Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence.-But there beamed a smile
So fixed and holy from that marble brow,-
Death gazed, and left it there ;-he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.
TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND AND REL-
ATIVE.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
WE miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,
And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough,
And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing,
Soft as thy smile-thou wouldst be with us now!
With us!-we wrong thee by the earthly thought-
Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem naught
To the one promise given the pure in heart.
Yet wert thou blest e'en here-oh! ever blest
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith;
The silent joy that still o'erflowed thy breast,
Needed but guarding from all change, by death,
So is it sealed to peace!-on thy clear brow
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast,
And thy calm days in brightness were to flow,
A holy stream, untroubled to the last!
Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love
A wealth of records and sweet' feelings given,' From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove,
By whispers breathing 'less of earth than heaven.'
Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
Thy step the path of joyous duty trod,
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb,
Where chastened thought may offer praise to God!
"While day arises, that sweet hour of prime."
How many thousands are awakening now!
Some to the songs of the forest bough,
To the rustling leaves at the lattice fane,
To the chiming fall of the latter rain.
And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the tall ship's side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.
And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.
And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere might be won.
And some in the gloomy convict cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright suu mounts in the laughing sky.
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the sounds from the city borne;
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods.
So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each unto life hath a daily birth,
Though fearful or joyful, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.
But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
ONE, though to severed and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ?
"Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnees!"
I STOOD beside thy lonely grave;
Spring odors breathed around,
And music in the river-wave
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seemed to run
Through the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough,
That fringed the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad-but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
"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 shade over it. It is the very spot for the grave of a poetess."
Tales by the O'Hara Family.
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 loved 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 light of Spring
And thou wert passed 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 looked ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odors and hues below!
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is Earth!
What seest thou then where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st-but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part!
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep;
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and bigh?
-Now peace the Woman's heart hath found, And joy the Poet's eye!
THE stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all that pleasant land!
The deer across that green-sward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn ;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
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