That sweetest song,—though in her ears,
The myriad starry lyres on high
Pour forth the music of their spheres,
To greet her glorious eye!
And this is she who turn'd away
From all the loving shapes of light,
That bung about her baunted way,
And did their homage in her sight,-
And, gliding with her silver feet,
At even, when the winds were still,
Came down, a mortal heart to meet,
Upon the Latmos hill, -
And watch'd him with her looks of light,
Through all the long and lonely night!
-Alas! that she should wander fortb,
From all the fadeless bowers on high,
To pluck the passion-flowers of earth,
That only bloom, to die!

She lies beneath the sylvan woof,
And dreams, perhaps, love's blessed dream,
Where cupids spread the silken roof,
And shade the summer gleam,
And hover round, from prying eyes,
To guard the lady of the skies.
And thus it is that whispering rills
Seem sweet to her, at falling eve,
Or Pan's wild piping, on the hills,
Because they make her grieve;
For lovers- when they smile-are sad,
And all things mournful make them glad!

And hers is but a cheerless tale,
Like all which have to do with earth,
For what could mortal love avail
To one of deathless birth,-
But purchase, with a few bright years,
An immortality of tears !

No more—no more-oh! never more,
Such visions haunt the classic shore!
No more her shepherd waits, to meet
The coming of her sandall’d feet :-

But she, with melancholy eye,
Goes, nightly, wandering through the sky;
And ever sad, and ever pale,
Like one who keeps a mournful tale,
Like Patience smiling through its smart,-
The lady of the broken heart!
Or like some orphan of the skies,
Whose old companionships and ties
Are gone;
For though she mounts the moving clouds,
And walks amid the starry crowds,
She, ever, seems alone!-
And they who love, beneath the stars,
Look up among those golden cars,
To hail her, as of yore;
And, when they see her sweet, sad eye
Come shining up the eastern sky,
Send out the homage of a sigh, -
And then, they love the more !
And hopeless hearts to her complain,
Who looks as if she loved in vain!

No moreno more, on earthly ground,
May those immortal shapes be found, -
That make a painter's visions bright,
And touch his pencil with their light,
And for they loved him—did impart
Their gift of beauty to his heart.
Oh! never more shall waking eye
Behold those tenants of the sky,
Who made the land they trod divine,
Save, Howard ! through such spells as thine!


Cut from an old newspaper, no name was attached to it.
Ask ye the hour I love the best ?—
The hour of silence and of rest!
Ob! meet me in some sylvan bower,
When day throws off his robes of power,

And sinking in the regal west,
A king,- but still a king at rest,
Reclines behind the dark hill's side,
Or hides beneath the waters wide,
From vain pursuit and mortal sight,
The flashing of his sceptre bright.
Then lift thine eyes, and if there be
The spell abroad so sweet to me,
The heavens will be of silver hue,
The air be soft and silent too;
And flowers seem listening on the stem
To streams that whisper unto them;
And every leaf will tremble there,
If only breathed on by the air;
And stars will steal upon the view,
Like happy spirits, shining through
Their heaven, and this world's veil of blue,
Rejoicing to behold again
The dwellings of the sons of men.

If there be sounds, they will but be
Like crystal droppings from a tree,
Or far-off greenwood melody
Then will the maiden moon be seen,
In chasten'd lustre o'er the green,
Casting a tender, trembling gaze
On every object 'neath ber rays.
A holy paleness on the tower;
A tint more lovely on the flower;
A dimpled light on waters flowing ;
On vale and bill a radiance glowing ;
Till all around her seem to be
Sleeping in bright tranquillity.
If thy heart throb, without a fear,
If in thine eye the placid tear
Unbidden, yet uncheck'd appear,-
If thought, thy leading star, bring on
Thy friends far distant, one by one,
While memory sings in syren strain
Of dreams thou ne'er must dream again,-
Behold the hour I love the best-
The hour of silence and of rest.


By MARY ANNE BROWNE. Ou! tell me not of sunny lands, with clear and cloudless

skies, Where the mountains and the pillar'd domes in antique

glory rise: And tell me not of purple vines, and endless summer

flowers, Those round our home will serve to light my few remaining

hours. Start not, dear mother, do not weep, sweet sister of my

heart! Have you not felt the summoning that bids me hence

depart? Have ye not read it in mine eyes, and on my sunken brow, Although my lips have ne'er reveal'd 'twas known to me

till now? Speak not of hope! I know full well the legend and the

song That picture all the charms that to the southern lands

belong; And some few months ago, when health was tinging cheek

and eye, It had been joy to tread their shores, but not as now—to

die: Home, home! it is a blessed sound unto the wanderer's ear, And to the wearied peasant when the eventide is near, And to the mother, when her babe awaits her loving kiss; But most unto the dying is its name of peace and bliss. Open the window, sister, let the murmuring western breeze Come in to fan my languid brow from my ancestral trees ; Oh, think'st thou that Italia's winds, though the citron's

breath they bear, Could have the cheering freshness of mine own dear English Bring me that branch of roses ! I know their lovely hue! By the bower I planted when a child those graceful blossoms

grew; They have a thousand memories blent with their healthful

bloom and breath, Of the hours when in my childhood's glee, I little thought

of death.

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Home, home! the sweet word haunts me with its gentle

music now, I could not from its quietness to the stranger country go. Where could those limbs so fitly rest as 'neath the verdant

sod, By the old church where first I knelt in awe before my

God ? Whose lips so fervently could read each solemn funeral line, As his, whose hand upou my brow impress'd the hallow'd

sign? And, more than all, in what bright land beyond the

bounding wave, Could those who loved me come and weep beside my early

grave ? Ay, lead me to my chamber, these weak limbs have need of Here is the pillow that my cheek from infancy hath

press'dHere is the scene of childish dreams, and dreams of elder

days, Where I took sweet visions to my heart from the poet's

gifted lays ; Now, leave me to my slumber—full soon the time shall be When I shall not need a watching eye, nor a kiss to waken

me; Then shall I quit this well-loved spot—and not in vain to

roam A stranger in a foreign land, but to find a holier home.



All night the booming minute-gun

Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark, from India's coral strand,

Before the rushing blast,
Had veil'd her topsails to the sand,

And bow'd her noble mast.

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