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She died, ' as the grass,
Which withereth afore it groweth up;
Wherewith the mower filleth not his hand,

Neither he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.
While the poor wanderer of life is in this vale of tears,
There will be hours when hearts look back to dear departed years;
Around him night is falling fast, he feels the evening chill,
But sees warm sunshine lingering yet on youth's far distant hill.
The lovely form of youthful hope revisits his sad heart,
And joy that long since bade farewell, but could not quite depart,
And friendship once so passing sweet, too pure and strong to die,
And those delicious tears of love he did not wish to dry.

Oft I remember thus, and feel the mystery of the hour;
I know not then if joy or grief possess the mightier power ; .
While many a loved departed one 't is pleasure to recall,
"T is anguish to remember thee, the loveliest of them all.

Yes! sadly welcomed and with tears, is now and long must be The memory of my parting hour, my earliest friend, from thee; For common hopes and common joys I deeply mourn apart ; But the remembrance of that loss-it thunderstrikes the heart !

For oh! how fast and fervently, when life is in its spring,
Hand bound to hand, and heart to heart, the young affections cling;
By early and unaltering love our souls were joined in one,
With ties that death hath burst indeed, but never hath undone.
Now death hath thrown us wide apart ; but memory treasures yet,
Too painful to remeniber now, too lovely to forget,
Thy manner like an angel's pure, thy mild and mournful grace,
And all the rosy light of youth that kindled in thy face ;
The open brow with sunny curls around its arches thrown,
The speaking eye through which the soul in melting radiance shone,
The smile that lighted up the lip with bright and pensive glow,
And the dark shade that o'er it passed, when tears began to flow.
And then how sternly beautiful, the spirit bold and high,
That lightened o'er thy marble brow and filled thy radiant eye,


When seated by the evening fire, or rambling side by side,
We read how holy sufferers lived, or glorious martyrs died !

And thus with feelings all the same, --with bright and earnest eye, We held communion long and sweet with ocean, earth, and sky; They told the glory of our God,--they bore our thoughts above, And made us purer as we heard their eloquence of love.

And so within the temple walls we stood with childish awe,
And wondered why our fathers feared a God they never saw,
Till we had learned and loved to raise our early offering there,
To join the deep and plaintive hymn, or pour our souls in prayer.
Was this a happiness too pure for erring man to know?
Or why did heaven so soon destroy my paradise below ?
For, lovely as the vision was, it sunk away as soon
As when in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon!
I gazed with trembling in thine eye ;-its living light was fled !
Upon thy cheek was deeply stained the cold unnatural red;
The violet veio that wandered up beneath thy shining hair,
Contrasted with thy snowy brow—the seal of death was there!
And then thy sweet and gentle voice confirmed that we must part!
That voice whose every tone, till then, was music to my heart !
I shuddered at the warning words ;-I could not let thee go,
And leave me journeying bere alone in weariness and wo.
But thou art gone--too early gone--and I am doomed to stay,
Perhaps till many a year has rolled its weary weight away ;
Thou wast the glory of my heart--my hopes were heavenly fair,
But now my guiding star is set in darkness and despair !
"T is thus the stream of early life before us seems to run,
Now stealing through the fragrant shade, now sparkling in the sun;
But soon it breaks upon the rock with wild and mournful roar,
Or heavily spread upon the plain, lies slumbering on the shore.



Low in the dim and sultry west

Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky;
The evening's grateful hour of rest,

Its hour of feast and joy is nigh.

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Still, near the lake, with weary tread,

Lingers a form of húmankind ;
And from his lone unsheltered head

Flows the chill night-damp on the wind.

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Lady! if I for thee would twine

The Ivy wreath, --can feeling trace
No cause why on a brow like thine,

The muse might fitly place
* See the Christian Examiner for March and April, 1826.

Its verdant foliage “never sere,'

Of glossy and of changeless hue ? Ah! yes, there is a cause most dear

To 'Truth and Nature too.

It is not that it long hath been

Combined with thoughts of festal riteThe cup which thou hast drunk, I ween,

Not always sparkles bright; Nor is it, that it hath been twined

Round Victory's brow in days gone bySuch glory has no power to blind

Thy intellectual eye.
For thou canst look beyond the hour

Elated by the wine cup's thrall;
Beyond the victor's proudest power,

Unto the end of all!
And therefore would I round thy brow

The deathless wreath of Ivy place;
For well thy song has proved that thou

Art worthy of its grace.
Had Earth and Earth's delights alone,

Unto thy various strains giv’n birth ;
Then had I o'er thy temples thrown

The fading flowers of Earth ;
And, trusting that e'en such, portray'd

By thee in song, would spotless be, The Jasmine's, Lily's, Harebell's braid, ·

Should brightly bloom for thee. But thou to more exalted themes

Hast nobly urged the Muse's claim ; And other light before thee beams

Than Fancy's meteor flame ; And from thy Harp's entrancing strings,

Strains have proceeded more sublime, Than e'er were wakened by the things

That appertain to Time!

Yes! Female Minstrel !—thou hast set,

E'en to the Masters of the Lyre, An eloquent example !-yet

How few have caught thy fire!

How few of their most lofty lays

Have to Religion's cause been given, And taught the kindling soul to raise

Its hopes, its thoughts to heaven!

Yet this at least has been thy aim ;

For thou hast •chos'n that better part,' Above the lure of worldly Fame,

To touch and teach the heart; To touch it, by no slight appeal

To feelings in each heart confest,-, To teach, by truths that bear the seal

God hath himself imprest !

And can those flowers, which bloom to fade,

For thee a fitting wreath appear ? No !-Wear thou then the Ivy braid,

Whose leaves are never sere.', It is not gloomy--brightly play

The sunbeams on its glossy green; And softly on it sleeps the ray

Of moonlight, all serene.

It changes not, as seasons flow

In changeful, silent course along; . Spring finds it verdant, leaves it so ;

It outlives Summer's song. Autumn no wan or russet stain

Upon its fadeless glory flings, And Winter o'er it sweeps in vain,

With Tempest on his wings.

Then wear thou this, the Ivy Crown !

And though the bard who twines it, be Unworthy of thy just renown,

Such wreath is wortby thee. For hers it is, who, truly wise,

To Virtue's cause her powers hath given ; Whose page the gates of hell’ defies,

And points to those of heaven!

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