For her if Sorrow lay in wait,
She saw not he was nigh,
And if a smile could dazzle Fate,
He might have pass'd her by ;

O, would that Titian's pencil had been mine!
Then had that smile been lastingly divine.

There is a smile which wit extorts
From grave and learned men,
In whose austere and senile sports
The plaything is a pen;

And there are smiles, by shallow worldlings worn,
To grace a lie, or laugh a truth to scorn:

And there are smiles with less alloy,
Of those who, for the sake

Of some they love, would kindle joy
Which they cannot partake;

But her's was of the kind which simply say
They come from hearts ungovernably gay.

And O, that gaiety of heart!

There lives not he to whom
Its laugh more pleasure will impart
Than to the man of gloom;

Who, if he laugh, laughs less from mirth of mind
Than deference to the customs of mankind.

The day went down; the last red ray
Flush'd on her face or ere

It sank-and creeping up the bay
The night-wind stirr'd her hair;
The crimson wave caress'd her naked feet
With coy approach and resonant retreat.

True native of the clime was she,

Nor could there have been found
A creature who should more agree
With every thing around,-

The woods, the fields, and genial nature, rife
With life, and gifts that feed and gladden life.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.

Henry Taylor.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,-
Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

H. K. White.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty, side by side
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount and stream and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid;

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colours round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth;

Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, on earth!

THE VOICES OF HOME.

The voices of my home,-I hear them still!
They have been with me through the dreamy night;
The blessed household voices, wont to fill

My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight!

Hemans.

I hear them still, unchanged :-though some from earth
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth-

Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright—
Have died in others,-yet to me they come,

Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home!

They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
In the gray stillness of the summer morn;
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born:
Even as a fount's remember'd gushings burst

On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst,

E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till, worn
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say-

O for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away,

And find mine ark!-Yet whither? I must bear
A yearning heart within me to the grave.

I am of those o'er whom a breath of air

Just darkening in its course the lake's bright wave,
And sighing through the feathery canes-hath power
To call up shadows in the silent hour

From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave.

So must it be! These skies above me spread :

Are they my own soft skies?-Ye rest not here, my dead!

Hemans.

MARINER'S HYMN.

Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands,
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef-in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So-let the vessel wear-
There swept the blast.

"What of the night, watchman?
What of the night ?”

Cloudy-all quiet

No land yet all's right." Be wakeful, be vigilant,

Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?
Clean out the hold;
Hoist up thy merchandise,

Heave out thy gold;
There-let the ingots go-

Now the ship rights; Hurra! the harbour's nearLo, the red lights!

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;

Straight for the beacon steer,

Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvas on,
Cut through the foam;
Christian, cast anchor now,
Heaven is thy home!

Mrs. Southey.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we bound him
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

;

But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

;

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.

THE CHAPEL BY THE SHORE.

By the shore a plot of ground
Clips a ruin'd chapel round,
Buttress'd with a grassy mound,

Where day and night and day go by,
And bring no touch of human sound.

Wolfe.