Since only those inspire my glow,
We cannot mourn with hopeless woe;
Those Faith may see, Life's warfare done,
On happier shores, with guerdon won.

Epitaph.

BY GUY PENSEVAL,

HERE in a little cave,

The prettiest nook of this most grassy vale,
All amid lilies pale,
That turn

Their heads into my little vault and mourn—
Stranger, I have made my grave.

I am not all forgot,

A small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow,
And o'er me a green willow
Doth weep,

Still questioning the air, "Why doth she sleep,
The girl in this cold spot?"

Even the very winds

Come to my cave and sigh: they often bring
Rose leaves upon their wing

To strew

O'er my earth; and leaves of violet blue,
In sooth, leaves of all kinds.

A Sketch.

Fresh is my mossy bed:

The frequent pity of the rock falls here,
A sweet, cold, silent tear;
I've heard,

Sometime, a wild and melancholy bird
Warble at my grave-head.

Read this small tablet o'er,

That holds mine epitaph upon its cheek of pearl;
"Here lies a simple girl,
Who died

Like a pale flower nipp'd in its sweet spring tide
Ere it had bloom'd."-No more.

A Sketch.

"And what's her history?

A blank, my lord."

-Twelfth Night.

23

ES-I remember well how beautiful

I used to think her, as she lay in slumber,

In the cool evening hour, upon her couch,

Before the open lattice, which the vines

Half veil'd with drooping wreaths.-How like an angel
She look'd-with those soft gloomy ringlets,

And slight-arch'd brow, and cheek of ivory,
Tinged with a blush of rose, bright, delicate
As that which paints the unfolded apple-blossom.

And yet at times what heavy sighs she breathed In that so beautiful sleep, and from her eyelids

Have wander❜d tears, like morning dew on roses.
'Twas sadness she was dying of-deep-deep-
For which, on this earth, grew no healing balm.
And they had brought her from her ruder clime
To that sweet spot, where ever cloudless skies,
Pure gales, and smiling scenes, their influence shed;
But not for her this influence-she was then
"Past hope-past cure."

They said her heart was broken-but, a child, I knew not then the meaning of that speechYet never word, nor murmur of regret Linger'd upon that gentle lip. The spirit Was wean'd from this world, and it look'd on high In humble faith. The grave no terrors had For one to whom existence had no charms.

Music alone still held its witching o'er her;
And she would dwell for hours on the rich tones
She knew so well to draw forth from her lute,
As in the stillness of the night she loved
To mingle with them her soft voice, when all
But ceaseless, life-consuming sorrow slept.
And at those hours how often used I wake
From my light sleep, and to the casement steal;
Then, as the moonbeam glitter'd on the Rhone,
The music of that voice and lute arose

In sighs of fragrance, and across the wave
Rung in strange sounds of harmony, as though
Some Spirit of Heaven his midnight hymn breathed
there,

All on his angel watch as lone he linger'd.

I do remember it well-though long, long past;
And whether it was young imagination,
Or the enchantment of the scene and time,
Such strains as those I never after heard.

The Illuminated City.

She died-and died unknown to all around:
Though many a look of fondness rested on her.
It was but a short moment fled her eyes
Had in expressive silence gazed upon.
The glorious sun, that from a sky of gold
Went down in majesty-her earnest glance
Still linger'd on its last light, (she then knew
The setting sun would rise for her-no more.)
That last light faded-vanish'd-and she closed
Her heavy eyes, and back reclined her head,
As in soft sleep-'twas an eternal sleep,
For she had died-unconscious all-had died.
And there she lay, like some fair sculptured form,
Lovely, and pure, and pale, and motionless.

The Illuminated City.

BY MRS HEMANS

HE hills all glow'd with a festive light,

ΤΗ

For the royal city rejoiced by night:

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree—

Banners were lifted and streaming free;

Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire-
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;

And the outline of many a dome on high

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on
throngs-

Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne-
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;

25

The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ?
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain !

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell;
Grief o'er the features of childhood spread,

And bowing the beauty of woman's head:
Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender

moan,

For the many brave to their slumber gone?

I saw not the face of a weeper there

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare! I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd

The music of victory was all too loud!

Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,

Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;

Through torches and streams its floods swept byHow could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life's pageants! turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn :
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe!

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal:

So must thy spirit be taught to feel!