Sister, while life and joy are young, While the sweet lyre of hope is strung, Ere thou hast known a crowd of cares, Earth's vain regrets and burning tears-- Ere the sick heart of grief is thine, Or rapture's thrilling pulse decline-- Ere wounded pride and love shall tell That thou hast served the world too well, Turn thou to worship at the shrine Of faith and holy love divine! Bring all thy strength of feeling there; Wait not to waste affection where No harvest ever can repay For all thou losest by delay. Seek the bright path the saints have trod; At his own altar worship God; And find that peace whilst kneeling there The world can neither give nor share. Mourn thou with hope--with fear rejoice; List to that small but awful voice, Which tells us all things fade and die To bloom no more beneath the sky. Earth's brightest dreams soon melt away, Her forms of loveliness decay-- And disappointment's chilling gloom Blights all her flowers of fairest bloom; But oh, remember, there is bliss In a far better land than this: Look thou beyond this world of care, And hope a fadeless crown to wear. Then may distress and sorrow come, _Thy_ soul can ever find a home! E. A. S. For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE FRIENDS OF MAN. The young babe sat on its mother's knee, Shaking its coral and bells with glee, When Hope drew near with a seraph smile, And kiss'd the lips that had spoke no guile, Nor breath'd the words of sorrow. Its little sister brought a flower, And Hope still lingering nigh, With sunny tress and sparkling eye, Whisper'd of buds in a brighter bower It might cull for itself to-morrow. The boy came in from the wintry snow, And mus'd by the parlor fire,-- But ere the evening lamps did glow A stranger came with a thoughtful brow; "What is that in your hand?" she said; "My new-year's gift, with its covers red." "Bring hither the book, my boy, and see The magic spell of Memory;-- That page hath gold, and a way I'll find To lock it safe in your docile mind: For books have honey, the sages say, That is sweet to the taste, when the hair is grey." The youth at midnight sought his bed, But ere he closed his eyes Two forms drew near with a gentle tread, In meek and saintly guise; One struck a lyre of wondrous power, With thrilling music fraught, That chain'd the flying summer hour, And charm'd the listener's thought-- For still would its tuneful cadence be, "Follow me! Follow me! And every morn a smile shall bring As sweet as the merry lay I sing."