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Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
So fixed and holy from that marble brow,-
TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND AND RELATIVE.
"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!
And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And some in the gloomy convict cell,
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the call,
THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.*
"Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnees!"
I STOOD beside thy lonely grave;
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun
Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough,
"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,
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
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,
-But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
The shadows of the tomb are here,
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,
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
THE stately Homes of England,
The deer across that green-sward bound,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
The merry Homes of England!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
The blessed Homes of England!
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Of breeze and leaf are born.