In rich effulgence o'er this lovely land,
Ne'er looked to me so bright as in this hour-
His setting one, and mine.-What memories
Of long-forgotten happiness the time
And scene call back! By yonder verdant hill,
How oft in this glad light I've loved to rove,
A careless merry child, and twined me garlands
Of sweet wild flowers-no hot-house denizens;
How oft I've climbed unto its very top,
And there, beneath the dear old hoary elm
That crowned its summit, have I flung me down
On the fresh turf, and gazed on all below,
And thought that Paradise, in its first day,
Could scarce have owned more happy loveliness,
Than this-my native land.
Yon river-winding through its flowery path,
Now dancing in the sun, now lost to view
Within the glooming shadow of the grove-
How well I trace its devious way, and hail
Each rock and tree as old remembered friends.
And there-in yonder bower, I mark it well-
Where lingers still the sun's last golden beam,
How oft have I too lingered, till the stream
That murmurs through it, with so sweet a voice,
Sparkled in the full glory of the risen moon.
And there was one that hung beside me then, The loved, the chosen of this breaking heart-Sleep, memory, sleep, nor tear the wound anew!
'Tis gone at last, my latest earthly sun, And evening's sombre hue is shed o'er all. Take me, good nurse; I've bid the world farewell; Life flutters feebly in my fainting frame;
I feel the tyrant's grasp upon my heart,
And prayer becomes a dying creature more
Than vain regrets-I would commune with Heaven,
And to His mercy, who for sinners suffered,
Commend my parting spirit.
SHE was even yet in childhood, but she seemed
Wasting in strength like a half-opened bud
Bowing upon its stem. She lay at rest,
Her young heart leaning with a perfect faith
Upon the word of God; and thus her eye
Shone with such inward light, and her pale lips
Moved with such smiles, that even those who
Felt in their inmost hearts a thrill of joy.
With what a marvellous vigor can the soul
Put forth its hidden strength, looking at Death
As at an angel from the courts of God!
And with what beauty, at the closing hour,
Will childhood's sweet affections blossom out!
There she lay ;-peaceful as if in slumber;
A thoughtful calmness resting on her brow,
And the long silken lashes of her eyes
Pressed meekly to each other: while her heart
Seemed musing upon things that were to come,
Or raised in silent worship. All was still;-
There came no sound upon the summer air
Except the birds' faint warble, or the voice
Of the low-murmuring stream. Her pulse had
stopped-
And those who gathered round leaned slowly o'er
To see if yet she breathed;-when suddenly
She started in her bed, upright; spread out her
And fixing upon space her kindling eyes,
As if she saw her glorious home in heaven,
"How beautiful! how beautiful!" she cried,
And, sinking on her pillow-passed away.
JANE T. LOMAX.
SHE was a gentle, quiet girl,
With darkly waving hair;
Just parted in her simple way
On a forehead low and fair.
No flush of brilliant loveliness
Was sparkling on her face,
But something tranquil and subdued,
And touching in its grace.
She seldom smiled; but then she brought
No cloud on others' glee;
And ever on her pale young brow
A shadow seemed to be;
And then her voice was very sad
In its soft and earnest tone,
With a low and winning eloquence,
And a sweetness all its own.
Some hidden sorrow on the past
A darkness seemed to throw;
She never spoke of early ties,
Or of pleasures long ago;
But in the daily, common cares
She calmly met her share,
As one who had no shrinking from
The trials life must bear.
No jest was on the placid lip
Where kindest accents hung,
And never now the careless laugh
From her still spirit rung;
But with a light and silent step
She moved among the throng,
Promoting in her noiseless way
The cheerful dance and song.
She had a pleasure in the sight
Of others' happy mirth,
Such as an angel might have felt
While looking on the earth;
For she was like an angel here,
So lovely and so pure,
And she hath passed where spirits are,
To dwell with us no more.
We miss the kindness of her voice,
And the beauty of her brow;
And the sweetest words we ever heard
Are silent to us now.
She never spoke the quiet grief,
Whose blight so early fell-
She had been gayer once, they said,
But loved too long and well.
OH, WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.
Он, wеeр not for the dead!
Rather, oh rather give the tear
To those that darkly linger here,
When all besides are fled.
Weep for the spirit withering
In its cold cheerless sorrowing,
Weep for the young and lovely one
That ruin darkly revels on;
But never be a tear-drop shed
For them, the pure enfranchised dead.
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