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For oh! tho' painful be th' excess,

The might wherewith it swells,

In nature's fount no bitterness

Of nature's mingling, dwells ; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,

Poison'd the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more,

Which thy young heart first knew? And all-was all in this world o'er,

With ties thus close and true?

It was !-On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.

No other voice could pierce the maze

Where deep within thy breast, The sounds and dreams of other days,

With memory lay at rest; No other smile to thee could bring A gladd’ning, like the breath of spring. Yet, while thy place of weeping still

Its lone memorial keeps,
While on thy name, midst wood and hill,

The quiet sunshine sleeps,
And touches, in each graven line,
Of reverential thought a sign;

Can I, while yet these tokens wear

The impress of the dead, Think of the love embodied there,

As of a vision fled?

A perish'd thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour ?

Not so! I will not bow me so,

To thoughts that breathe despair ! A loftier faith we need below,

Life's farewell words to bear.

Mother and child !-Your tears are pasta

Surely your hearts have met at last!

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.*

Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez
Combien de peines ce tombeau m’a epargnées!"

I stood beside thy lowly grave;

Spring-odours breath'd around, And music, in the river-wave,

Pass'd with a lulling sound.

* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.--Tales by the O'Hara Family.

All happy things that love the sun

In the bright air glanc'd by,
And a glad murmur seem'd to run

Thro' the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough

That fring'd the ruins near ;
Young voices were abroad--but thou

Their sweetness couldst not hear.

And mournful grew my heart for thee,

Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,

The light of song was shrined.

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,

With a dread curtain drawn

Between thee and the golden glow

Of this world's vernal dawn.

Parted from all the song and bloom

Thou wouldst have lov'd so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb

Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing,

In their bright reckless play, Might feel the flush and life of spring,--

And thou wert pass'd away!

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought

O'er
my

vain sadness came;

Th’ immortal spirit woke, and wrought

Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said,

Thou must have look'd ere now,

Than all that round our pathway shed

Odours and hues below.

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