THE SISTER'S GRAVE. BY A YOUNG LADY. I HAD a little sister once, And she was wondrous fair; Her face was like a day in June, And the shadows of the summer clouds O my sister's voice-I hear it yet, Like the singing of a joyous bird, When the summer months are near. Sometimes the notes would rise at eve, So fairy-like and wild, My mother thought a spirit sang, And not the gentle child. But then we heard the little feet And she would enter full of glee, She never bore the garden's pride, Our own sweet wild-flower ever loved Like them she seemed to cause no toil, To give no pain or care, But to bask and bloom on a lonely spot And, oh! like them as they come in spring, And with summer's fate decay, She passed with the sun's last parting smile, From life's rough path away. And when she died, 'neath an old oak-tree My sister's grave was made, For when on earth she used to love Its dark and pensive shade. And every spring in that old tree The song-birds build their nests, And wild-flowers blow on the soft Where my dead sister rests. And the children of our village say green turf The wild-flowers are the last that fade, There is no stone raised there to tell My sister's name and age, We miss her in the hour of joy, We miss her in the hour of woe, And the soothing words of the pious child Even when she erred we could not chide, She always mourned so much-and sued She was too pure for earthly love Strength to our hearts was given, Blackwood's Magazine. A. G. TO A CHILD ON HIS BIRTHDAY. MRS. HEMANS. WHERE sucks the bee now ?-Summer is flying, With the cowslip-cups where the fairies dwell; For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled Ever around thee, my gentle child! Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. Happy and bright is thy natal day. ON THE DEATH OF TWIN CHILDREN. MISS S. T. WILLIAMS. WHERE are ye now, sweet pair? Vacant is now your place of cradled rest : Ye slumber not upon a mother's breast, Where is your home-oh! where? How beautiful ye were, With your meek, peaceful brows, and laughing eyes, All eloquent of life's first energies, And joy's bright fount, yet clear! How blithely ye awoke With each new day! familiar forms were there Ye seemed then to be, As some pale flower, that to the morning's light |