When the wing of the sea-bird 'Tis lone on the waters- TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER-IN-LAW. 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 should'st 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 nought To the one promise given the pure in heart. Yet wert thou blest e'en here-oh! ever blest So is it seal'd 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. TO AN ORPHAN. Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love 145 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 Where chasten'd thought may offer praise to God. * TO AN ORPHAN. THOU hast been rear'd too tenderly, Too quiet seem'd thy joys for change, Too holy and too deep; Bright clouds, through summer skies that range, Seem oft-times thus to sleep : : To sleep in silvery stillness bound, Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but an hour before her death: "Some feelings are to mortals given. VOL. VI. With less of earth in them than heaven." K This world hath no more love to give But oh too beautiful and blest Kind voices from departed years Must haunt thee many a day; Looks that will smite the source of tears. Friends-now the altered or the dead, And music that is gone A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, Alone! it is in that deep word And are these lost ?-and have I said Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'd— HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER. On one, one friend thy weakness cast- HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER. FATHER! that in the olive shade Oh! by the anguish of that night, And Thou, that when the starry sky By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all That e'er have mourn'd the chief Thou Saviour! if the stroke must fall, Hallow this grief! 147 WHERE IS THE SEA? SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. [A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied--" The sea-where is it?"] WHERE is the sea?-I languish here Where is my own blue sea? I miss that voice of waves which first Awoke my childhood's glee ; The measured chime—the thundering burst- Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, Soft, soft be; your winds may I hear the shepherd's mountain flute- |