
Than treat his great design as a mere wool-gathering whim,

He would take one or two of the children-Thomas's children, I mean—
And go out, as the little ones said, to see if the trees were green.

He loved his grandchildren dearly, would stay out with them by the hour;

They counselled him better than we, for they never doubted his power;
Used to come, clapping, home-one day it was after dark-
Triumphing over the letters he'd cut out of beech tree bark:
That night he called me to him, 'Cornelius!' under his breath;
When I ran I found him standing with a face as pale as death,
But his eyes aflame with fire, and a roll held in his hand,

Not written-not written, but printed! Holy Virgin, I scarce could stand!

After, he went on apace, tried and tried over again,
Worked his way to the thing at the cost of infinite pain:

I helped him with all my might, ground up the stuff for his ink,
Kept his wife off when I could, but I could not help him to think.