A Remembered Face.

Though simple weeds are all I bring,
Soul-soothing Poesy!

They share the sunny smiles of Spring,
Nor are they scorn'd by thee.

A

A Remembered Face.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

H there! and comest thou thus again,
Thou phantom of delight?

How oft, in hours of lonely pain,

Thou risest on my sight!

Since last we met, what suns have known

Their rising and decline!

But none of all those suns have shown

A fairer face than thine.

'Tis many a year since I look'd on
Those meek and loving eyes;

And thousands since have come and gone,
Like meteors through the skies.

But thine-they often come to me
With lustre so benign;

Though memory of all others flee,
'Twill make but dearer thine.

As not alone, the gorgeous arch,

Rear'd in heaven's summer dome, Gleams proudly on its silent march, And heralds good to come,

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But leaves, where'er its glory pass'd,
A fragrancy divine*—

So freshly on my soul is cast
The odorous light of thine.

Then welcome to my lonely hours,
Thou visionary thing;

Come with thy coronal of flowers—
Flowers of a vanish'd spring.
For gleeful souls let others roam,
But, till life's cords untwine,
In my heart's depth shall find a home
That pensive face of thine.

Glencoe.

BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.)

LAY

AY by the harp, sing not that song,
Though very sweet it be;

It is a song of other years,

Unfit for thee and me.

Thy head is pillow'd on my arm,
Thy heart beats close to mine;
Methinks it were unjust to Heaven
If we should now repine.

"The ancients," says Lord Bacon, in his "Ten Centuries of Natural History," "believed that where the rainbow rested it left a delicate and heavenly

Glencoe.

I must not weep, you must not sing
That thrilling song again,-

I dare not think upon the time
When last I heard the strain.

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It was a silent summer eve:
We stood by the hill side,
And we could see my ship afar
Breasting the ocean tide..

Around us grew the graceful larch,
A calm blue sky above,
Beneath were little cottages,
The homes of peace and love.

Thy harp was by thee then, as now,
One hand in mine was laid,

The other, wandering 'mid the chords,

A soothing music made;

Just two or three sweet chords, that seem'd

An echo of thy tone,―

The cushat's song was on the wind,

And mingled with thine own.

I look'd upon the vale beneath,
I look'd on thy sweet face,
I thought how dear, this voyage o'er,
Would be my resting place.

We parted; but I kept thy kiss

Thy last one-and its sigh,

As safely as the stars are kept

In yonder azure sky.

Again I stood by that hill side,
And scarce I knew the place,

For fire, and blood, and death, had left
On every thing their trace.

The lake was cover'd o'er with weeds,
Choked was our little rill,

There was no sign of corn or grass,
The cushat's song was still.

Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap
Was every cottage round,-
I listen'd, but I could not hear
One single human sound.

I spoke, and only my own words
Were echoed from the hill;

I sat me down to weep, and curse
The hand that wrought this ill.

We met again by miracle:

Thou wert another one

Saved from this work of sin and death,— I was not quite alone.

And then I heard the evil tale

Of guilt and suffering,

Till I pray'd the curse of God might fall On the false-hearted king.

I will not think on this,-for thou
Art saved, and saved for me!

And gallantly my little bark

Speeds through the moonlight sea.

Incognita.

There's not a shadow in the sky,
The waves are bright below,

I must not on so sweet a night
Think upon dark Glencoe.

If thought were vengeance, then its thought
A ceaseless fire should be,
Burning by day, burning by night,
Kept like a thought of thee.

But I am powerless and must flee,—
That e'er a time should come,

When we should shun our own sweet land,
And seek another home!

This must not be; yon soft moonlight
Falls on my heart like balm,
The waves are still, the air is hush'd,
And I too will be calm.

Away! we seek another land

Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine;
I shall forget the dark green hills
Of that which once was mine!

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Incognita.

WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE PICTURE OF AN UNKNOWN

LADY.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

IMAGE of One, who lived of yore,

Hail to that lovely mien !

Once quick and conscious, now no more
On land or ocean seen.